Chapter 3 #2
Felix lets out a low whistle. “It’s like small-town Rockefeller Center.”
“Seriously.” Elizabeth, not meeting my eyes, murmurs, “Though some might not appreciate its charm.”
I roll my eyes as Felix and Elizabeth share a laugh at my expense.
I’d double down on my earlier opinion of the town’s décor, but even with a mostly naked cat lodged against my sternum, I can’t find fault with Hideaway’s coniferous spectacle. It’s—well, kind of magical.
Elizabeth’s eyes drift to the square. “I want one of those whoopie pies Amanda wouldn’t shut up about.”
“She said they were so good she briefly believed in soul mates again,” Felix adds. “I feel like that’s worth investigating.”
I shift Mike’s weight. “You two go. I’ll stay here.” I shove the cat forward. “Take this.”
Elizabeth raises a brow, mittens to her chest. “Jack, sweetheart. How am I supposed to eat whoopie pies with a cat in my hands?”
Glaring, I pivot to Felix. “You have a carrier. I saw it.”
Felix raises his hands but begins walking backward. “I need a break. You don’t want me throwing my back out before filming starts next month, do you?”
“I—”
Mike emits a sound that can only be described as a death rattle, followed by a violent shiver.
“Fuck.” I pull him back into my coat.
But not fast enough because by the time I look up, Felix and Elizabeth are out of arm’s reach, blending into the crowd—leaving me alone with a velociraptor in cat form clinging to my chest and a rising sense of pastry-related dread.
“Bring me something!” I call after them.
Felix doesn’t turn. Just lifts a hand. “We’ll bring you your dignity if we find it!”
I sigh. The crowd is blissfully lost in the holiday spirit. Mike Hunt farts.
In seconds, the stench has smothered all sense of holiday magic.
Typical.
Stalking across the square, I lock eyes on the Making Whoopie booth near the stage, where my so-called friends are now chatting with its owner.
I’m going over there to return the cat.
That’s it.
My impatience has absolutely nothing to do with the sarcastic baker who may or may not sell me a mistletoe-laced whoopie pie, and who is now laughing at something Felix just said.
Definitely not.
Just cat logistics.
Totally.
My new inner voice is annoyingly smug.
Audrey
In the past forty-eight hours, I’ve handed whoopie pies to two movie stars, and not once have I had time to process—let alone document—it.
Because when you own your own bakery and make the insane decision to also operate a booth outside of normal business hours—during the holidays—you forfeit things like sleep, sanity, and the ability to feel your toes after sunset.
I hand a Stuff My Stocking pie to Felix Jones and the tree-lighting-exclusive Oh, Tannenbaum to his gorgeous fiancée, both of whom smile at me like we’re old friends.
Then the crowd hits.
Not drifts in. Hits.
The real-life celebrity endorsement slams into my booth like a peppermint-scented avalanche I was absolutely not prepared to ride.
Suddenly I’m boxed in by flannel and fleece and frantic voices.
“Two Santa’s Cream-Filled Secrets!”
“One Hot Cocoa & Chill!”
“I’ll have whatever Felix Jones ordered!”
My head’s spinning, my cooler’s cracked open, and I’m one order away from a full mental spiral when one of the three people wedged against the front of my booth waves a ten-dollar bill at me like I’m giving away more than just baked goods.
And then—because apparently tonight needed a final boss level of absurdity—I spot Amanda Willis’ snobby lawyer shove a disturbingly festive hairless cat into Felix’s arms like it’s a cursed fruitcake before shouldering his way into the booth.
My booth.
He takes the ten-dollar bill from the customer’s hand. “Coming right up.”
But it’s not coming right up. Because—what the actual fuck?
“Excuse me.” Hands on my puffer-covered hips, I glare at the man invading both my personal and professional space. “Just who do you think you are to—”
“Jack Lourd.” He pops open the cash box behind the counter and starts counting out change. “Nice to meet you.”
I blink. “What—no—you can’t just—”
“That’s two Santa’s Cream-Filled Secrets.” He scans the labeled coolers like he owns the place. “I’d help with pie duty, but I’m guessing you know where everything is. This”—he gestures to the cash—“I can handle.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off again.
“And don’t worry, I’m not going to steal your money.”
“Well how do I—”
He nods toward Felix, now balancing the cat carrier against his chest and waving with his whoopie pie–holding hand. “He’s my reference.”
I make a strangled noise—equal parts fury and confusion.
How did this man—this human embodiment of condescension—wearing cologne that probably costs more than my beloved KitchenAid mixer—end up surrounded by such nice people?
Nice, celebrity, whoopie pie-endorsing people.
When a customer barks their order and hands me my booth sign, which has once again face-planted into the snow, I decide to both answer that question and verbally castrate Jack Lourd later.
Right now? Damage control.
Grabbing two SCFS pies, I bag them just as Felix calls out to the crowd, “Let’s form a line, folks! I’ll take a selfie with everyone while you wait!”
And just like that… order.
Sort of.
The lawyer—Jack—and I don’t speak again, but we move like gears in the same machine.
And I hate that he’s good at it.
Too good for someone who wore cashmere and judgment to my bakery like it was a courtroom.
He’s calm. Efficient. And just charming enough to get away with it. Which, frankly, makes me want to slap a pie box over his perfect hair.
Ten minutes later, he hands off the last Oh, Tannenbaum to a teenager who squeal-screams “ICONIC!” and runs off to get her selfie with Felix. A selfie I’m hoping she tags both Felix and Making Whoopie in.
Elizabeth—now juggling the disgruntled cat and playing pseudo-photographer—catches my eye and smiles like this is all perfectly normal.
Between the two celebrities —Amanda has joined Felix in full selfie mode—the mob-like energy of the crowd, and the fact that we’re about to sell out of whoopie pies, none of this is normal.
And yet, somehow, it’s the lawyer that bothers me most.
Not because he’s suddenly helpful and far too comfortable in a space he does not belong in... but because now I’m wondering just where the grinch from yesterday went.
Because this man—the one who just made a sixty-year-old, happily married woman titter while handing her a Hot Cocoa & Chill—smells like cedar and something luxurious and warm.
Which makes it hard to focus.
And I hate not being able to focus.