Chapter 9 #2
"That's the best idea you've had all day," she says, already reaching for her purse from where it's hanging on the back of her chair.
She's moving faster than I've seen her move all morning, motivated by the promise of warmth and chocolate.
"I'm coming with you. I need to escape this arctic tundra before I become a human popsicle and you have to explain to my family that I died at my desk planning someone else's wedding. "
We bundle up in our coats, which takes approximately five minutes because we're both wearing so many layers that getting the coats on feels like trying to dress a marshmallow.
My coat is black and practical, the kind of thing you wear when you live in the mountains and need something that will actually keep you alive.
Jessica's coat is cream-colored and probably cost more than my rent, but it looks warm and that's all that matters right now.
I wrap a scarf around my neck three times, pull on gloves that are slightly too big, and jam a knit hat over my curls. By the time we're both ready, we look less like professional wedding planners and more like we're preparing to climb Everest.
The walk to the bakery is only three blocks, but it feels like trudging across the frozen tundra of Narnia without any magical wardrobes to help us out.
The snow crunches under our boots. The wind cuts through every gap in our clothing, finding its way past scarves and collars and gloves to remind us that winter in Colorado is not playing games.
Pine Hollow looks beautiful in the snow, all the storefronts decorated for Christmas with wreaths and lights and window displays that probably took hours to arrange.
But I'm too cold to appreciate the aesthetic right now.
I'm focused entirely on putting one foot in front of the other and not slipping on the ice that's formed on the sidewalk overnight.
Jessica walks beside me, her breath coming out in white puffs that immediately dissipate in the cold air. She's got her hands shoved deep in her coat pockets, and she's walking with her shoulders hunched forward like she's trying to make herself as small a target as possible for the wind.
"This is brutal," she mutters as we pass the hardware store. "Why do people choose to live in places like this? What's wrong with warm climates? What's wrong with beaches and sunshine and temperatures that don't require seven layers of clothing just to survive?"
"The mountains are beautiful," I point out, though my voice is muffled by my scarf.
"The mountains can be beautiful from inside a warm building," Jessica counters. "The mountains can be beautiful while I'm drinking hot chocolate and not actively dying of exposure."
We turn the corner onto Main Street, and Mercy's Bakery comes into view.
The windows are fogged up from the warmth inside, and even from here I can see people moving around in the cozy interior.
The sight of it makes me walk faster, suddenly desperate for the heat and the smell of fresh baking and anything that isn't this freezing hellscape.
The moment we step through the door, warmth hits us like a physical wall. It's so stark compared to the cold outside that I actually gasp, my lungs adjusting to air that doesn't feel like it's trying to freeze them from the inside out.
The smell hits next. Cinnamon and chocolate and something yeasty that makes my stomach rumble despite the fact that I ate breakfast only a few hours ago.
The bakery is small and cozy, exactly what you'd expect from a mountain town establishment.
There are only six tables, all occupied by people who look like they're also hiding from the cold.
A couple in the corner is sharing a pastry.
Two older men are playing chess near the window.
A woman with a laptop is set up at the table by the fireplace, probably working remotely and appreciating the free heat.
Mercy herself is behind the counter, which is the only way I can describe her because I genuinely have no idea if that's her real name or some kind of nickname she earned through her talent for baking.
She's a woman in her sixties with silver hair that's pulled back into a practical braid and the kind of face that suggests she's spent most of her life smiling.
Today she's wearing an apron that's covered in flour, and there's a smudge of chocolate on her cheek that somehow makes her look endearing rather than messy.
"Sharon, Jessica," Mercy calls out the moment she sees us, not even waiting for us to make it all the way to the counter. "What brings you two in today?"
She's already reaching for the brownie display without waiting for us to answer, like she can read our minds through the combined power of small-town intuition and the fact that we're both shivering so hard we might vibrate out of our skin.
"Let me guess," Mercy continues, pulling out two brownies the size of my head and sliding them onto white paper plates. "The heating went out at the office again?"
Jessica stops in her tracks, halfway between the door and the counter, and stares at Mercy like she's just performed actual witchcraft.
"How did you know?" she asks, genuinely shocked that Mercy could read our minds so accurately.
Mercy laughs, the sound warm and knowing. "Because it happens to every business in this town at least once a winter."
She sets the brownies on the counter and reaches for two large mugs, already preparing hot chocolate without asking if that's what we want. The steam rises from the mugs as she fills them, and I watch it with the kind of longing usually reserved for lost loves or winning lottery tickets.
"Plus," Mercy adds, sliding the mugs across the counter toward us, "I can smell the desperation on you. It smells like frozen strawberries and honey mixed with panic, which is basically Sharon's signature scent when something's gone wrong."
I reach for my wallet, but Jessica beats me to it, pulling out her credit card with the determination of someone who's claimed this purchase for herself.
"I'm buying," she says firmly when I start to protest. "You bought last time, and besides, I'm a beta with a regular salary who doesn't have to spend money on heat suppressants or expensive omega-specific products. Let me have this."
I don't argue. Mostly because I'm too busy wrapping my hands around the hot chocolate mug and letting the warmth seep into my frozen fingers.
The heat is almost painful at first, my skin protesting the sudden temperature change, but I don't let go.
Jessica pays for everything, and we claim the table by the fireplace that just opened up when the woman with the laptop packed up and left.
The fire is real wood burning in a stone fireplace, not one of those fake gas ones, and the heat coming off it is glorious.
We settle into our chairs, unwrapping scarves and peeling off gloves and generally making ourselves at home. The brownies sit between us on the small table, still untouched because we're both too busy warming our hands on our mugs to think about eating yet.
"This is better," Jessica says, closing her eyes and tilting her face toward the fire like a cat seeking sunshine. "This is so much better. I feel like I can actually think again."
"I feel like my fingers might eventually regain sensation," I add, taking my first sip of hot chocolate.
It's perfect. Rich and sweet and exactly the right temperature to warm me from the inside out without burning my tongue.
"And I feel like we should probably call someone about the heating before we actually die in that office. "
"Already on my list," Jessica assures me, pulling out her phone. "Right after I finish this hot chocolate and brownie. And possibly after I sit here for another hour just absorbing heat like some kind of cold-blooded lizard."
"So," Jessica says, pulling her coat tighter around herself as we settle in, "I have to ask. What's the actual story with you and Ben Burnside? Because the rumor mill in this town is insane, and I've heard everything from 'she stole his motorcycle' to 'they were secretly engaged for seven years.'"
I snort, nearly choking on my hot chocolate. "I dated him for two years in my early twenties. He called me a 'warm-up omega' when he broke up with me. That's pretty much the whole story."
"A warm-up omega?" Jessica's voice goes up an octave. "Like you were practice? What the actual fuck?"
"Right?" I lean back in my chair, feeling the fire's warmth on my side. "So imagine my surprise when Savannah hands me my first solo wedding planning job, and it's his wedding to someone else."
Jessica sets down her mug with deliberate care, her expression shifting to something fierce and determined.
"Okay, new plan," she says. "We make this wedding so perfect that Ben realizes what he lost. Not because we want him back—fuck that guy—but because the best revenge is being happy and successful while your ex marries someone he's clearly scamming. "
I stare at her. "Did you just become my new best friend?"
"Yes," she says seriously. "I decided thirty seconds ago. Deal with it."
And just like that, I have a partner in this chaos. Someone who gets it. Someone who's in my corner.
"Deal," I say, holding up my hot chocolate mug.
"To revenge, but done professionally!” Jessica clinks her mug against mine. "And to not freezing to death in that office."
"I'll drink to that."
I'm reaching for my brownie, finally feeling human enough to contemplate eating, when Penelope walks through the door like she owns the place.
Honestly, that's kind of her whole vibe.
She moves through the world like she's the main character and everyone else is just background extras in her personal drama.
Today she's wearing a designer coat, and her expression suggests that she's just discovered something deeply offensive about the existence of this bakery.