Bree: With no thanks to me helping you at the bakery all last week. It must’ve reset my body clock. I blame you because I’d rather have rest, so I’ll keep my author hours, thank you very much.
Me: As if you don’t get up early and stay up late writing.
Bree: True. But let’s not talk about work because in less than six hours, you’re turning that sign to closed and getting your honey buns here! Then you’ll have a whole thirty-six hours of vacation time! Woot! Woot! Vacay here you come!
Who is this person and what did she do with Bree, who, until earlier this month, spent most of her time holed up with her laptop, pushing through writer’s block? Oh, right. She fell in love.
The thought of travel is nerve-racking. What if the return flight is delayed or there is a storm and I can’t be back in this building by four a.m. the day after New Year’s? I run through worst-case scenarios before my phone beeps again and the door jingles at the same time.
My family would come first if I had one, so my friendshave taken its place. However, right now, I have to focus on keeping this bakery afloat.
Wearing a bright smile, I greet the two guys who enter, looking haggard like they spent the night facedown at the Fish Bowl—not to be confused with a toilet bowl, though their general late-night revelry dishevelment suggests they’re familiar with that too.
O’Neely’s Fish Bowl is our local family-friendly eatery by day and hockey pub by night. Suffice it to say, given my work hours, I’m not a regular. Don’t get me wrong, their twice-baked potato pucks (aka, potato skins) are great and I’m a hockey fan. But given the aforementioned promise to my father, it’s best I avoid hockey players entirely.
The two men sort of lean on each other until they spot me and do their best to straighten—given their robust builds, I get the sense they’re hockey players.
“Hey there, beautiful. Like the bee’s knees.” The taller one slurs as he braces himself on the counter. “You’re up early. Or late. What time is it? Wild game last night, amiright? I used to be the forward for the Boston Breakers, but am now on the Knights’ reserve team. You’re looking good this morning.”
I take it that’s why he didn’t travel with the rest of the hockey team to Las Vegas for last night’s game.
His friend elbows him and shakes his head. “Dude.”
The taller guy offers a garbled protest, then turns back to me with what he probably thinks is a charming smile. “Any New Year’s Eve plans tonight, bumblebee baker beauty?”
I squint, hardly comprehending the nonsensical words but getting their meaning. “Wrong time, wrong place, wrong girl,” I say firmly, passing the shorter guy two empty cups and then pointing toward the self-serve station.
The tall guy wavers on his feet, then opens and closes his mouth before releasing a loud belch.
His friend urges, “Come on, Topher. Let’s just get the coffee.”
“You and I could have a good time. Your loss,” Topher mutters as he follows his buddy to the coffee station.
“I don’t date hockey players,” I murmur after them.
They stumble out with their cups and I shake my head. Some mornings, I remember exactly why I prefer the company of bread dough to most men. At least yeast is relatively predictable.
After they clear out, I get a slew of customers who’re thankfully a little peppier. When there’s another lull, I tidy things up and then check my phone.
It’s not like I’m hoping that my flight is canceled so I can stay home, not much anyway. If I’m completely honest, I’d rather not travel when I have to be back at work the day after January first. The girls bought my ticket, demanding I join them for the NHL party because, and I quote, “I never take time off.”
Being a one-woman show makes for long hours and tight margins. It’s been exactlyall of the dayssince I’ve taken a vacation. That’s to say,neversince taking over here at the bakery.
Puffing my cheeks, I do some quick math. Eppley Airport is about thirty minutes or fewer, depending on traffic, and then the flight to Las Vegas is another three hours. I’ll get in by five p.m. with a quick turnaround, departing again on New Year’s Day afternoon.
I can do this … and transform from a small-town baker into whatever version of myself fits into the sparkly dress Bree packed for me, so I had no excuses. Best friends, am I right?
My phone buzzes with a text from the “Damsels” group chat. It’s a play on their guys being the Knights—there are a few of us in the group who’re not attached to hockey stars—and it’s safe to say none of us are in distress.
Leah: Emergency! SOS! Juniper’s straightener died and Margo can’t find her lucky earrings. We need assistance ASAP!
Or not. I laugh despite myself. Of course, they need rescuing. I’m the one who can be relied on to provide a backup for everything—safety pins, breath mints, stain remover, the works. Being prepared is just part of my DNA, probably coded right next to the gene that makes me wake up before dawn to grate butter and mix batter.
Me: You got it. Crisis management is my specialty. Anything else?
Bree: You’re the best! I can’t wait to see you in action tonight. The hypnotist is supposed to be amazing.
My stomach flutters with nerves. Bree has been gushing over this hypnotist for weeks, ever since she heard he’d be part of the variety show at the NHL New Year’s Eve Toast. Everyone else got in on it for reasons I cannot explain. I’m not sure I believe in hypnosis—too much like magic, not enough like the reliable science of baking—but Bree’s excitement is infectious.
