Chapter 15 Proofing #2
Once again, Hideaway Harbor is a snow globe come to life—flurries sifting down lazily while the harbor bells ping somewhere out in the gray.
The Winter Market stalls across the square wear their garlands like beauty queens.
People bustle with paper cups and knit hats and the kind of cheer that makes my Los Angeles reflexes brace for a punchline.
“Are you staying past Christmas?” Amanda asks as we pass the crowd still gathered on the sidewalk walking toward the coffee shop chanting “Pep-per-mint! Pep-per-mint!”
Amanda’s tone is casual, the way a rattlesnake might casually admire your shoes before striking.
“Because you should really let the Haven know in case they need your room for other guests.” She bumps me, making me stutter step to keep the whoopie pie tray level.
“Or are you staying somewhere else? Like the favored local bakery?”
“And you?” I angle the tray away from her interference. “Have you officially checked out due to spending most of your time with a certain candymaker with rainbow hair?”
Color climbs her neck, perfectly matching her hat. “Don’t jinx it.”
I nod and so does she, a silent truce forming as we pass by the large chalkboard sign that reads PEPPERMINT MOCHA APPRECIATION DAY in hand-lettered loops so enthusiastic they look like they might hug you.
Inside Love at First Sip is cacophony. Steam hisses.
Milk frothers scream. A toddler in a reindeer sweater tries to eat a candy cane like a drumstick.
The whole place smells like a milk chocolate chip ice cream cone that’s been melted over a campfire.
Eileen is airborne—figuratively, but still—floating from table to table with a garland headband, and a barista I’ve never seen before is behind the counter doing five things with two hands while also managing the playlist and probably orchestrating the tides.
“Kiss My Mocha whoopie pies from Making Whoopie.” I set the tray on the bar beside the espresso machine. “For pairing with the peppermint mochas.” There’s a collective sigh from those within sniffing radius. “On the house.”
The barista’s eyes go wide. “Audrey,” she breathes, like it’s an answer to prayer.
Eileen claps, then mashes my arms to my side with a hug. “Of course. That girl thinks of everything.”
“She does.” Something in me straightens—that possessive ribbon I pretend I don’t carry around tightening under my ribs.
Because this is what Audrey never sees: the way people’s voices soften when they say her name.
The gratitude that slides into the conversation when they mention the box she sent to the school fundraiser, the late-night batch she whipped up for a wake, the way she remembered that Mrs. Callahan’s husband prefers marshmallow fluff in his peppermint whoopie because he lost his dentures last summer and icing is a war zone—all things locals have stopped to tell me about during my stay in Hideaway.
The line moves. Cup after cup topped with a swirl of whipped cream and crushed candy cane. Amanda peels off to chat with the barista—apparently having already met them—angling for information from the frazzled barista about Lucy, the regular barista’s relationship with a man named Enzo.
I give Eileen Audrey’s dirty chai order to mark on a cup, then lean against the end of the bar and watch the town do what the town does—bump shoulders, trade gossip, shove cookies into mittened hands, and exclaim happiness over Audrey’s thoughtful mini pies.
Yesterday was the cornbread pies for Chowder House Rules, before that, she rolled out Take the Gun, Leave the Cannoli for Little Italy—a pistachio-cannoli whoopie that made grown men whimper—and priced it at cost so the deli could make the margin.
They worked so well, Audrey’s currently making them more.
And the week before that, she dropped off a tray at The Perfect Package—this town’s least subtle adult store—because they were running a couples’ workshop, and she thought a red velvet whoopie with edible glitter might be “on theme.”
And then it hits me. Of course.
They have a day for chowder. A day for cornbread. A day for wool socks. If Hideaway can sanctify footwear, it can sanctify its state treat—its unofficial love language, courtesy of the woman who’s been quietly stitching this town together with sugar and butter for two years.
Audrey calls herself an outsider. And she means it. Believes it. Meanwhile, the town has already tattooed her on its heart.
My phone buzzes. Hollywood rings at a different frequency; I swear I can hear it in my bones before the screen lights up. I glance down at the name. The agent who’s been circling me for a week, foaming at the mouth for me to sign her client. Big. Bankable. Press release kind of big.
Amanda’s back at my shoulder before I can decide if I’m going to answer. Her eyes flick to the screen, a magpie for shiny names. One brow climbs.
I let it buzz out. Silence hums in the space it leaves, surprising as snow in August. Not relief, exactly. More… alignment. As if all the pieces that have been wiggling loose finally click.
“Who was that?” she asks, but she already knows.
“Agent.” I take a swallow of a sample peppermint mocha, my sinuses burning in candy cane protest. “The one who wants me to take on her client, Scott Evans.”
Amanda’s mouth actually falls open a fraction. She repeats the name low and quick, like she doesn’t want to spook the possibility. “You just—didn’t pick up?”
I scan the room until Eileen’s headband appears again, bobbing like a buoy. “Eileen,” I call, and she beelines as if I’ve offered her state secrets and a pony.
Amanda pinches my sleeve. “Jack.”
“I need your help with something,” I tell Eileen, ignoring Amanda’s blatant curiosity.
Eileen leans in. “What kind of help? Planning? Baking? Discreet meddling? Overt meddling disguised as charity?”
“Something along those lines.” I nod at the peppermint-chanting crowd who just entered seeking warmth and drinks. “I’ll come by after close.” My voice drops, uncharacteristically earnest. “And I want it to be a surprise.”
She makes the kind of expression people make at kittens and baby showers. “A surprise.” Her voice is reverent as if invoking the Holy Ghost. “We do adore surprises here in Hideaway.”
Amanda bumps my shoulder, reminding me of her presence. “You’re going to tell me what the surprise is?”
I take another sip of peppermint, the whipped cream on top tickling my nose. “Not unless you want to tell me how you came to admire the local candymaker’s lollipops.”
She tries to glare through a smile. Fails. “I would if you told me how sweet Audrey’s pies are.”
I snort into the leftover whipped cream in my cup. “Good one.”
Lucy slides a to-go cup across the bar with Audrey’s name scribbled on the side decorated with hearts. “Dirty chai.” She winks. “Extra filthy.”
Eileen fans herself. “I don’t know what that means, but I’m both scandalized and delighted.”
I cradle the cup, warmth seeping into my fingers, sugar noise still buzzing in my ears. Outside, flakes thicken. Inside, a chorus of “Deck the Halls” tries to decide on a key and fails with gusto. The tray of pairing whoopie pies is half gone already, crumbs like confetti across the bar.
This is not my world, not the way LA was—contracts and cameras and conversations that always tilt toward leverage.
But it’s not not my world either. It’s a place where someone can march into a coffee shop with a tray of free dessert because it’ll make their neighbors happy, where an entire town will line up to celebrate a flavored latte like it’s a coronation, where a man who has been very good at being alone can stand in a crowd and imagine being part of the noise instead of apart from it.
My phone buzzes again. The same name. Amanda watches me watch it. Her mouth softens, a small, private smile meant for me and later—if I know Amanda—weaponized for someone else’s benefit.
I slide the phone back into my pocket.
“Tell Audrey we’re grateful,” Lucy says, wiping the counter with efficient swipes. “She keeps this place sweet.”
“Yes.” Pride sparks through me, quiet but fierce. “That she does.” I head for the door before I stay too long or say too much. The bell jingles overhead. The cold nips my face. The dirty chai warms my palms and something in my chest I’ve avoided touching for years.
Next door, the bakery windows glow. Audrey will have her hair twisted up with a pencil stuck through it, lips pursed as she counts boxes, foot tapping to music only she hears.
She’ll roll her eyes when I hand her the chai and then drink half in one go.
She’ll tell me she’s not a real Hidie, that she’s just the whoopie pie girl, that the town humors her.
And I’ll think of Eileen clapping, of Lucy’s soft voice, of the way people line up for a taste of what Audrey made and leave with more than sugar on their tongues.
I’ll think of chowder days and cannoli whoopies and adult-store glitter, of a calendar full of appreciation for everything under the winter sun except the thing that quietly holds them together.
I’ll think: Fine. Then we’ll give them a reason.
Behind me, Eileen’s laugh peals like a bell. Amanda calls my name, a question tucked inside it. I lift the cup in a wave without turning back and step into the snow with a plan I’m not ready to say out loud and a mouth that tastes faintly of peppermint and trouble.