Page 14 of Knot Baked Out For This
Maybe I'm used to disaster—actually, scratch that, I'm definitely used to disaster, I've been living in various states of low-grade catastrophe for the past three years—but the first hour of actual bakery life is almost too quiet to be trusted.
No customers.
No phone calls.
No dramatic entrances or equipment failures or any of the chaos I mentally prepared for during my 4 AM anxiety spiral.
Just me and the sound of the ovens doing their thing, Muffin's occasional thump from upstairs where she's probably knocking things off surfaces for sport, and the "Classic Horror" playlist I queued up for good luck because apparently I think spooky music will somehow manifest customers through sheer atmospheric vibes.
By 9:17—yes, I'm checking the clock obsessively, yes, I'm aware this is unhealthy behavior—the counters are so clean I can literally see my reflection in them, which is both impressive and slightly pathetic. Is that a dough smudge on my cheek? Yes. Yes it is. Has it been there for over an hour? Also yes. Am I going to do anything about it? Absolutely not, it's part of my brand now.
I'm starting to wonder if opening day is going to be one for the record books in the worst possible way. "Local Omega Opens Bakery, Dies of Loneliness While Surrounded by Perfectly Good Pastries." Population: Me and my increasingly judgmental cat.
That's when the universe, sensing my growing despair, decides to send chaos my way in the form of human contact.
The bell above the door gives a ferocious jangle—not a delicate "excuse me, may I enter this establishment," but the kind of aggressive noise that says "buckle up, baker, your life is about to get interesting whether you want it to or not."
In flounces—and I mean literally flounces, there's no other word for this entrance—a girl with hair the color of honey mixed with pumpkin butter, tips blazing orange at the ends like someone set her head on fire but in a cute way. She's wearing a sweater with a giant "Books Bros" motif that I'm going to need explained later, leggings patterned with tiny moons and pies that somehow work together, and a smile so wide and genuine I almost need to shield my eyes from the sheer force of her enthusiasm.
She doesn't hesitate. She doesn't ease her way in or look around uncertainly like a normal person. She just launches directly into my space like we're already best friends and I somehow missed the memo.
"Hi! Oh my god, you must be Hazel!" Her voice is all exclamation points and bold font and the audio equivalent of someone shaking you awake to tell you exciting news. "I'm Reverie Bell, and you are officially my new baking hero and also I love your aesthetic and also can I live here?"
She's barely through the door before the energy in the room doubles—no, triples—no, actually it might have increased exponentially and I'm not a math person but I know the bakery suddenly feels approximately seven times more alive than it did thirty seconds ago.
I blink at her, my brain trying to catch up to whatever just happened. "Uh... hi?" The greeting comes out croaky, like I'm a frog who's forgotten how to speak to humans. Very professional. "You're... early?"
Is she early? Is there a schedule I forgot about? Did I accidentally invite someone and then immediately forget due to stress-induced amnesia?
Reverie is not fazed by my social incompetence. If anything, she seems delighted by it, like my awkwardness is charming rather than concerning. She bounces—literally bounces, this girl has springs in her shoes or possibly in her soul—up to the display case, her eyes going cartoon-wide at the Cinnamon Soul Cookies.
"You have these out before ten? That's... wow, that's legendary behavior. Peak baker excellence." She presses her face so close to the glass I'm worried she's going to leave a nose print. "Are these the ones with the smoked cinnamon? I read about them on the Oakridge Hollow community thread. People say they're addictive. Like, possibly illegally addictive. Should I be concerned about the legality of these cookies?"
I nod, for lack of a better response that doesn't involve me standing here with my mouth open like a confused fish.
"I, um, yeah. First batch always out by nine." I gesture at the tray with hands that are somehow still slightly shaky. "Partly routine, partly because I have absolutely no self-control and if I don't get them out of the kitchen I'll eat all of them and then hate myself. Want one? On the house. First customer special."
She makes a delighted noise that I can only describe as a squeal meeting a gasp and having a beautiful baby. She's already reaching for a cookie with the reverence some people reserve for religious artifacts or limited edition collectibles.
"Are you kidding? I've been stalking your soft-open photos for weeks. Like, possibly in a way that would concern a judge if anyone looked at my search history." She picks up the cookiecarefully, examining it from all angles. "I even wrote an article for the Book Nook's blog—'Ten Reasons Maple Street's Not Ready for Hazel Holloway.' Number one was: Scones that could topple empires and possibly cause international incidents."
She bites into the cookie, and the noise she makes is so genuinely, intensely blissful that I briefly reconsider every life choice that led me to this moment of watching a stranger have what appears to be a spiritual awakening with my baking.
"Oh my god," she says, mouth full, crumbs decorating her lower lip in a way that somehow looks cute rather than messy. "This is actual flavor. Real, complex, interesting flavor. Not the Sad Omega stuff they sell at the grocery store that tastes like someone described food to an alien who's never experienced taste—no offense to anyone who likes cardboard, I guess, but also yes offense because we deserve so much better than that."
She wipes her hands on her sweater—which already has several mysterious stains that suggest this isn't her first enthusiastic food encounter of the day—and immediately produces a battered journal from her tote bag with the speed of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. The cover is plastered with doodles: pumpkins with surprisingly expressive faces, hearts with anatomically questionable proportions, a badly drawn cat that looks suspiciously like Muffin if Muffin had been rendered by someone with more enthusiasm than actual artistic skill.
"Okay, so here's my pitch," Reverie says, flipping to a page marked BOOK & BAKE KICKOFF in letters so emphatic they're practically screaming from the paper. "We do this thing, right? Once a month book club, but with seasonal pastries that match the theme. Like full thematic immersion. First event theme: Haunted Love Stories. I already talked to Miss Bea from the Book Nook—she's obsessed with you, by the way, like genuinely might be developing a mild fixation—and she says she'll do a full window display if you'll provide a tray of those maple croissantsI saw on your Instagram. Or, you know, just one croissant. She's not picky. Actually, she's extremely picky, but about you specifically she's making exceptions because apparently you're the chosen one or something."
She pauses for approximately half a second to breathe. Maybe. I'm not entirely sure she actually needs oxygen.
I can't help smiling back—first real smile all morning that isn't forced or practiced in the mirror while giving myself increasingly desperate pep talks about how I'm totally fine and everything is fine and this is fine.
"You work at the Book Nook?"
"Part-time," Reverie confirms, bouncing slightly on her heels like standing completely still is physically impossible for her. "Mostly I just lurk in the romance section and read everything with a swoony cover model who looks like he could chop wood and also discuss his feelings in complete sentences. But I told Miss Bea I'd help run social media for your launch—if you want that?"
She hesitates for maybe a quarter of a second, vulnerability flickering across her face before the enthusiasm returns. "You totally don't have to say yes. But I already made a hashtag and a three-post story plan complete with optimal posting times and engagement strategies and a content calendar, so... no pressure! Absolutely none! Except maybe a little!"
