Page 13 of Knot Baked Out For This
It comes through the front window like a revelation, like the universe decided to put on a show just for me. Syrupy and gold, illuminating every floating swirl of flour, every dust mote performing its tiny ballet in the air, every smudge on the glass Imissed when I cleaned it last night. Everything glows. The wood glows. The copper glows. Even my skin—scarred and a little dry from too much bakery soap and not enough hand lotion—catches the light and glows like maybe I'm magic too, maybe I'm part of this autumn spell.
The scent is everywhere now, filling every corner of the space.
Sugar and cinnamon smoke from the cookies. Pumpkin cream and maple syrup from the pastries. The yeasty, alive smell of dough doing its work. And underneath it all, the sharp, almost animal tang of my own omega scent—vanilla and brown sugar and that hint of toasted marshmallow that comes out when I actually let myself relax for half a second.
It curls off me in waves, mixing with the baking smells, settling into the corners of the room like it's claiming territory. Like I'm claiming territory, marking this space as mine in the most primal way possible.
Muffin's still upstairs, probably creating an elaborate nest in the laundry pile I haven't unpacked yet, but her presence is somehow everywhere. Cat hair decorating every single apron—I don't know how, she hasn't even been down here yet. Her favorite window seat already smeared with paw prints from her earlier inspection.
I set out her official treat plate near the register because I've officially lost my mind—a single pumpkin scone, carefully crumbled into bits small enough for her royal highness, topped with what looks like a tiny crown of whipped honey because apparently I have time to make decorative treats for my cat but not to unpack my actual belongings.
Hazel Holloway, crazy bakery lady with a cat who rules her life and probably judges her harder than any customer ever will. Accept no substitutes. This is who we are now.
I go back to the door one more time—just to look, just to make sure the sign really says "Open," that this isn't all some elaborate stress dream where I show up to my first day and realize I forgot to wear pants or the bakery doesn't actually exist.
It's real. The sign is flipped. The door is unlocked. The smell of fresh baking is real. This is actually happening.
No more hiding upstairs with my failures and my cat and my Box of Things We Don't Talk About shoved under the sink.
Just me and the ghosts of a thousand autumns, all the bakers who came before, all the people who opened businesses and succeeded or failed, trying for something better. Hoping for something better. Working for something better.
I take one last pass through the shop with fresh eyes, trying to see it the way a customer might. Adjust this croissant so it faces the right direction. Pin that napkin that's come loose. Fuss with the way a row of cookies leans slightly to the left on the cooling rack because symmetry matters, dammit.
All habit. All armor. All the little rituals that make me feel in control when everything else feels like it's spinning wildly out of my grasp. Even when I'm nervous—especially when I'm nervous—my hands know what to do.
I make a mental checklist, because if I don't organize it in my brain it doesn't count as real:
— Ovens on, temperatures holding steady, trays rotated so everything bakes evenly. — Candles lit, flames behaving, not actively trying to burn down my new business. — Cinnamon Soul Cookies front and center, looking like the stars they are. — Scones cooling on the rack, glaze just starting to set into that perfect not-quite-hardened state. — Cat treats prepped for the only customer whose opinion actually matters. — Coffee brewed and making the place smell like memory and possibility and slightly burnt dreams.
I stand at the front window, arms folded across my chest, feeling ridiculous and proud and terrified in a way that makes my stomach flip and my heart race. The world outside is soft, blurred at the edges by flour dust and fog and the sheer audacity of hope.
If anyone's watching from across the street, they'd just see an orange-haired disaster behind glass, probably covered in more flour than any human should reasonably be wearing. But in here? In this space I've created? I feel real. I feel solid. I feel borderline powerful in a way I haven't felt in years.
And that's the truth of it, the thing I've been running toward for two years while running away from everything else.
I watch a single red leaf skitter down the street, tumbling end over end, bump up against the curb, and then catch on a patch of dew and stick. Just stick there, holding on.
That's me, I guess. Flung by the wind of circumstance and bad decisions and divorce and disappointment. Hoping to stick the landing. Praying I don't get swept away again by the next strong breeze or harsh word or moment of doubt.
My hands are still dusted with flour—there's probably flour in places flour has no business being. My sweater's crooked, one sleeve pushed up higher than the other in a way that would probably bother me if I had the energy to care. There's maple glaze on my left wrist where I forgot to wash it off, already starting to get sticky and annoying but also kind of comforting in its tackiness.
My scent—my real scent, the omega signature I spent years trying to hide or minimize or apologize for, the thing my ex-Alpha used to say was "too sweet" and "too much"—lingers in the air like it belongs here. Like I belong here.
I finally allow myself to smile, and something inside my chest unclenches for the first time in what feels like forever. It settles in—this feeling, this moment, this reality.
Hazel's Hearth & Home is open for business.
And I'm either about to succeed spectacularly or fail in a way that becomes local legend and cautionary tale.
Either way, at least there will be cookies. Really good cookies.
The kind worth failing for.
CHAPTER 2
Bake It 'Till You Make It
~HAZEL~
