Chapter 1
Marigold
Christmas carols drift through the air, blending with the cheerful chaos outside as the city hums with holiday energy.
It’s one of those crisp December mornings where everything feels alive—twinkling lights, bundled-up shoppers, and the scent of cinnamon and snow.
Inside my bakery, the ovens are warm, the trays are full, and the smells?
Pure heaven.
Sugar, spice, and maybe a dash of magic.
My whole life, I’ve been a little different.
Enough that my late Abuela used to call me her little bruja, but not enough to get a one-way ticket to one of those reeducation camps that a lot of parents are rightfully being dragged for on TikTok now.
Suffice it to say—I’ve got certain gifts.
The second sight is what most people would call it.
No, I don’t read palms or tarot cards or charge twenty bucks a minute on some 1-800 psychic hotline.
I’m not that kind of Witch.
In fact, I don’t even call myself that, not out loud anyway. Not unless I’m joking or talking to someone who gets it.
No, I’m a baker.
A damn good one. And while my hands are skilled at kneading dough and piping frosting, my true talent?
I see people.
Not dead ones. Just regular ones.
I see what they need.
Just enough to know when someone needs a soft-baked snickerdoodle to ease a heavy heart, or a molasses gingerbread cookie to remind them of a childhood Christmas they thought they’d forgotten.
It’s subtle. Quiet. But it’s there.
Especially this time of year.
This season? Well, it’s like my powers wake up with the snow.
Like the magic in the air sharpens everything inside me. I don’t just bake cookies.
I craft them with intention. The right recipe can bring up memories.
Heal a mood.
Nudge someone just enough to shift their whole outlook.
People think I’m just a girl with a sweet tooth and a knack for buttercream.
But I know better.
I’m Marigold Santos.
Jersey girl. Baker.
Maybe a Witch or Bruja.
Definitely not normal.
And if today’s cookie order is anything like the one I made yesterday—the one that made an old man cry right in the middle of my shop—I have a feeling the universe is about to stir something big.
Something real.
Something magical.
Inside the bakery, business is booming.
The ovens are singing, the mixers are whirring, and I’m right where I belong—elbow-deep in dough and covered in flour—when Emery, my best friend and partner-in-baking-crime, shouts from the front of the shop.
“Marigold! You’ve got a customer with a question!”
Emery’s voice carries from the front counter like a foghorn through cinnamon-scented chaos.
“I’m a little busy right now, Em, is it important?” I holler back, almost ready to roll out the dough.
“He says it’s urgent!”
I sigh.
My kitchen smells like heaven—or, more accurately, like honey, spice, and all that holiday jazz.
The Cookie Hive—my pride, joy, and primary stress source—is in full swing. Holiday orders are stacked higher than the gingerbread tower I built for the Nutcracker Festival, and I’m smack in the middle of perfecting my newest flavor.
Honey Habanero Heaven.
Sweet heat. Kick and kiss.
Kind of like my dream man, if I ever had time for one.
These cookies are golden rounds decorated to look like ornaments—glazed in honey, kissed with heat, and finished with a dusting of edible gold shimmer.
They’re gorgeous, if I do say so myself.
But right now, I have a feeling Emery is about to make me regret ever leaving the kitchen.
I rinse my hands, wipe them on my apron, and hurry into the storefront—where the line of customers curls all the way out the door. Yay me!
For a Tuesday? That’s a damn Christmas miracle.
“Hi there! Can I help you?” I call cheerfully, the automatic customer-service smile settling on my face like muscle memory.
The man in front of the counter isn’t your typical cookie connoisseur.
He’s older. Distinguished. Dressed in a pristine white suit that looks more couture than comfort.
And his eyes—electric blue, twinkling with mischief—make me pause mid-step.
“Wow,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I love your coat! You look like you stepped out of a holiday movie.”
He beams. “Thank you, my dear! Now tell me—are you the genius behind these addictive little beauties?”
He’s holding a festive red box of my Jingle Bell Kiffles.
A sugar-cookie hybrid filled with almond cream and topped with powdered honey sugar.
“I am,” I say, straightening my apron. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” he says, tapping the lid of the box thoughtfully, “you can agree to take my order for my upcoming Holiday Gala. I’ll need, oh, let’s say, a thousand boxes of these for my guest bags.”
My jaw drops. “A thousand? As in, one followed by three zeros?”
“Yes, dear,” he says with an amused twinkle. “A thousand. I insist. And while you’re at it, you must come as well.”
“Come? You mean, attend your gala?”
“Of course! A baker must enjoy the fruits—or cookies—of her labor!”
Behind him, Emery’s eyes are the size of snow globes. She mouths take it while giving me the universal shove-him-over-and-say-yes hand gesture.
My brain screams, impossible.
My heart screams opportunity.
“Well, um, when exactly is this gala?” I ask carefully, like maybe he’ll say next month.
“Friday,” he replies smoothly.
“Friday?” I squeak. “As in three days from now?”
He nods, utterly unfazed.
“Is that a problem?”
Emery is still behind him, doing the world’s most aggressive thumbs-up routine.
I inhale. Exhale. Paste on my business smile.
“Problem? No, no, of course not! I mean, I might not sleep for seventy-two hours straight, but yes, absolutely! We can do it.”
“Marvelous.” He claps his hands once, delighted. “Your name, my dear?”
“Marigold Santos,” I reply, reaching out to shake his hand.
The moment our palms touch, a spark zings through my fingers—soft, warm, and just a little tingly.
His grip tightens gently. His blue eyes gleam with what can only be described as otherworldly satisfaction.
“My name is Uzzi Stregovich, but please, call me Uncle Uzzi,” he says, bowing his head ever so slightly. “And you, my dear, are going to do just fine.”
He releases my hand, and I stand there for a beat too long, heart pounding, sugar glaze drying on my wrist.
Because somehow, I get the strangest feeling this cookie deal is about to change my life.