Chapter 14
Marigold
I wake up alone.
The sheets are still warm, but the man-shaped space beside me is empty.
No note.
No text.
No sign of Ebenezer Rogers or his sinfully perfect body anywhere.
My first instinct is panic.
My second?
Fury.
I shove both emotions down, hard.
Because I’m not that girl. I refuse to be a cliché.
You know the one.
The lonely, curvy girl who falls into bed with a guy and then falls apart when he disappears.
Even if the sex was toe-curling, soul-shaking, body-rocking perfection.
Even if he made me laugh. And blush. And believe—if only for a few hours—that maybe, just maybe, there was something real there.
Nope. Not today.
I crawl out of bed, yank my hair into a messy bun, and ignore the ache in my chest.
And okay between my thighs too—because yeah.
Eb. Was. Everything.
But clearly not mine to keep.
I shower, dress, and march downstairs like nothing happened.
Because the cookies won’t decorate themselves.
Because there’s a gala order due.
And because my worth is not determined by a man, even one who smells like danger and frosting and made me come so hard I saw snowflakes.
The front bell jingles mid-morning, and I brace myself for the worst—another complaint, another late pickup, another customer asking for a gluten-free, nut-free, sugar-free yule log like I’m a miracle worker instead of a stressed-out witch with a spatula.
But instead, a familiar figure barrels through the door like a one-woman hurricane in a puffy coat and fuzzy earmuffs.
“Okay,” Emery declares, windblown and wild-eyed, wielding a to-go coffee tray like it’s a tray of holy elixirs. “I don’t care if I’m dying. I couldn’t leave you solo another day.”
“You’re not dying.”
“Tell that to the chicken soup graveyard in my sink,” she mutters darkly, thunking the coffees onto the counter before throwing her arms around me.
She squeezes me hard, then pulls back like she’s suddenly spotted a clue in a murder mystery.
Her eyes narrow.
“Wait a second. Are you—ooh la la! Is that post-coital afterglow I see pinkening your cheeks? Spill.”
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
Then scowl.
She gasps so dramatically I’m surprised she doesn’t faint into the cookie display.
“Oh. My. God. You did it. And when I say it, I mean sex. You did sex with Mr. Green Eyes!”
“Oh my God, Emery, I know what you mean, and please, do not go there.”
“Why?” She arches a brow. “Was he small? The hot ones always are. Like, statistically speaking, there’s a correlation.”
“What? No!”
“Ohhh,” she mumbles, already halfway to a full-blown thesis. “So Green Eyes was packing? Nice. But did he just lay there and expect you to do all the work like a sexy lump? Or like a dildo but then his charge died before you got your cookies?”
“Emery!” I shriek, turning back to the counter and furiously wiping down a tray that was already spotless.
“What?” she says, completely unbothered.
“We both know there are three types of men. The overachievers—few and far between if you ask me. The underwhelmers—seriously, there’s too many to even name.
And then, we have the pretty boys who think a nice sized cock, pretty face, and hefty bank account mean they’re exempt from effort.
Nothing kills the vibe like a guy who lays there like a decorative pillow. ”
“I really do not want to have this conversation,” I mutter, donning my apron like armor against the onslaught of inappropriate best friend energy.
“Okay, okay, fine.” She tosses her gloves onto the counter. “So if he wasn’t bad in bed, then what? Oh, no. Did he ghost you?!”
“Okay, fine,” I exhale sharply, the words tumbling out in a low whisper.
“I don’t know what happened. He was here. And then, he wasn’t. No note. No text. Maybe he had a meeting. Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe I mistook how he felt—” I swallow.
“Maybe he just found me lacking.”
Emery stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. Then slowly, she puts her hands on her hips.
“Want me to key his fancy truck?”
“What? No.”
“Leave fake one-star reviews on his company site? Claim he gave you food poisoning or was rude to puppies?”
“Still no.”
“I could send him weekly anonymous packages of spoiled shrimp until he breaks down and begs for forgiveness.”
I gag.
“Ew. No. Also, where do you even get spoiled shrimp?”
She waves a hand.
“I know a guy.”
“Oh my God, Emery.”
“What? I’m just saying. We have options.”
I shake my head, the sting in my chest growing sharper. “I don’t want revenge. I just want to know what happened. Or at the very least, I want to get through this day without spiraling.”
She softens instantly, her sass dropping just enough for concern to creep in.
“Okay. Then what can I do?”
I sniffle and blink fast.
“Help me frost the gingerbread men for Uncle Uzzi’s order?”
“Done,” she says without hesitation. “But I call dibs on the ones with gumdrop buttons.”
We’re halfway through a tray of cookies—my sad thoughts half-masked by frosting and the faint sound of Brenda Lee crooning in the background—when the bell chimes again And this time, it’s not a customer.
It’s a dapper little old man in a white velvet coat with matching slacks, silver-toed shoes that click lightly on the tile, and a Santa hat perched at a jaunty angle—complete with tiny silver bells that chime like enchanted wind chimes when he moves.
“Uncle Uzzi,” I say, squinting suspiciously.
He twinkles.
That’s the only word for it.
He twinkles at me, eyes glinting like he knows all my secrets—and probably does.
He crosses the shop floor like a man who owns the place.
Which, considering the app and the whole magical matchmaking web he’s spun across the whole dang world, he sort of does.
Ugh. The audacity isn’t even off-base.
“I came for an update,” he says cheerfully, arms spread wide like he’s about to hug the entire bakery. “And maybe a cinnamon twist?”
“We’re out of twists,” Emery snaps from behind me, no-nonsense in her apron and still recovering from her morning dramatics.
“Em!” I hiss, elbowing her gently before smoothing out my expression and channeling my most professional bakery owner vibes.
“Of course, Uncle Uzzi. Welcome. Always a pleasure.”
He hums, eyes darting between us with the kind of mischief usually reserved for fairytale tricksters.
“Oh dear,” he says softly. “Something is wrong. I can sense it. Don’t ask how,” he adds with a wink at Emery.
She narrows her eyes at him like she definitely wants to ask how and maybe slap him with a handful of flour while she’s at it.
“Em, would you please go manage the storefront?” I ask just as the bell chimes again. “I’ve got this.”
With a huff and one last glare at Uzzi, she disappears through the swinging door.
He waits a beat. Then, he leans in, lowering his voice.
“What happened with Ebenezer?” he asks. “One moment you’re heating up the Match Magic charts and the next—radio silence. You dropped off every magically tracked true mate progress board. My magic is simply buzzing.”
I blink.
“We’re being tracked?”
He waves a dismissive hand.
“Strictly for statistical purposes. And only the promising pairs.”
My arms cross instinctively.
“Well, I don’t know what kind of Match Magic progress board you’re talking about, but if there’s a glitch in the system, maybe you should be the one telling me what happened. You’re the Witch behind the app.”
He gives me a mock-wounded look, one hand to his heart like I’ve deeply offended him.
“Liebling, it’s a matchmaking tool, not a crystal ball.”
“Uh huh. That sounds like evasion.”
“It means,” he says gently, “free will still applies. I can suggest, hint, nudge the Fates in a favorable direction—but I can’t force love. If he left without a word, then something happened. That’s simply not like him.”
“How would you know what he’s like?” I ask, even though deep down, I already suspect Uncle Uzzi knows everyone.
“Because I saw the sparks between you two,” he says matter-of-factly. “Literal ones. Your aura flared gold. That’s rare. That’s destiny.”
I blink. “You saw it?”
He taps the side of his nose with a gloved finger. “I see a lot. Including unresolved destiny. And I loathe unresolved destiny.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he suddenly glances toward the kitchen door where Emery is very clearly leaning against the wall, eavesdropping.
“She’s stubborn,” he calls out.
“Like a mule,” Emery shouts back.
“And proud,” he adds, smiling.
“Like a cat.”
“And maybe a little scared of being left.”
“Like a woman who’s been burned before.”
“Hey!” I snap. “I’m right here!”
He turns back to me with a softer look.
“Understood. Leave it with me.”
“Wait—what are you going to do?” I ask, instantly wary.
“Something meddlesome and delightful,” he replies with a grin that makes me deeply nervous. “Now, I suggest you get back to frosting. My dear friend and housekeeper, Richard, will be by this afternoon to collect everything for the gala. And you, my dear, I will see at the party.”
He twinkles again—literally this time, as a soft shimmer of silver dust trails after him as he sweeps out the door like he’s got a direct hotline to the cosmos.
I exhale, watching him go, my heart doing all sorts of messy things I don’t have time for.
Emery returns, passing me a fresh piping bag like we’re at war and our only weapons are buttercream and blind faith.
“So?” she asks.
“So,” I sigh, turning back to the tray. “I frost. We box. And tonight, maybe I go to the party and meet Prince Charming. Or maybe I come home and cry into a tin of rum balls. But for now? We work.”
“Copy that, boss,” she says, and we get back to it—frosting cookies, pretending we’re not quietly hoping for magic, and trying to ignore the ache of unanswered questions.
For now.