Page 11 of Tinsel & Timber
The bell above the café door jingles, and the warmth inside wraps around me like a soft blanket. The quaint little coffee shop and bakery on Main Street smells of rich chocolate, peppermint, and roasted coffee beans. Steam curls from the espresso machines with that familiar gurgle, and laughter carries from a corner table where a young couple sips their morning brews.
“Oh my gosh! You must be Mara!” the cheerful brunette calls from the front counter.
Her apron is dusted with flour and she’s kneading abit of dough into something vaguely Christmas tree-shaped.
“And you must be Emmy.” I grin back at her. “Busy morning?”
“Never not busy this time of year,” she laughs. “That’s Evie,” Emmy nods to the woman with lighter brown hair who otherwise looks almost identical to her. No denying they’re sisters. “She’s doing her magic, so I can sneak a few pastries in before the crowd swarms.”
I glance past her to where Evie stands, focused, meticulously steaming milk for a cappuccino. She doesn’t completely look up, but her eyes flick toward me briefly and she gives a subtle nod.
Something about her sharp eyes tells me that Evie doesn’t miss a thing.
“I need a favor,” I say, stepping closer to the counter. “Peppermint mochas—two. Extra whipped cream. Cleo said they’re Graham Whitlock’s favorite.”
I don’t know why I mentioned Graham’s name, but it slipped past my lips before I could stop myself.
Emmy’s eyes light up, and I realize I may have just made a fatal small-town mistake.
“TheGraham Whitlock?” She pauses, smearing a little more flour on the countertop. “Now that’s a man with opinions. Good call on the peppermint mochas. That’ll do him right.”
Shoot. I bet by the time he shows up, the whole town will be talking about us.
“And pastries. Something sweet—maybe he has a favorite? I need all the help I can get to stay in his good graces.” I shrug and pretend that buying his favorite coffee and baked goods is no big deal.
Emmy tilts her head and scans the display case. “I’d say something classic, not too fancy.”
I laugh softly. “Classic. Got it. How about two peppermint cinnamon rolls and two cranberry scones. Throw in a couple of chocolate-dipped shortbreads too—might as well charm him completely.”
She winks. “You’re going for the heart, I see. Smart move.” Emmy scoops the pastries into a box with practiced care.
Meanwhile, Evie slides a tray toward me, holding the two steaming mochas with whipped cream piled high. Her brow quirks ever so slightly. “You do know he’ll probably critique the presentation of the whipped cream, right?”
I grin. “I’m counting on it.”
Evie shakes her head, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself. “Just don’t let him waste a drop. That’s my rule.”
I take the tray carefully, along with the brown paperback that holds the pastry box. The peppermint scent curls into my nose, sweet and invigorating. “Thanks, both of you. Seriously. You’re saving me from making a rookie mistake—buying plain coffee forsomeone who clearly appreciates something a little fancier.”
Emmy laughs, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Consider it part of the Dockside charm package. And remember—first impressions count. Historians are picky.”
I roll my eyes playfully. “Trust me, I know.”
As I leave, the bell jingles again, and the snow greets me with a soft crunch under my boots.
I hope this is enough to keep me on Graham’s good side.
Back at the house, the wind bites at my cheeks as I cross the driveway and reach the front porch steps.
I nudge the front door open with my hip, flick on the entryway lights, and let warmth spill over me.
The colonial still smells like old wood and colder nights—like a house stuck in the past. But it’s mine now. My family’s house. A piece of history I didn’t know belonged to me until months ago. And this morning… it feels like someone’s watching over my shoulder. My grandfather. Maybe even the line of people who lived here before him.
I take a breath, steadying myself. I can’t wait until this place looks welcoming and homely.
For now, I’ll have to settle for a little Christmas music and the glow of the lights I hung in the windows that cast the kind of cozy I’m trying desperately to fake.
I take off my coat, toss it over a chair, and straightenmy sweater. Then immediately second-guess myself. Too casual? Too try-hard? Too “I bought your favorite coffee because I want you to like me even though you glare like I personally took a sledgehammer to the Declaration of Independence”?
