Page 1 of Wynter's Second Chance

CHAPTER 1

TARAN

Whoever said Christmas was a season for merriment, hope and joy probably needed to spend a day—heck, maybe a week—in my shoes.

While I prepared the icing for the cupcakes that were cooling on the rack, I glanced out of the window. Snow fell in big, heavy flakes. The yard looked glorious, blanketed all in white. But I didn’t have time to enjoy it all. I was on a tight schedule. In an hour, I needed to leave for my meeting at the bank.

“Dad, I found the gloves,” Rory, my son, announced as he marched into the kitchen. “They were under my bed.”

I turned toward the only light in my life: my twelve-year-old son—the reason I lived and breathed. Rory was tall for his age, with a warmth to his deep brown skin that seemed to glow in any light. His hair was cropped and coiled, with a soft sheen, and his smile revealed dimples in both cheeks, cheeks that still held a trace of baby fat. Soon enough, those round cheeks would fade, and he’d be a teen.

For now, though, he was my curious, gentle boy, standing out in our small, close-knit town. He was my rock—I loved to take care of him. A smile curved over my lips at his rueful expression.“If you’d cleaned the room yesterday like I asked you, you would have found them then.”

His grin looked sheepish, but also a little naughty. “Yes, Dad.”

“Now, you need to pop the second tray of cupcakes into the oven.” I filled the icing tube, ready to prepare the first batch. “And then whisk the batter for the third batch.”

“Awww, Dad!” My son groaned. “I wanted to watch a show on Discovery.”

“If you hadn’t earned yourself a punishment, you could’ve been doing that right now.” Expertly, I applied the emerald-green icing on the cupcakes. I picked up the sprinkles, dropping them on top. Perfect. My baking skills were legendary. At least that’s what my boss and owner of Mabel’s Sweet Treats, the only bakery in this small town with a population of less than ten thousand, said. Well, and our many loyal customers.

Just yesterday she’d caught me as I was tying on my apron. “You’ve been working your tail off lately, Taran,” she’d said with a smile, familiar warmth in her voice. “I’m giving you the day off today. You’ve earned it. I’ve got the extra help, and things are running smoothly.” I’d paused, surprised.

“Are you sure?” I’d asked. “I don’t want to leave you hanging.”

“Yep, you’ve been more than generous with your time, weeks of long shifts, working past closing hours to keep up with the Christmas rush. Go take care of what you need to,” she’d said, shooing me out the door with a wink. “The part-timers will hold down the fort here.”

What a woman! I couldn’t have asked for a better boss than her.

Mabel was single and never had kids, and was ready to move to Florida to be with her sister. She was looking to sell her bakery to someone she trusted and valued. I was delighted that she’doffered me the first preference to buy the business. That was why, despite holding down two jobs, I took orders on the side for parties and other events. Of course, my ultimate goal was something else. I wanted to have my own bakery and Mabel had given me the perfect opportunity to see my dream come true. Things were already in motion. If everything went as I expected at the meeting with the bank, Mabel’s would be mine within a matter of weeks.

When I glanced at my son, who was studiously whisking the batter, love welled in my heart. My pride and joy, but sometimes—like most pre-teens—he messed up. He and his friends thought it would be funny to make “snow” during lunch last week by ripping up napkins and tossing them into the air. They’d laughed as the small paper pieces floated around like confetti, but the cafeteria staff was less than thrilled about cleaning up the mess. As a result, I’d grounded him for two weeks and enlisted his help with my pre-Christmas baking orders. Hopefully, it would teach him a bit more responsibility and respect for shared spaces. The good thing was that my son’s grounding coincided with the beginning of winter break, ensuring he was at home with me during this time.

Raising a child on my own wasn’t easy, but I embraced the challenge every day. This morning, a surge of optimism fueled me as I prepared for what I hoped would be a turning point.I will get the loan. I will get the loan.The mantra played on repeat in my head, as I carefully boxed the first batch of chocolate fudge cupcakes.

Together, we worked at a brisk speed, father and son.

I pulled the second batch of cupcakes from the oven and set them on the cooling rack. The rich aroma filled the kitchen, enveloping me in a comforting warmth. The doorbell chimed, pulling me away from the steady rhythm of baking.

“I’ll see who’s at the door,” I said, giving Rory a half-serious, half-playful look. “Keep whisking that batter, and remember, no sneaking any tastes!”

Rory shot me a mock glare but nodded, his focus shifting back to the mixing bowl. I could hear him mumbling under his breath about how unfair life was.

When I opened the door, my heart leaped in my chest. Standing on the doorstep was Wynter—my late husband’s best friend—his presence as startling and vivid as ever. He wore a fitted dark gray wool coat that hugged his frame, accentuating his build, with a simple black scarf wrapped around his neck and a matching knit beanie perched atop his head. The cold morning air sent a few stray snowflakes dancing around him, and I caught the faintest hint of the cologne I remembered from years ago—something warm and spicy that stirred up old memories.

“Wynter?” I managed, my voice catching slightly. I stepped aside, my heart thumping in my chest. “Come in. I can’t believe you’re here.”

As he stepped inside, I caught myself wishing for the warm, spontaneous hugs we used to share, but everything felt different now. I gestured toward the hall tree where I hung my own coat. “You can hang your coat here.”

Wynter slipped off his coat, revealing a fitted sweater underneath that accentuated his broad shoulders. I took it from him, brushing my fingers against the fabric, and hung it carefully on the hook. He kept his beanie on, the soft wool framing his face in a way that was oddly charming.

Wynter’s smile was genuine but tempered with an edge of weariness. “It’s good to see you,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet depth that hinted at the changes he’d been through.

The handsome, hunky Wynter Thornton had been Royce’s and my best friend. They joined the army together after high school. The years had been kind to Wynter. His wide, angularface looked slightly thinner than I remembered, but the vibrancy in his aquamarine eyes was the same. They were startlingly sharp and bright. Wynter never lacked female company, and when he got married, there were many women who were broken-hearted.

He looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine—his presence striking and polished. I couldn’t help but notice how well he carried himself, the years seemingly only enhancing his good looks. Meanwhile, I felt the weight of time on my shoulders, acutely aware of how much I’d aged since we last met.

“Taran, you look great,” Wynter said, his eyes scanning me with genuine warmth.

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