Chapter 10
Marigold
By the time I flock down the stairs from my apartment to the door that leads to The Cookie Hive, I already know it’s going to be one of those days.
Emery
Sick. Fever. So sorry, boss. Can’t move. Please don’t fire me.
Which means it’s just me.
One baker.
An order for one thousand boxes of cookies for Uncle Uzzi’s Holiday Gala.
And a line already forming outside.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself, slapping on my apron. “You’ve got this. You’re fine. You’re—oh, crap.”
The dough mixer beeps.
The oven dings.
Someone’s knocking on the front door even though I haven’t flipped the open sign yet.
Panic flutters low in my chest.
How am I supposed to bake, pack, handle customers, and run delivery all by myself?
I tie my curls into a messy bun, roll up my sleeves, and start juggling trays like a woman possessed.
One batch down.
Two more in the oven.
Three people glaring through the glass.
My phone buzzes again.
I ignore it.
I unlock the door.
“I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes,” the first woman says.
I smile blankly. Then, I take her order, and her cash.
I’m thrilled when I hand her the box of baked goods and she starts to leave after tsking loudly at me.
Oh boy. It’s gonna be a day for sure.
“Um, one second please,” I tell the next customer, excusing myself as the timer in the kitchen goes off.
I swap out the next couple of trays of finished cookies to cool on the rack, hastily checking the mixer has all the ingredients for my cherry red royal icing, then I run back to the front.
The customer left.
Frustration fills me, but before I can wallow in it the bell over the door jingles, and I spin around ready to snap—only to find six feet of infuriatingly handsome Honey Badger blocking the entrance.
“Morning, Honey,” Eb says, holding up a paper bag and two coffee cups like an offering.
“You look like you could use breakfast.”
My mouth drops open.
“What are you doing here?”
“Bringing sustenance. And backup.”
“Backup?” I echo, incredulous.
He sets the coffee on the counter, then takes one look around—at the flour-covered floor, the mountain of mixing bowls, the orders stacked to the ceiling—and reaches into his pocket.
“Tricia,” he says into his phone, voice smooth and commanding. “Did you finish canceling all my afternoon meetings? Good. Tell accounting to move the Anderson call to Monday. No, I don’t care. Just do it.”
My eyes widen. “You did not just—”
“Oh, I did,” he says, rolling up the sleeves of his very expensive button-down. “Now, show me how this register works. I’ll take care of the front while you handle the kitchen.”
“You—you can’t just—”
He smirks, that smug, heart-melting grin doing something dangerous to my pulse.
“Relax, Honey. I can manage a cash register and dole out cookies. How hard can it be?”
“Famous last words,” I mutter, but my heart’s doing somersaults.
Because for all his money, his suits, and his gruffness, this man—this Badger Shifter—just ditched his CEO life to run a cookie counter for me.
And I have no idea whether to laugh, cry, or kiss him senseless.
It’s chaos. Sweet, sugary, slightly burnt chaos.
The ovens are roaring, the timer is dinging every sixty seconds, and I’m up to my nipples in frosting, trying to finish tray after tray of cookies before the next batch comes out.
My kitchen smells like cinnamon and a desperate cry for help.
But I know I can do it. I just need to focus. So, I take a moment and I center myself, calling on all the meditation tricks I’ve learned along the way to help cope with those pesky visions that haunt me so.
Only, the second I close my eyes and try to breathe, my mind skips right to the storefront—because he’s there.
Eb Rogers, CEO, Badger Shifter, confirmed bachelor and self-proclaimed Christmas hater is running my counter.
I keep telling myself it can’t possibly be going well.
I mean, the man wears cufflinks that probably cost more than my industrial mixer.
So when I hear it—a loud bark of laughter—I nearly drop a piping bag.
No way.
That wasn’t just laughter.
That was a full, deep, real laugh.
The kind that vibrates in your chest and does things to your hormones.
Curiosity wins.
I tiptoe toward the swinging kitchen door and peek through the window.
Oh. My. God.
Eb is behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he rings up a line of customers like he’s done it his whole life.
He’s wearing a Santa hat.
And—oh my ovaries—he’s smiling.
Not his usual tight, polite CEO smirk.
A real smile. Bright. Boyish. Beautiful.
“Keep the change, Eb, and Merry Christmas,” one of the older regulars says, flirting shamelessly.
He laughs.
Laughs.
“I’ll drop it in the tip jar for Emery. But stop that flirting or you’re going to get me in trouble, Mrs. Kowalski.”
“Something tells me a man like you likes a little trouble, don’t you?” she fires back.
Oh my God, she’s blushing.
Mrs. Kowalski.
Who’s been married since the Carter administration.
Eb leans down slightly, grinning.
“Maybe just a little.”
I press a floury hand to my chest.
“He’s flirting with the retirees now,” I whisper to the cookie gods. “This is it. He’s officially broken my brain.”
Then—because apparently the universe wants to make sure I short-circuit completely—he starts singing.
I freeze.
He’s humming along to “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” low and rough and not even slightly off-key.
I mean, he’s good.
Of course, he’s good.
I can see him bobbing his head a little, that stupidly sexy half-smile on his lips while he counts change for a little boy buying one gingerbread cookie.
“Careful with that one,” Eb says, crouching down to hand the bag to the kid. “Too many bites and you’ll want the whole tray. Trust me.”
The kid giggles and runs back to his mom.
And I melt.
Completely.
The man I thought was allergic to joy is laughing with strangers and humming to Christmas carols while running my cookie shop like it’s the best day of his life.
Back in the kitchen, I lean against the counter, dazed and grinning like a lunatic.
“Marigold Santos,” I mutter to myself, “you are in so much trouble.”
Because the truth hits me then, as clear as the scent of sugar and butter in the air.
Eb Rogers isn’t just helping me.
He’s trying.
For Christmas.
Maybe for me.
And somewhere between the flour, the frosting, and his stupid perfect laugh, I realize—I might just be falling for this Badger after all.