Sugarplums & Second Chances (SnowDrop Inn #2)

Chapter One An Announcement

Jane

The kitchen always woke up before the rest of the inn.

I liked that about it.

The ovens hummed softly, already warm, the sound steady and reassuring, like breathing you could count on.

Yeast bloomed on the counter beside a bowl of dough I had set out before bed, the surface puffed and alive beneath the cloth.

Cinnamon lingered in the air from the rolls I had baked at dawn, the scent clinging to the walls the way comfort always did when it was given time to settle in.

Outside the window, frost edged the glass in careful lines. The light was pale and undecided, the kind of morning that felt as though it might change its mind if you waited long enough. December had arrived quietly, without ceremony, and that felt fitting. None of us were quite ready for it yet.

I moved through the space the way I always did. Efficient, quiet, and steady.

Timers were checked for the French Toast, coffee was brewed and my lists reviewed and adjusted with the pencil I kept tucked behind my ear. I reached for bowls and measuring cups without looking, my hands knowing where everything belonged even when my thoughts wandered.

The kitchen was the one place where nothing surprised me.

Ingredients behaved the way they were supposed to. Equipment did what it was told. If something went wrong, there was almost always a way to fix it, even if that meant patience or starting over.

People were less predictable.

This was our first December at the Snowdrop Inn. Our first Christmas together as a family in years.

The thought still felt strange, like saying something out loud and waiting to see if it sounded real.

We had reopened the inn only a little time earlier, and everything about it still felt new and scary.

The paint in some rooms had barely dried.

The renovations were ongoing, careful and deliberate, the way my parents insisted they be even when speed would have been easier.

I understood why they were doing it. I even admired them for it.

This inn was their leap. Their second chance.

They talked about it in terms of when things settled and once the work was finished, never if.

My mother planned years ahead as though optimism alone could shore up loose floorboards.

My father approached every repair with quiet patience, as if steady effort would eventually convince the place it belonged to us.

I wanted that to be true.

But I also noticed the draft near the back stairs that hadn't been sealed yet. The trim that still needed replacing. The way the heating system groaned on cold mornings like it was deciding whether to cooperate. Loving the inn didn’t stop me from seeing its weak points.

If anything, it made me more aware of them.

My role in all of this was different.

I wasn't the dreamer or the builder like my parents. I was the one who made things function day to day. Meals served on time. Guests fed well enough that they wouldn’t notice what was unfinished. Calm respectability, plated and warm, was my domain.

If this place failed, it wouldn't be because of my cinnamon rolls or soups. I told myself that often, though the thought didn’t always settle the way I wanted it to.

I checked my list again for today’s things to do.

● Breakfast service.

● Supply order.

● Lunch service.

● Baking for light treats for the guests.

● Menu testing.

● Dinner service.

It was manageable. I liked that word. It implied boundaries. It meant there was an end to the task, something you could reach and stop. I preferred that to open-ended hope.

As I slid a tray onto the counter, I thought of Braxton.

Not deliberately. He had simply started appearing in my thoughts lately, uninvited and mildly surprising, like a song you didn’t remember learning but somehow knew all the words to.

I had met him only recently this December.

Lucy had been in such a frantic state when she came into my kitchen.

Her ex-boss Dexter Fitzwilliam had arrived and half the ceiling had fallen on him from Dad pulling down tiles to expose the mouldings underneath.

She asked me to get refreshments while grabbing some ice in a towel to give to Dex to put on his head.

When I went out to the reception room, balancing an old wooden tray with fresh coffee and warm pastries, I met Lucy.

“Could you take the coffee carafe?” I had asked her, white knuckled from holding onto the tray with the force of will to keep it together. “The tray is old and the handle is breaking. I am afraid I am going to dump everything all over the floor.”

Lucy slid the carafe out of my hands and stepped aside.

That was when I noticed the most handsome man I had ever met standing behind her. He was tall, had blond hair, his dark blue eyes were framed by glasses, and he wore business casual like he was a model.

He immediately came forward, relieving me of the old wooden tray.

“Please, allow me,” he offered in a pleasant voice as he set the tray on a side table. He straightened, looking at me, extending a hand. “I’m Braxton.”

“Blackberry and raspberry. The pastries are blackberry and raspberry. I’m Jane." I babbled, blushing and extricating my hand from his. “I’m needed in the kitchen.”

I fled down the hallway and I silently cursed the fact I was the shyest woman on earth.

The whole encounter had caught me off guard.

Men didn't usually do a gallant thing like taking a tray from me. They either ignored me entirely, or told me they wanted cream with their coffee. I was background noise to most men.

It was because while my mother might say I had a pretty face, I was short and plump. Men didn’t look at shy, plump women.

Braxton had simply helped, and given me his full attention, treating me like a person who deserved his attention.

He kept doing that.

Pulling out chairs. Carrying boxes. Asking if I needed an extra set of hands even when I didn't. He never assumed. Never took over. He just offered in a cheerful voice, and accepted my answer either way.

A gentleman, my grandmother Martha would have said.

The word felt old-fashioned, but the feeling was unmistakable. He was considerate, attentive, and careful with space that wasn’t his.

It made me aware of myself in ways I preferred to avoid. How I looked, whether my sweater pulled at the wrong places (my stomach) when I reached for something, or if I had flour on my face (a common occurrence of a baker).

Braxton didn't seem to notice any of that. Or if he did, he didn't treat it like something that needed fixing.

That was dangerous, I knew. It would be easy to mistake kindness for something else, and I had learned the cost of that once already.

I set a tray down and reached for the next one, deliberately grounding myself in the task of getting breakfast ready. The kitchen was solid beneath my feet. The counters were cool. The work was real and immediate.

This was our first Christmas at the inn. There would be plenty of time later to think about what that meant.

For now, it was enough to keep moving.

Mom swept into the kitchen with the energy of someone who had already been awake for hours.

She reached for a mug out of the cupboard.

“We should decorate the tree outside. I know we have lights on the eves of the house, but don’t you think it would be so much more festive with the big pine out front lit up as well? ”

I nodded automatically. It was always easiest to agree with her.

“Christmas trees always feel festive,” Lydia said, drifting past the doorway with her phone already in hand. My youngest sister was addicted to her social media following. “That is usually how they work.”

Mom didn't even glance in her direction. Years of experience had taught her when engagement was optional.

Dad came into the kitchen quietly, grabbing a coffee, the newspaper tucked under one arm.

He gave me a nod that was half greeting, half reassurance, the kind he had perfected over years of raising daughters who all needed different things from him.

I felt myself steady at the sight of him, the way I always did.

I quickly began to serve them breakfast so that they could soon help to serve the guests. “Lydia, will you grab the salt and pepper?”

Lydia sighed but did as requested, bringing the items to the table.

Meri appeared next, paused just inside the kitchen, and took in the room with her usual careful attention. Without being asked, she went to the stove, grabbed a pan of hashbrowns and began serving them.

I loved calm, sensible Meri, even if sometimes she was too sensible.

Kitty burst in last, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair slipping loose from the clip she had clearly forgotten existed the second she put it in.

“You aren't going to believe what I just finalized,” she said, breathless and delighted, her excitement spilling into the room like it had nowhere else to go.

I felt the first flicker of unease then. Small but insistent. Kitty only used that tone when she had already decided something and didn’t intend to reconsider it.

“What did you finalize?” Mom asked, leaning forward with interest.

“A wedding! At the inn!” she gushed.

I set down the pan onto the stove a little more carefully than necessary, my fingers lingering on the edge as though the contact might anchor me.

“A wedding,” I repeated, testing the word to see how it felt. Hopefully it was far in the future. We weren’t ready for big events.

“Yes. A big one. Well, medium big. But with staying guests for a whole week which will make us good revenue.” She waved her hands as if the details were decorative instead of structural.

“A week,” I echoed.

“Yes. They loved the idea of making it a whole experience. A cozy, intimate wedding at the SnowDrop Inn.” Her smile widened.

Mom’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s wonderful.”

William took a thoughtful sip of coffee, his expression neutral but attentive.

“When?” he asked.

Kitty’s smile widened further.

“In a couple of days.”

The kitchen felt smaller all at once, as though the walls had shifted inward without warning. The hum of the ovens seemed louder, closer.

I stood very still and let the information settle. A week of guests, in December, at an inn where we had never hosted Christmas before, let alone a wedding layered neatly on top of it.

My mind began moving faster, skipping ahead in careful, frantic steps. Were there enough renovated rooms? What about our current guests? Just what sort of menu were the bride and groom expecting?

“There will be a bachelor party,” Kitty added helpfully. “And a bachelorette party. The rehearsal dinner, plus obviously the wedding itself.”

“Obviously,” Lydia said, delighted, already typing something into her phone.

I nodded slowly. Weddings happen every day. Kitchens handled worse. This was a lot, but it was still a problem with components, and components could be managed if I prepared properly.

I cleared my throat.

“Who is catering?” I questioned, keeping my voice even.

Kitty waved a hand. “We are.”

I waited for the rest of the sentence. When it didn't come, I tried again.

“And the cake?”

“We are,” she repeated, smiling as though this were not news but confirmation of something already agreed upon.

Something inside me slipped. It was the quiet realization that everyone in the room had already decided I would take this on, and I hadn't been consulted because I had never once said no.

I adjusted my apron, grounding myself in the familiar weight of it. Or perhaps I was just hiding behind it. I was disappointed, but I also knew that I wouldn’t say no. It was hard to say no when the people around you were a force to be reckoned with.

Just then my sister Lucy appeared in the doorway, hair pulled back hurriedly, cheeks pink from the cold. She was smiling without realizing it.

“I have to head into town. Dex offered to help with getting materials to fix the solarium out back,” she explained, grabbing a cinnamon bun.

I noticed the way Lucy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the way her voice softened when she said his name. New things rearranged people quietly, I had learned. Love did that, even at the beginning, shifting priorities before you noticed the floor had moved beneath your feet.

Dex and Lucy were falling in love. Anyone could see it and they were slowly accepting it. Part of me envied them, part of me was sad because I knew my closest sister was growing away from me.

Unbidden, the thought of Braxton came to mind. I knew if I let myself, my heart could easily get caught up in him.

I shoved the thought away. I knew better than to let my heart get broken again. It had taken too much to pick up the pieces.