I sigh.
My kitchen smells like heaven—or, more accurately, like honey, spice, and all that holiday jazz.
The Cookie Hive—my pride, joy, and primary stress source—is in full swing. Holiday orders are stacked higher than the gingerbread tower I built for the Nutcracker Festival, and I’m smack in the middle of perfecting my newest flavor.
Honey Habanero Heaven.
Sweet heat. Kick and kiss.
Kind of like my dream man, if I ever had time for one.
These cookies are golden rounds decorated to look like ornaments—glazed in honey, kissed with heat, and finished with a dusting of edible gold shimmer.
They’re gorgeous, if I do say so myself.
But right now, I have a feeling Emery is about to make me regret ever leaving the kitchen.
I rinse my hands, wipe them on my apron, and hurry into the storefront—where the line of customers curls all the way out the door. Yay me!
For a Tuesday? That’s a damn Christmas miracle.
“Hi there! Can I help you?” I call cheerfully, the automatic customer-service smile settling on my face like muscle memory.
The man in front of the counter isn’t your typical cookie connoisseur.
He’s older. Distinguished. Dressed in a pristine white suit that looks more couture than comfort.
And his eyes—electric blue, twinkling with mischief—make me pause mid-step.
“Wow,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I love your coat! You look like you stepped out of a holiday movie.”
He beams. “Thank you, my dear! Now tell me—are you the genius behind these addictive little beauties?”
He’s holding a festive red box of my Jingle Bell Kiffles.
A sugar-cookie hybrid filled with almond cream and topped with powdered honey sugar.
“I am,” I say, straightening my apron. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” he says, tapping the lid of the box thoughtfully, “you can agree to take my order for my upcoming Holiday Gala. I’ll need, oh, let’s say, a thousand boxes of these for my guest bags.”
My jaw drops. “A thousand? As in, one followed by three zeros?”
“Yes, dear,” he says with an amused twinkle. “A thousand. I insist. And while you’re at it, you must come as well.”
“Come? You mean, attend your gala?”
“Of course! A baker must enjoy the fruits—or cookies—of her labor!”
Behind him, Emery’s eyes are the size of snow globes. She mouths take it while giving me the universal shove-him-over-and-say-yes hand gesture.
My brain screams, impossible.
My heart screams opportunity.
“Well, um, when exactly is this gala?” I ask carefully, like maybe he’ll say next month.
“Friday,” he replies smoothly.
