Chapter 1 #2
The tall guy wavers on his feet, then opens and closes his mouth before releasing a loud belch.
His friend urges, “Come on, Topher. Let’s just get the coffee.”
“You and I could have a good time. Your loss,” Topher mutters as he follows his buddy to the coffee station.
“I don’t date hockey players,” I murmur after them.
They stumble out with their cups and I shake my head. Some mornings, I remember exactly why I prefer the company of bread dough to most men. At least yeast is relatively predictable.
After they clear out, I get a slew of customers who’re thankfully a little peppier. When there’s another lull, I tidy things up and then check my phone.
It’s not like I’m hoping that my flight is canceled so I can stay home, not much anyway.
If I’m completely honest, I’d rather not travel when I have to be back at work the day after January first. The girls bought my ticket, demanding I join them for the NHL party because, and I quote, “I never take time off.”
Being a one-woman show makes for long hours and tight margins. It’s been exactly all of the days since I’ve taken a vacation. That’s to say, never since taking over here at the bakery.
Puffing my cheeks, I do some quick math. Eppley Airport is about thirty minutes or fewer, depending on traffic, and then the flight to Las Vegas is another three hours. I’ll get in by five p.m. with a quick turnaround, departing again on New Year’s Day afternoon.
I can do this … and transform from a small-town baker into whatever version of myself fits into the sparkly dress Bree packed for me, so I had no excuses. Best friends, am I right?
My phone buzzes with a text from the “Damsels” group chat. It’s a play on their guys being the Knights—there are a few of us in the group who’re not attached to hockey stars—and it’s safe to say none of us are in distress.
Leah: Emergency! SOS! Juniper’s straightener died and Margo can’t find her lucky earrings. We need assistance ASAP!
Or not. I laugh despite myself. Of course, they need rescuing.
I’m the one who can be relied on to provide a backup for everything—safety pins, breath mints, stain remover, the works.
Being prepared is just part of my DNA, probably coded right next to the gene that makes me wake up before dawn to grate butter and mix batter.
Me: You got it. Crisis management is my specialty. Anything else?
Bree: You’re the best! I can’t wait to see you in action tonight. The hypnotist is supposed to be amazing.
My stomach flutters with nerves. Bree has been gushing over this hypnotist for weeks, ever since she heard he’d be part of the variety show at the NHL New Year’s Eve Toast. Everyone else got in on it for reasons I cannot explain.
I’m not sure I believe in hypnosis—too much like magic, not enough like the reliable science of baking—but Bree’s excitement is infectious.
The timer chimes, and I pull the golden kanelsnurre—cinnamon sugar pastry knots—from the oven.
Their buttery layers are perfect despite my divided attention earlier.
Muscle memory sure is helpful on days like today, when my mind wanders to sparkly dresses and questionable entertainers.
My hands always know exactly what to do.
“See?” I tell Bibi’s photo. “Some things never change.”
Trepidation expands inside like a loaf of bread proofing. As I score the top with Bibi’s old lame in a pretty leaf pattern, I feel like I’m on a precipice, balanced on a blade’s edge. Must be that it’s New Year’s Eve.
A few hours later, as I box up the last of the morning pastries to drop off at the fire station for our first responders and grab a few extra to treat the girls, I post a sign that says Closed for New Year’s Day.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m on the cusp of change and I really don’t like the way it feels.
Especially when the numbers just aren’t there to cover the rent increase.
It wasn’t only that the cost went up, other things did too.
Admittedly, being a one-woman show, a few things slipped through the cracks.
I thought I had more resources available and then it snowballed.
I’m not proud of my miscalculation and want to believe I’ll figure out a way to solve this problem, but I’m not so sure.
Several long hours later, dusk settles like purple velvet over Las Vegas, and I’m standing in front of the mirror in the penthouse suite Margo booked thanks to her wedding planning connections. I watch my friends transform into glamor queens.
The room is in girly disarray—makeup scattered across multiple counters, dresses draped over chairs, and the kind of excited chatter that only happens when multiple women are getting ready for a night out.
The lineup includes: Ella, the puck princess, who married the Nebraska Knights center, Jack.
He happens to be a billionaire and she had a real Cinderella moment.
Jess, originally from Cobbiton, somehow managed to make Liam Ellis smile, and he won her heart.
Then there’s Gracie, who got her happily ever after with the assistant coach Vohn Brandt.
The man is not known for having a nice bone in his body, but convinced the sweetest human on the planet to marry him.
We also have Juniper, one of hockey’s biggest fans, who married her childhood enemy Mikey after having to plan a wedding for their mutual friends together.
Delaney recently had a baby, so she and Hayden are staying in their own room, but she’ll be at the festivities tonight, along with Heidi and Grady, who also have kids. Whit and Redd, too. Come to think of it, so many of my friends are paired off and have families now.
Bibi used to say, “Time flies, especially when the oven timer is beeping.”
Even Bree, who writes romance novels but refused to believe in it for herself, fell in love with her nemesis, Fletch, over Christmas.
Miracles do happen.
Leah walks in and squeals, “Nina, please tell me you brought—”
“A hair straightener, safety pins, stain remover, backup mascara, and a pair of earrings for Margo,” I finish, already digging through my bag and presenting the additional items I anticipated they’d need as if there aren’t full-service stores in this desert oasis.
Everyone gathers around like I actually had to trek across a sandy wasteland to get here. Though, to be fair, it took a lot of arm-twisting and a nonrefundable ticket that I felt guilty about turning down.
Duty calls, even among friends.
I pull out a slightly wrinkled pastry bag as well. “I also brought some leftover honey butter cookies.”
They cheer excitedly because we all agree that every occasion calls for something sweet.
Ella reaches for a cookie. “This is not why we keep you around, but we appreciate your delicious donations and your uncanny ability to fix any fashion emergency.”
Which is ironic since most days I wear pants with an elastic waist and an apron. I like to think of myself as resourceful—certainly came in handy when I was on my own and when Bibi got sick.
“Speaking of which,” Bree says, holding up a curling iron, “this won’t heat up.”
I sigh and pull out my backup curling iron, which I also brought. I worried it might put me over the weight limit on my bag, but I somehow knew it would be necessary. “Seriously, what would you do without me?”
“Probably walk around with a severe caffeine and pastry deficit, frizzy hair, and chocolate stains on our dresses,” Jess admits cheerfully.
As they return to getting ready, I perch on the edge of the bed and watch them, feeling slightly like an outsider so far from home and single.
Cara is married to Pierre, aka the Frenchman, who was known as being a “player” on top of being a defenseman. Until she came along, he had been the coach’s least favorite. She’s also Tommy Badaszek’s daughter. Talk about forbidden love.
Leah got hitched to the man who was her secret adversary as well as her best friend’s twin last fall. Margo and Beau, the grumpiest of the grumps, had a St. Patrick’s Day shindig after she planned a themed wedding for another couple, and it fell through. All’s well that ends well or something.
And then there’s me. Twenty-nine, with a secretly struggling bakery, and stubbornly, completely alone. Yep, definitely an outsider.
Without warning, Bree tosses me a tiny jar I belatedly realize contains glitter eye shadow.
I stretch to catch it so it doesn’t sprinkle everywhere like sparkly confetti.
Usually, I’m the prankster between us—thanks to my father—but being outside my element has me on edge.
Not to mention, so much has changed recently between my girlfriends and me.
To borrow from Bree, an author, it’s like they’ve entered a new chapter of their lives, and I’m stuck rereading the same line over and over.
Sure, I could do something about it, but when?
Between bread rises? After I submit wholesale orders?
Clean the bakery? Fulfill special orders?
From the bathroom doorway, Gracie calls, “Okay, New Year’s resolutions. What’s everyone thinking?”
Cara groans. “Oh no. Remember last year? I was going to learn French. I downloaded an app, practiced for three days, and now my phone randomly suggests ‘Où est le pain?’ when I’m leaving myself a grocery shopping memo.” Her accent is terrible.
“The bread is at the Busy Bee, of course,” Bree says.
If only I had the dough to cover rent.
Ella chuckles. “That’s nothing. I was going to wake up with the sun for three hundred and sixty-five days straight and take a morning walk, rain or shine, and build up to being able to run the Popcorn 5K. I bought the cutest workout clothes. They’re still in my drawer with tags on.”
“I bet they look very accomplished in there,” Juniper teases.
“Getting up that early is not all it’s cracked up to be,” Heidi says, joining us on an air of perfume rather than her typical scent, which she lovingly refers to as “Eau de bébé.”