Page 181 of The Holiday Fakers
“What was that?” Amanda eyes me sideways, her expression equal parts feigned innocence and amusement.
The bell above the door chimes as one happy pie-holding customer leaves, holding the door open so the person at the front of the line can slip in.
“Nothing,” I grumble, herding her forward in line.
She rolls her eyes before facing the window, nearly pressing her nose against the glass trying to see the whoopie pies past the crowd inside. “If you hate the cold so much, why did you follow me to Maine for the holidays?” Her breath fogs the window in front of her.
I’m about to blame it on my impulsive sense of duty but stop myself. It’s not the truth. Because while I may skirt around honesty with legalese and vague Hollywood agent-speak, I make it a point not to lie to my friends. And a year in to taking on Amanda as my client after her “scandal,” that’s exactly what she’s become. A friend.
So instead of telling the truth, I lean into the Scrooge aesthetic and glare at the tinsel-covered storefronts.
“Men in flannel. Environmentally questionable vintage trucks. Axe throwing as a viable dating activity.” I shrug. A gust of wind slips between my scarf and my double-breasted Burberry. “I was curious.”
“You were bored.” Amanda smirks, shuffling backward as the line creeps forward. “And maybe a little lonely.” She nudges my shoe with her boot. “Admit it.”
She’s not wrong. But it’s more than that.
Disregarding the lack of sleep and the unfamiliar weather, there’s something about Hideaway Harbor that scrapes up old memories like frost off a windshield—memories from my early childhood. Before my parents died.
The smell of pine. The crunch of salt underfoot. People hustling down the street, bundled up, arms full of Christmas purchases. Small-town stuff I remember from a time I’ve spent most of my life trying to forget.
Thanks to Felix’s mom Sofia taking me in when I was ten, I got to rewrite the script. Make new memories. New traditions.
Californian memories like faux Christmas trees that may not smell but never die and women rollerblading by the beach in red bikinis trimmed in white fur. And Portuguese traditions like Sofia’s honey-spiced cookies served with warm cinnamon milk.
Except this year, Sofia and Felix are spending the holidays with Elizabeth’s family.
Elizabeth—Felix’s fiancée, and the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
Worst thing that’s ever happened to me, though.
I shake off the churlish thought, blow on my hands, and pretend it helps. Then, like I’m not actively plotting my escape to the nearest heat source, I deadpan into Amanda’s heartfelt gaze. “I admit nothing. Except early-stage frostbite.”
Audrey
The scent of sugar and cocoa wraps around me like an old friend as I pace behind the counter, trying to pretend I have full control over my bakery right now.
—“She’s so down-to-earth looking.”
—“If she’s had work done, you can’t tell.”
—“I can’t believe Hideaway has an Oscar winner in town for the holidays!”
My customers are in full gossip mode, huddled like kids plotting their Christmas lists, buzzing with excitement and completely oblivious to the rising panic crawling up the back of my neck.
“I can’t believe it’s really her.”
Mia Keye photographer for the local paper,The Almanac, has her eyes glued to what she can see of movie star Amanda Willis through the window display—past the carefully arrangedtower of whoopie pies and the garland-tangled reindeer I spent all night positioning for today’s holiday flavor launch.
She glances down at her hands—latte in one, whoopie pie in the other—like she's cursing herself for not bringing her camera, seeing as this is the biggest celebrity scoop Hideaway’s had all year.
“She’s even prettier in person.” Hudson Locke, fireman and frequent public nuisance, mumbles around a mouthful of whoopie pie. A whoopie pie from the order he just purchased—and is still standing here eating and gawking. He’s large enough to block the counter for two people, and until he leaves, I can’t let in the next round of customers—celebrity or not.
I shake off the thought that an assistant would be nice, and keep alternating between counter service and bakery work. This past fall, looking over the numbers, I convinced myself I could handle the holiday season alone. That I didn’t need extra help. By saving money on staff, I could afford more advertising. And more advertising meant more reach. More reach meant more success.
Success I’d very much like my number-driven mother to notice so she can finally stop sighing dramatically whenever someone mentions my “little bakery” in “that little town” I moved to two years ago. Because once I ensure Making Whoopie’s success, I can stop feeling guilty about why I really left my near celebrity-level success as New York City Ritz Carlton’s foremost pastry chef for small-town entrepreneurship in Hideaway.
Mia snorts. “Amanda Willis wouldn’t be interested in any of your equipment, Hudson.” She gestures at his pants with her pie hand. “She came out as gay last year.”
