Seven
Isla
M y first few days back in Sugarpine Springs are consumed by business meetings.
I put on a smile, pitch, and pretend I’m thriving.
The goal? Captivate potential clients with the in-control version of the designer I see in my future.
Near future, hopefully.
My portfolio is in serious need of a revamp. Having been limited to logos and layouts for the past two years, it’s lacking soul. And direction.
Perfect plan, if time weren’t sprinting and my savings account hadn’t slid into a seasonal depression spiral. A full rebrand of tomorrow is the dream, but I also have to eat— today. I can only freeload off the Thornes’ charity for so long before I cross into shameless squatter territory.
That’s why I’ve given myself until New Year’s Eve to wrap up my vacation, stop pretending I’m just visiting, and find a rental in town.
The morning kicks off with a consultation at the art gallery.
Orla Gallagher wants new business cards and a plan of attack for the tragically outdated, Papyrus-riddled website.
While I may not be saving lives, resurrecting a local fixture matters.
The least I can do is give every detail—down to the last pixel—my all.
There is liberty in no longer being shackled to AdCraft, but that freedom carries added weight. The responsibility to deliver something worthy now falls entirely on me.
The victory and the worry are solely mine to bear.
Next, I trudge through ankle-deep snow to Spoon & Slice, a cozy Main Street restaurant known for its soul-warming soups and freshly baked breads. The owners are looking for a menu redesign that reflects their inclusive, welcoming atmosphere.
My challenge? Create a friendly layout that resonates with loyal regulars who prefer reminiscing about the good ol’ days over fumbling with QR codes. It also needs to be easy on the eyes since some of those diners rely on accessible design.
By the time I arrive at Sugarpine Sweets for my final meeting, my feet are numb from the cold, and my energy levels are depleted. Thankfully, this last stop provides heat, sugar, and caffeine—the trifecta to help me power through the rest of the day.
The bakery-slash-café is decked out for the season.
Strands of pastel lights crisscross the wooden ceiling beams, sparkly snowflake decals cover the windows, and every booth has its own mini tree.
Behind the counter, the life-sized Sugarpine Springs snowman mascot sports his usual lopsided smirk, still donning the scarf that was torn the night Asher led our class in hoisting him onto the high school roof for our senior prank.
Spread out on the table in front of me is an assortment of cupcakes the new owner, Holly Dai, meticulously arranged. The plate of pastries tells a story of love, history, and pride. This time of year, everything is dusted in edible glitter and frosting that looks like freshly fallen snow.
I’ve held off sampling for the sake of professionalism. One lick of the magic-laced icing, one bite of soft-as-breath cake, and the cupcakes and I would end up engaging in a series of explicit acts guaranteed to scare off my client.
“I used your grandmother’s signature Winter Wonderland cupcake as my inspiration for the logo.” I slide my tablet across the table. “It’s a timeless product, so it fits the sleek, streamlined look you’re going for in the update.”
“You nailed it.” Her dark brown eyes widen as she studies the proof, the corners of her lips curling into a delighted smile.
“Grandma Hazel left a legacy baked to perfection. I’m trying not to overmix it, you know?
This is exactly what I meant by honoring her memory while bringing this place into the current century. ”
Her excitement is contagious, and I can’t help but grin. “Your grandmother would be proud.” With Holly at the helm, the bakery couldn’t be in better, more skilled hands.
“Can you maybe add another swirl to the corner of each S in the title?” she asks, her tone tentative.
“I can,” I say with a laugh, “but let me remind you of your design brief: less kitsch, more chic .”
She blushes, tucking a short strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “You’re right. Still—maybe just a small tweak?”
Forgoing my tablet, I reach for my sketchpad. Pencil on paper is always my go-to for brainstorming sessions. It’s grounding. A refreshing shift from the screen-heavy work. Within minutes, I’ve roughed out a version with her requested flourish and hold it up for review.
Holly studies the updated logo intently, her sleek bob tilting to the side. “ Hmm …”
“How about this?” I tweak the design again, pulling back the lettering to a cleaner, more contemporary style, but layering an extra swirl of frosting on the cupcake illustration instead. “It keeps the title tidy while adding the bit of whimsy you’re after.”
As soon as I finish the newest draft, Holly claps her hands. “That’s it! Exactly it .” She beams at me. “Modern without losing the vintage vibe of the shop’s foundation. You’re the best!”
Moments like this remind me why I love what I do. After years of churning out lifeless designs for a company that valued profit over passion, I finally get to make something that matters.
At AdCraft, every idea was dissected, diluted, and scrubbed of anything remotely mine. Here, in the freedom of freelance, I get to collaborate on something real. Something personal. With people who are just as real.
“Oh, Isla. I’m so lucky to have landed on your client list!”
“I’m the lucky one,” I tell her. “Trust me.”
Starting over means cold-calling, emailing, and borderline begging my way through town.
Offering my services at a deeply discounted Sugarpine Springs rate isn’t charity.
It sure as hell isn’t some quirky career pivot either.
This is survival. My entire future depends on pulling off this reinvention.
Once upon a time, I dreamed of walking away from AdCraft on a wave of self-empowerment. In reality? They broke me down piece by piece, bled my work dry, then dared me to stay. Forced into quitting, I left with nothing but a shriveled-up spider plant and wounded pride .
This is my reset. My chance to build something that’s mine . Even if, most days, it feels like I’m chasing a dream that presently only lives inside my head.
Before I can say anything else, the bell above the door chimes, announcing Willow and Asher’s arrival.
Trailing behind them is a tiny—but mighty—tornado. Jovie’s voice rises over the hum of the café, a wail that could rival any opera singer’s. She’s amid a full-on production, arms flailing and sparkly boot–clad feet clomping.
“I was so good, Mommy!” declares the four-year-old, her blonde curls bouncing beneath her hat as she twirls in place. “Did you see my pirouette?”
“You were amazing, baby,” Willow coos, crouching down to her daughter’s level. “But now that the show is over, it’s time to turn on our quiet voices and calm bodies, okay?”
“Stars aren’t quiet or calm!” The little girl singsongs dramatically. “They’re shiny! And I’m a star!” She looks up at Asher. “Right, Uncle Ash?”
A few patrons chuckle, and Holly grins as she watches the floor of her shop morph into a stage.
“You sure are, kiddo. Let’s get you a cupcake to celebrate.”
“Two!” she bargains, then taps his camera bag. “Can I look at my pictures now?”
Asher, doting uncle and kick-ass professional photographer, has been tasked with documenting the Christmas dance recital. Knowing Jovie’s spirit, he’s undoubtedly captured several memory cards’ worth of action shots.
He grins, clearly under his niece’s spell. “Yup. As soon as I get some coffee.”
“ Ooh . Yes! Coffee for me, too?”
Willow taps her daughter’s nose. “The last thing you need is caffeine. You probably don’t need sugar, either. ”
“I’m too sweet?”
“The sweetest.” Asher scoops her up, twirling her until bubbly giggles reverberate through the space.
Their mingling laughter surrounds me in warmth.
And… tension .
Every passing moment with the Thorne family tangles me deeper into a lie that’s sure to blow up in my face.
In the end, the only casualty will be me.
Asher sets his niece down in the booth next to me before sliding in on my other side. Willow grabs the last empty chair, her coat swishing as she sits.
Jovie’s eager hands tug at the menu. “So many choices.”
Holly beams at her. “What looks good?”
“Everything!” She’s one step from licking the laminated pictures. “I want a million gazillion cupcakes!”
“I don’t blame you. They’re so good.” I slide over my untouched plate. “Why don’t you help me polish these off first? We can start with one each and work our way up.”
Jovie squeals in agreement, the happy sound punctuated by the jingling of a bell. The door swings open, sending a rush of chilly air inside.
I don’t even have to look up to know who has entered. My body recognizes his presence in a way that shouldn’t be scientifically possible.
Yet…here I am.
And there he is.
Theo stands by the entrance, coat dusted with snow, hair slightly damp from the weather. He pauses to wipe off the bottom of his boots on the doormat, scanning the space in the process.
Since I’m the only one at our table who has instinctively looked over, his gaze locks on mine before sliding to Asher.
His brow furrows, and for a moment, I swear I catch a trace of something sharp in his expression.
Then it’s gone, replaced by that unreadable mask he wears so well.
With a quick roll of his shoulders, he moves toward us, long strides full of purpose.
Well, shit .
One happy side effect of staging a full-blown, high-stakes career overhaul? I’ve successfully managed to avoid him for the past few days.
It’s not like I’m hiding on purpose. I’m simply prioritizing business opportunities. And sanity. Also, the ability to breathe. All oxygen tends to get sucked out of a room the second he walks in.