Chapter One
Hickory Falls smelled like cotton candy.
Always. It clung to clothes, settled into hair, and curled in the air like fog—a constant reminder the sugar refinery at the edge of town never slept.
To outsiders, the place was picture-perfect.
An Insta-post come to life, with its single main road lined with brick storefronts and striped awnings.
But to Charlotte “Lottie” Whitaker, it was a snow globe.
Pretty to look at. Suffocating if you were trapped inside.
That December afternoon, Lottie stood behind the counter of The Holland and Honey, surveying the bakery she’d scraped into existence.
Powder-blue walls held wooden shelves crowded with mismatched teacups, each one rescued from flea markets and thrift shops.
A chalkboard menu—its looping script smudged by floury fingers—listed the day’s specials: apple cider doughnuts, orange rolls, honey-lavender shortbread, and a spiced pear tart.
In the center of the shop, chairs clustered around a single table.
Nearby, gleaming display cases showed off rows of fresh bread, golden pastries, and cakes.
In one corner stood a Christmas tree trimmed with cinnamon sticks and gingerbread cookies.
Fairy lights traced the windowsills, casting a twinkling glow across the room.
Every inch of the place oozed small-town charm. The kind Hickory Falls practically demanded. Some days it felt like an accomplishment. Other days, like a cage she’d built with her own two hands.
Lottie wiped her hands on her apron, her gaze drifting to the window, catching her reflection. A pale pixie face stared back, all wide eyes and delicate features framed by a chestnut bob that curled at her chin.
The town adored that face. Her cuteness had made her their unofficial mascot—always set to “sunny with a chance of pep talks.”
But in the glass, she caught what they always missed. Behind the sugarcoat was a woman aching for something more—to blur the edges of a life drawn in lines she never asked for but somehow learned to live by.
The brass bell above the door jingled, snapping her out of her thoughts. An elderly woman stepped inside, swallowed by a coat so puffy it was more sleeping bag than outerwear.
“Afternoon, Maren,” Lottie said brightly as the woman brushed snow from her sleeves and kicked slush off her boots.
“Afternoon, dear,” Maren trilled, her cheeks rosy from the cold. “The place smells heavenly, as always.” She peered over her glasses at the display case. “You’ve still got some of that tart, I hope? The cherry one—none of that supermarket Traverse City nonsense.”
“Still warm,” Lottie said, sliding open the cabinet door. “You want two slices, like usual?”
“Oh, just one today,” Maren said, fishing in her purse. “I’ve been trying to cut back, but you make it so hard. Honestly, if I had your willpower, I’d still fit into my wedding dress.”
Lottie handed her the bag with a small nod. “I bake cakes. Don’t ask me about willpower.”
“Pfft,” Maren said with a wave of her hand. “I mean it, not many young people like you these days… and after everything you’ve been through.”
Lottie’s composure flickered. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said lightly, pushing a stray hair behind her ear.
Maren tucked the bag under her arm. “Will I see you Sunday? I hear your daddy’s got a real doozy lined up!”
Lottie plastered on the smile she’d perfected over twenty-five years as Pastor Whitiker’s daughter. “Wouldn’t miss it,” she chirped, though inwardly, she stifled a sigh. Honestly, she’d spent so much time in that church, she was surprised they hadn’t carved her name into a pew.
“Well, you say hello to the pastor for me,” Maren said as she pulled the door open, a blast of icy Michigan air rushing in behind her.
Lottie barely had time to take a breath before the bell jingled again.
“Afternoon, Lottie,” Nick Swenson drawled as he stepped inside. He swept off his knit cap with an exaggerated flourish, revealing a thatch of damp, combed-over hair.
“Nick,” Lottie replied, her smile snapping back into place.
He strolled toward the counter, his gait a little too confident for a man in pleated khakis and a coat emblazoned with Hickory Falls Wastewater Technician.
“You’ve outdone yourself again,” he said, sidling up to the counter and leaning a forearm against it. “These look almost as sweet as you.”
Her lips twitched. That one never got old.
“You don’t usually swing by this late, Nick. Something backing up somewhere?”
“Well, I happened to be in the area,” he said, scratching his cheek. “And, uh…” He cleared his throat, as if he was gearing up for something big. “Ever think about taking time off?”
Lottie raised an eyebrow. “The pastries don’t bake themselves.”
“True, true. But still, someone’s gotta take care of you for a change.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “Maybe I could take you out, huh?”
Lottie exhaled softly. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m fine.”
He leaned in. “Well, I could pitch in at the shop. Weekends, early shifts—whatever you need. I’ve got the time.”
Lottie laughed. “You know I have Anna and Penny helping out back.”
“Yeah, but you could always use an extra pair of hands, right?”
She arched an eyebrow. “What—you? Bake?”
Nick straightened and puffed out his chest. “Sure, I bake.”
“Oh, really? What’s your specialty?”
“Uh… Pop-Tarts?”
Lottie snorted, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. “Tempting, but no.”
Nick smoothed a hand through his comb-over. “Come on, Lottie. You can’t tell me you’re not a little lonely. You and me? We’d make a good team.” He hesitated. “How long’s it been since, well, you know? Three years?”
Lottie’s fingers curled around the counter’s edge. Her smile didn’t move, but something in her eyes iced over.
“Four,” she said. Crisp. Precise.
Nick blinked. “Four?”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was surgical. Lottie let it hang long enough to sting.
“So.” Her tone was sweet as honey again. “You planning on buying something, or did you just stop by to chat?”
Nick squinted into the case, pointing at something without really looking. “One of them, uh, yellow-y muffins.”
“Lemon poppyseed. Popular choice,” she said, dropping it in a bag with a little more force than necessary.
As he handed over a few crumpled dollar bills and took the muffin, Nick gave her one last hopeful grin. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah?”
“Could be,” she replied, her voice cheerfully neutral.
The moment he was gone, her shoulders sagged. Nick meant well—most of them did—but dodging small-town crushes was becoming a full-time job, and she already had one of those.
An oven chimed, and she half-turned, but her phone buzzed on the counter, dragging her attention back. She glanced down at the screen. Dad.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, picking up and forcing a cheer into her voice.
“Lottie,” he began, skipping the pleasantries, “I need you to do something for me.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“The flower arrangements for Sunday. They’re ready at Lucy Garner’s place, but she called saying she won’t drive in this weather. She left them on her porch. Can you swing by and grab them on your way home? They’ll freeze if they stay out too long.”
“Lucy’s?” Lottie frowned, picturing the old farmhouse on the outskirts of town. “That’s kind of out of the way, isn’t it?”
“It won’t take long,” he coaxed, “I’d do it myself, but I’ve got the meeting with the deacons tonight. And I just thought—”
“Okay, okay,” she said, tipping her head back. “I’ll head there as soon as I shut up shop.”
“You’re an angel. Drive safe. This snow’s coming down fast.”
“I will. Bye, Dad.”
She hung up and exhaled. Right, always the angel.