Page 8 of Baking Spirits Bright!

“Cash, Venmo, or lottery tickets.” He laughs.

“I’ll Venmo.”

He laughs harder and slaps my back. It catches me off guard, and I stumble toward the sink. After regaining my balance, I get my phone.

“It’s DogDad47.”

I type in the handle and a photo of Woody snuggling a chihuahua appears. No question that’s him. I Venmo the amount equal to the nights I plan on staying.

He checks his phone and grins as a money sound rings.

“Nice doing business with you.”

“You as well.” I sigh and put away my phone. “You saved me from a stay at the inn.”

He shakes his head. “You’re safe here. My in-laws live across the drive.” He points to an older home across the road. “They can be of service if I’m at work, and my mother-in-law will probably invite you to dinner if she sees you out.”

I half smile. That’s the sort of stuff I like about small towns and hope to convey on my blog.

“Before you go, Woody, do you mind telling me where I can turn the lights on and off?”

“Sure.” He steps toward the door and flips the light switch off, then on again.

“I mean the outside lights.”

“Oh yeah.” He flips the switch beside it and a porch light comes on.

I chuckle. “And for the decorative lights?”

He fans a hand. “Oh, those are on a timer, so you won’t have to worry about them.”

“Okay.” This isn’t getting the result I’d hoped.

“Anyways, I’ll get out of your hair. You temporarily own the joint.” He opens the door and climbs down the steps. “Belle has her vet visit soon to make sure the baby is healthy.” He lifts his brows. “Or babies. You never know with pups.”

“I guess not.”

Woody wiggles his eyebrows. “Take good care of the place.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks again.”

He salutes me, then opens the passenger side of his truck. I watch him set the dogs in a tiny seat and buckle them before he gets in and drives away.

I go to my own car for my bag and stare at the many lights. This has to be a fire hazard. First order of business after I settle in is to find that timer and turn it off immediately.

CHAPTER 3

Erica

Mackenzie weaves in and out of chairs at town hall, talking to a cameraman behind her. My stomach squirms when I imagine the winning dessert featured on TV. Of course, Carla winning would further the storyline of her televised special.

With any luck, we can put a twist on the competition and give it an unexpected ending. Then everyone will want to know the history behind our dessert and our orchard.

“Hey, Mackenzie.”

She stops within a foot of me and smiles. “Are you here to enter the bake-off?”

“Yeah.” I hide my nerves behind a smile.

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