Page 1 of A Gingerbread Romance

ONE

Greta Ross stepped out into the frosty air and locked the glass paneled doors to the bakery under dark skies. She tied her scarf loosely around her neck and stopped to gaze into the bakery’s large picture window at the day’s work.

A satisfied grin spread across her face, which countered, thankfully, with the knots in her stomach.

Her creation this year was a gingerbread version of the Victorian house she lived in with her grandmother. The gingerbread house had taken her the better part of the day to decorate, plus the day before, baking and assembling the frame.

But the house wasn’t just a decoration, nor was it for sale. The bakery desperately needed the window shoppers it brought in. Greta’s costs were up for raw ingredients, energy costs had risen sharply this fall, and her customers seemed to be feeling the pinch of a tricky economy. Still, the Christmas season almost always turned things around.

Fingers crossed.

She took one last look, inhaling deeply to let the early evening air fill her lungs, then started down the sidewalk.

It had felt strange, regardless, putting the finishing touches on the gingerbread house today without Grandma Jean’s usual holiday cheer. Jean was Greta’s biggest fan and her only family.

At seventy-five, Jean Weber was outspoken, vibrant, and full of life, and she’d finally retired. The woman had given sixty years of her life to the Smithfield Bakery, an operation their family had started decades before.

And so the bakery had officially changed hands this week, with Greta at the helm, and the pressure was on. Sure, she’d been working under Jean’s mentorship for the past five years, but becoming the boss required a tremendous shift in mindset.

But that was fodder for tomorrow’s worries. Right now, she had a date, the mere thought of which was providing more than enough anxiety. One that her best friend, Abby had set up for her via an app.

Without Greta’s knowledge.

Or approval.

Gritting her teeth, Greta kept walking, willing her feet to move, since her nerves were doing their best to hijack her every step.

With a glance at the colorful lights lining the street, Greta longed to head home, instead, to the charming Victorian five blocks over.

It was a perfect evening to cozy up in a warm blanket and binge-watch her favorite series. She could finish the homemade macaroni and cheese Jean had left—without anyone to bother her.

She rolled her eyes, remembering Abby’s words. “Honey, you need to get out more. All you ever do is work, and now that I’m an hour away and Jean’s out of town, you need to meet more people.”

Abigail was a force to be reckoned with, but she’d also deserted her, moving to Philadelphia for a paralegal position recently. Greta knew Abby had her best interest at heart, but still. She could’veaskedbefore she’d accepted the date.

Greta pulled her phone from the pocket of her brown tweed coat as she made her way down the street, shuffling past the neatly shoveled snow and nodding politely to passersby.

A grateful sigh emerged from her lips when Abigail picked up, even though Greta was still stewing over the little stunt. “Hey, Abby, I’m almost there. What should I say when I meet him?” There was no time for small talk.

Abby laughed. “You should sayhello.”

Greta’s brows knit together. “Come on, be serious. This is going to be so awkward. What do I talk about after that?” She was squeezing the phone so tightly that her knuckles were probably white under her gloves. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Okay, sweetie, I want you to chill,” Abby said with authority. “Take a deep breath.”

“I’ve already taken enough deep breaths,” Greta moaned, but she did so anyway, stretching her shoulders as she crossed at the next intersection. Okay, so it helped, but she was still in panic mode. “Seriously, what should I talk about with him once we get pasthello?”

“You should talk about what an incredible, accomplished woman you are.” Greta could hear the sincerity in Abby’s tone, but she huffed, anyway.

“And then ask him lots of questions about himself if you can’t think of anything else to say,” Abby went on. “That always works.”

Greta spotted the sign for the pub a block away. Her stomach did another flip. “I just wish you were here, so I didn’t have to walk in by myself,” she whined, “or so I didn’t have to do thisat all.”

“Sweetie, this would not be a girls’ night out, even if I were in town. You’re going on a date. With a man. Do you remember what that’s like?”

“Very funny.” Greta switched the phone to her other hand and stretched out her fingers, trying to ease the tension, but her voice rose. “Anyway, it’s not really a date. It’s just Happy Hour. One drink.”

“Exactly. Which is great, right? No commitment to sit through a long and boring dinner if you’re not into him? Just a chance to chat with a good-looking guy.”

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