Chapter 38 Deliberate Texts
DELIBERATE TEXTS
MABEL
My real Christmas is with my friends—Friendsmas, as Isla dubbed it a few years ago when she started it.
This year we’re at her place two nights before Christmas.
Rowan, the man I’m sure will propose to her any second, is out with his daughter, so tonight it’s just us—Isla, Skylar, Remy, Clementine, Trevyn, and me.
We exchange silly gifts, blast Mariah Carey too loud, and drink spiked eggnog.
As the night winds down, Skylar taps my thigh. “What are you doing on Christmas Day?”
A little knot of tension rolls through me. “Seeing my parents and Theo, so I’m sure Mom will try to convince me to get a real job,” I say, then try to shake that off. “But she did ask me to make something for dessert. So maybe that’s a sign she sort of approves of my bakery?”
“I approve of your bakery,” Clementine says, stretching her legs out and plopping her feet on my thighs.
“I double approve,” Remy chimes in.
“Triple approve,” Skylar adds.
And truthfully, it’s not just them. Customers seem to approve too.
Still, something nags at me. A worry that I can’t seem to chase. “Do you think it’s only successful because I opened it with a hockey player?” I ask, my gut twisting.
Isla shakes her head, steady and certain. “Don’t tell yourself you wouldn’t be good enough without him. You have the talent, friend. You always have.”
“Yep. You both bring plenty to the table,” Trevyn says.
And you know what? I think they’re right.
That’s a comforting thought—one I’m maybe finally letting myself believe.
I wake on Christmas morning to a text message.
Corbin: Alexa, text Mabel and tell her the gift is incredible. Let her know I look superhot in this tie. Cancel that, Alexa. Alexa, take a photo of me to show her how superhot I look.
Mabel: SEND IT NOW!
Corbin: Alexa, send Mabel the photo of me looking superhot.
I’m expecting a picture of him in one of the dress shirts he wears for travel, modeling the tie I got him, looking smoldering and stylish. A few seconds later, the image lands, and I click it so fast.
Oh. Oh.
He’s not wearing a button-down shirt. He’s not wearing a shirt at all. Just the black-and-white tie I bought him for Christmas, with illustrations of foxes on it.
I’m staring at the silk resting against his bare chest, his strong pecs, the ladder of his abs, mesmerized by the hardness of his muscles and the softness of the fabric. It takes me a beat to realize the phone is ringing. I blink off the fog and answer it. “Hey.”
“This tie is perfect,” he says, and I can hear the appreciation in his voice over the color choice. It’s a tie just for his eyes.
“It looks perfect on you.”
“That’s because you’re hot for me,” he says.
“You can’t ever resist saying that.”
“True.”
“And I am,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” he says.
I snuggle deeper into bed as I take a chance with my answer. “I will.”
It feels like the start of something.
My mom takes a bite of millionaire’s shortbread and actually moans. “Mabel, this is delicious. But then again, it always has been.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, smoothing out my napkin, listening to the faint clatter of plates being cleared in the kitchen later that day. The tree lights glow from the living room, little bursts of red and gold spilling into the dining room.
I made it through the meal with minimal grilling. Okay, fine—some grilling. How’s it going? Well. Do you have health insurance? Yes, I pay for it myself and have for years. What about a retirement fund? I’ll set one up eventually. Can this really work? I hope so.
Theo takes a big bite of shortbread—caramel gooey, chocolate silky—and shakes his head in appreciation. “Mom, are you tasting this? Of course her bakery can work.”
Dad exhales, long and doubtful. “Just because you can bake doesn’t mean you can run a business.”
The words land like a slap.
Theo jumps in, defending me the way he always has. “Dad, it actually does.”
But this time I don’t back down. Since…screw it. “Corbin and I have great recipes. And honestly, Mom, Dad—I’m a great baker. You’re just going to have to accept that this is my career.”
Holy shit. Where did that come from? Theo grins, more pleased than I’ve ever seen him, pride shining in his eyes.
And, apparently, I have more to say. “But I’m more than just a great baker.
I’ve been running a pop-up bakery for years, and it’s done well enough to support me.
I’ve learned a ton, including how to market, and I put all that expertise into Afternoon Delight.
And you know what’s been an utter delight?
Watching the numbers grow. We’re already running within our budget, and we’ll be turning a profit soon,” I say.
Sure, the fact that we don’t pay rent helps, but Corbin invested a lot in the business, and I can see profitability not far off in the new year.
The table goes quiet.
Mom takes another slow bite, sets the rest of the bar down, and nods. “You are an excellent baker, dear. And I’m glad to hear the business is growing.” High praise from her. She turns to my father, her voice firmer now. “She is. These bars are incredible and Cozy Valley is figuring it out.”
Dad doesn’t argue. Not this time.
Mom clicks her tongue and furrows her brow like she’s thinking. She turns to me. “Sweetheart, would you like to bake some cakes for my faculty luncheon next month? There will be about forty of us, so we’ll need a few.”
Would I? My throat tightens. “I would love to.”
I don’t go home to the city that evening. Since the day after Christmas is a busy shopping day, the bakery will be open tomorrow, so I head to Afternoon Delight, which is weirdly becoming my home. But before I bake, I head upstairs to change out of my look nice for my parents clothes.
When I turn the corner at the top of the stairs, I stop in my tracks. “Are you kidding me?” I whisper to no one but myself.
I can’t quite believe what I’m looking at.
A brand-new king-size bed with a huge silver bow wrapped around it. Like the kind you’d find around a shiny car in the driveway.
The bed is covered in a lilac duvet, with delicate iris illustrations along the edges. Several fluffy white pillows adorn the top of the bed and a few silvery ones too.
I cover my mouth with my hand, shocked, unable to move. My throat tightens. It’s not just the bed. It’s what it means.
That this—the bakery is working.
That he sees us pulling this off.
That he believes in me.
I let out a big breath, walk toward it, and run a finger over the shiny bow till I reach a white envelope.
I slide it open and a piece of paper falls out, folded in quarters. I unfold it, and I feel like sunshine as I read.
Dear Mabel,
The biggest dreamer should have a proper place to keep dreaming big.
Also, I miss you.
Corbin
My heart catches in my throat, and I’m not even sure what to say. Or do. How to respond. It’s such a huge gift, so thoughtful, and so perfect for me. And the letter is somehow even better.
I set the paper down on the bed, then run my hands across the cover.
Oh god. It’s so soft. The bed is calling out to me. I turn around and fall back on it, sighing contentedly.
I’m going to sleep so good tonight. I open my phone and instead of an accidental text, I dictate a deliberate one.
Mabel: Alexa, is this the greatest bed ever?
Alexa, how many hours till December 27th when Corbin returns?
Alexa, how should I show the man who gave this to me how much I love it?
Alexa, what would you do if you like—I mean, really like, your business partner?
Alexa, send Corbin a note telling him I miss him too.
“Enjoy the smash cake and the gingerbread,” I call out to a middle-aged woman who came in for both treats for her kids.
“I will,” she says, and as she leaves the bell above the door tinkles.
Business has been good on the day after Christmas, but now that it’s evening, it’s slowing down. As I straighten up and do some prep for tomorrow, the bell rings again, and in walks…a woman with gray hair and a knitting bag, and a stern expression.
I square my shoulders but hold my own as I head to the register. “Hi, Dottie. Let me know if I can help you with anything.”
She marches right over to me. “I have a bone to pick with you.”
Tension slams into me. “Over what?”
She points a wrinkled finger my way. “I’m going to lose the betting pool.”
My brow knits. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play innocent with me.”
I shake my head. “I really don’t—” Wait. I think I know what this is.
“We had a bet about how long you were going to stay open. And here you are, proving me wrong, clearly. Little Miss Cozy Valley. Little Miss Sassy Baker. Little Miss Redemption.” She shakes her head, tutting. “Making me look like a fool for betting against you.”
Oh, okay. I see where this is going now, and I don’t mind the direction at all. With a smile—somewhat smug—I say, “Sorry, not sorry.”
“Neither am I. Arnie’s been slipping me some of those seven-layer bars. And the pistachio chocolate chip cookies,” she says, and that makes sense—his orders have expanded beyond the original Danishes.
“Has he now?”
“And now I’m going to have to eat my shoe.”
The image pleases me to no end. “Or I could just give you a seven-layer bar on the house,” I say, feeling a little like victory is mine.
She pffts. “You’ll do no such thing. I’ll buy it. In fact, I’ll take a half dozen for the knitting club.”
“Coming right up,” I say, boxing up the bars and handing them to her.
She pays and harrumphs her way out.
“Turn around. Let me see that ass.”
Corbin huffs, like it costs him something to do my bidding in the suit shop. But he obliges. Slowly, he shifts, facing the other way so I can appraise the wine-colored suit, and I growl.
I might even roar.
“That is one fine backside,” I tell the hockey star as I admire the hell out of the way this suit is fitting him—hugging his thick thighs, worshipping his muscular ass, showing off his strong body.