Page 204 of Knot Baked Out For This
"Reverie, she's going to murder you?—"
But Muffin, traitor that she is, sits perfectly still while Reverie fastens the cape around her fluffy neck. Then she preens, actually preens, like she's been waiting her whole life for this moment.
"See? She loves it!" Reverie crows, then pulls out more capes. "I made ones for all the pets! Ember's is gold to match her fur, Biscuit and Whiskey are getting matching black ones?—"
"You made costumes for four animals?"
"Five! I made one for Gerald the duck, too, but Levi says Gerald's shy about public appearances."
"Gerald is a wild duck who happens to like bread!"
"Gerald is part of the extended pack family and deserves costume representation!"
I can't argue with that logic, mostly because I'm laughing too hard.
Downstairs, the bakery has been transformed yet again. Candles flicker in the windows—the fake ones, because fire safety with Rowan around is non-negotiable—casting warm golden light onto Maple Street. Orange and black streamers twist with fairy lights, creating patterns that look like magic captured in wire and bulbs.
And the smell.
Oh god, the smell.
Fresh pumpkin cookies cooling on racks, cinnamon-sugar coating still warm, caramel apples arranged in pyramids that Mila spent two hours perfecting, and underneath it all, the scent of my pack—cedar and gingerbread and honey butter mixing with my own vanilla cinnamon until the whole bakery smells like home.
"You're crying again," Levi observes, appearing beside me in his ridiculous security shirt and matching witch hat that Reverie definitely bullied him into wearing.
"I'm not crying, I'm expressing moisture!"
"Through your tear ducts!"
"Shut up and give me a caramel apple!"
He does, and when I bite into it—perfect tartness, sweet caramel, just a hint of sea salt—I might actually cry for real.
"Mila's a genius," I mumble through caramel.
"You're a genius," Rowan corrects, emerging from the back in his security shirt and dark jeans that should not look that good with glittery cupcakes. "You hired her. You built this." He gestures at the bakery, at the decorations, at the line already forming outside even though we don't open for another ten minutes. "This is yours."
Mine.
My bakery. My business. My success that nobody can take away or claim credit for, or use to make me feel small.
The festival is chaos in the best possible way.
Maple Street has been closed to traffic, transformed into a pedestrian wonderland of booths and games and enough sugar to send an entire town into hyperglycemia. There's a pumpkin carving station where children are creating jack-o'-lanterns that range from adorable to terrifying. A costume contest that's already descended into a heated debate about whether store-bought counts as homemade if you add glitter.
And my bakery at the center of it all, doors open, music spilling out, people flowing in and out like we're the heart beating life into the celebration.
"HAZEL!" A small superhero—maybe six years old, definitely wearing his cape backwards—barrels into me, clutching a ghost cookie. "You made this and it's the BEST COOKIE EVER!"
"Thank you!" I catch him before he face-plants into my skirt. "Did you get extra frosting?"
"SO MUCH FROSTING!" He shows me his face, which is indeed covered in purple icing. "Mom says I'm gonna be sick, but it's WORTH IT!"
His mother appears, looking apologetic and exhausted in equal measure.
"Sorry, he's had about seven cookies already?—"
"It's Halloween," I say, kneeling down to the kid's level. "That's what it's for. Being a little bit sick from too much candy is part of the magic."
