The spread includes chocolate soufflés that look like edible clouds, chocolate-covered strawberries the size of golf balls, truffles arranged like tiny works of art, chocolate tarts that could make angels sing, and a chocolate sculpture garden that’s more impressive than most museum displays.
But the centerpiece that’s making everyone stop and stare is the larger-than-life ice sculpture of Santa Claus himself—clearly an ode to Balthasar Thornfield—carved with such detail you can practically see the twinkle in his ice-crystal eyes. It’s both beautiful and deeply creepy, considering we’re essentially celebrating next to a frozen memorial of our murder victim.
I love parties!Sherlock gives a happy little woof, practically vibrating with excitement like a furry tuning fork.So many new smells! So much potential for dropped appetizers! This is like heaven if heaven served hors d’oeuvres!
I’ll admit, the mood in the room is electric with Christmas magic. The kind of festive energy that makes you believe in holiday miracles and forgive your relatives for their eggnog-fueled behavior.
The crowd is buzzing with excitement, champagne is flowing like water, and carolers are moving through the space singing “Joy to the World” with voices so perfect they sound professionally auto-tuned by elves.
We’ve just finished a dinner that could’ve impressed every Michelin chef on the planet—lobster thermidor presented like it belonged in a holiday centerpiece, Wagyu beef tenderloin that melted like snowflakes on your tongue, duck confit with a cherry glaze that could win awards on charm alone, truffle risotto so indulgent it probably sleeps on silk sheets, and a wine pairing featuring bottles that deserve their own ancestry tree.
If you’d told me last month that I’d be ringing in Christmas Eve at a chocolate empire built by a murder victim, clinking glasses of champagne beneath enough twinkle lights to blind Santa, while carolers croon and my furry friends would be rubbing paws with Cider Cove’s finest, I’d have assumed you’d overdosed on sugar cookies.
Yet, here I am, and I have to admit, whoever transformed Thornfield’s Premium Christmas Confections gallery into a winter wonderland had either direct access to the North Pole’s black card or had access to actual Christmas elves.
The palatial glass room stretches out like something from a fairy tale, with soaring ceilings and walls of windows that showcase the perfect snowfall outside like nature’s own Christmas movie backdrop.
Christmas trees tower from floor to ceiling in every corner, each one themed and coordinated with the kind of precision that suggests someone spent months planning this evening.
I turn to see Georgie conducting what appears to be a thorough evaluation of the waitstaff—all attractive young men dressed as high-end holiday elves instead of the cute, cartoonish variety that wouldn’t make middle-aged women question their romantic life.
“Georgie,” Mom hisses, trailing behind her like damage controlin designer clothing, “would you knock this off? How many times do I have to tell you, they are not holiday hams up for auction!”
“Back off, Red,” Georgie says while pulling out her infamous notebook. “I’m simply appreciating quality customer service and superior genetics. That tall one with the dimples gets extra points for presentation and probably excellent dental coverage.”
“Someone needs to stop her before she starts asking for résumés and references,” Mom mutters, mostly to herself.
She’s not wrong, but honestly, there’s not a soul on the planet who can stop Georgie from herself, let alone other people.
Both women look amazing decked out in matching sequined gowns, red for Georgie, green for Mom. And oddly enough, I don’t think they did that on purpose.
“Age is just a number,” Georgie continues, eyeing a particularly young server like he’s the main course at Christmas dinner and she skipped lunch. “And that number was definitely at least twenty-five. Probably.”
“Please, you have no limits when it comes to men,” Mom says with an eye roll. “Living, dead, or somewhere in-between.”
“I’m an equal opportunity enchantress with diverse interests and an open mind,” Georgie replies with a heated smile that could melt a candy cane in January.
Mom’s boyfriend Ben steps our way—and just in time.
“Merry Christmas Eve.” He winks my way before offering Mom a kiss on the lips. Ben might be Georgie’s younger brother, but he’s as dapper and sane as can be with a head full of silver locks and devil-may-care gleam in his eye. I couldn’t have picked anyone better for my mother—and that includes my father. “Great party.” He sheds another easy smile as he says it.
“Any party in a chocolate factory is a great one,” I counter, and we all share a quick laugh.
Georgie and my mother continue to banter, and he shakes his head with a laugh.
These ladies never fail to provide entertainment—and they seem to specialize in the chaotic kind,Ben thinks to himself as if he were resigned and yet more than pleased that he entered the circus known as Georgie and Ree.Though I’m starting to understand why dating a Baker requires strong nerves and possibly hazard pay—as well as the fact that my sister is responsible for about ninety percent of that chaos.
I can’t help but bite down on a smile. He’s got both Georgie and my mother pegged.
The crowd begins to thicken, and I take a look around. It’s as if the entire town of Cider Cove has turned out in their holiday finest, and I have to say, we clean up pretty well when we put our minds to it. Women are sparkling in holiday jewelry and elegant gowns, men are looking distinguished in their best suits, and everyone seems determined to make this the Christmas Eve celebration to end all Christmas Eve celebrations. I spot Hux and Mackenzie looking dapper and chic as they load up on chocolate yule log cake—and I am so going to eat an entire yule log myself once I make my way over.
Dad and Gwyneth have appointed themselves to Ella duty for the evening, and they’re currently parading her around the party as if she’s the guest of honor while showing off the fact they’ve decorated the base of her stroller with string lights that flash red and green, stopping every few feet to let someone coo over her while she sleeps peacefully through the chaos.
Those hoomans have turned poor little Ella into a mobile Christmas display,Cinnamon says with a quick woof as she passes me by.At least she seems to be oblivious to the attention. She may as well be in a zoo enclosure, the way they’re gawking at the poor thing. Better her than me. I’m free as a bird—or one very cute doggie.
It’s true. The pets are roaming wild tonight. Jennilee is helping host tonight’s event, and she made it a point to let the community know that the furry among us were welcome. Andwhile they’re chasing their tails, I think it’s only fair that I chase chocolate.
Before I can make my way toward the chocolate fountain that’s calling my name, I spot my sisters, who appear to be engaged in what can only be described as a festive fashion face-off.
