I push into the gingerbread bakery, expecting bells to jingle, and instead, a heartyHo ho hointerrupts the country Christmas music.
Dolly Parton.
Just like Uncle Rob likes to complain about.
Cinnamon and ginger linger in the air. It’s cool inside, but nearly as bright under the lights as it is outside under the sun. One wall is covered in pictures of kids holding their gingerbread creations. Another has shelves with knickknacks for sale. There’s a train running around the shop close to the ceiling, and the floor, which is likely painted stamped concrete, looks like a flat layer of gingerbread. Gumdrops of all colors—the fake, foot-high kind—are positioned around the perimeterof the dining room. The back wall menu, behind the register and the display cases, looks like it was written by an elf, with curlicue letters and snowflakes.
The woman behind the counter gawks at me. Another woman in an apron pauses and makes ayou shouldn’t be hereface at me too. She’s helping a table full of kids assemble gingerbread houses on one side of the bakery while the adults that I assume are their parents sip out of mugs on the other side of the café.
I nod to both of them and stroll toward the hallway along the side wall.
Sign saysRESTROOMS AND APEEK AT THEMAGIC. Cute sign too. Just as ornate as you’d expect inside a gingerbread house.
Logic says this is the only way to get to the kitchen.
And sure enough, there’s a large window next to the door where anyone can watch what’s happening in the back.
I pause to take in the hallway and the kitchen itself.
Even the kitchen door looks like it belongs in a gingerbread house.
You are Amanda’s fiancé and you are allowed to go in there,I remind myself.
I wonder if I need to put on disposable booties over my shoes. Do I need a hairnet? Where’s the nearest sink for washing my hands?
Overthinking time.
Awesome.
I spot Amanda as she walks by the window. She’s grimacing with a fresh trash bag in one hand, but she freezes, looks fully at me, and makes a face so comical that I smile despite myself.
And then it’s all whirlwind action.
She charges the door. “Dane! You’re here.I told them you were coming, but they think since I don’t have a ring, that somehow means you don’t care.” Her eyes roll so hard I’m temporarily worried she’ll pull something in her eye sockets, but they seem fine when she meets my gaze again. “And I still can’t freaking bake,” she adds in a whisper. “I never could.”
Oh.
Huh.
That’s ... a new smell coming out of the kitchen.
Little smoky.
Not oven smoky, though.
More like burned-out-appliance smoky.
She grabs me by the hand and pulls me into the kitchen.
No orders to wash my hands. No disposable booties to cover my shoes. No hairnets.
Definitely overthinking.
“Mom? Grandma? Meet Dane. And be nice or I’ll tell Santa to bring you coal in your stockings. Dane, my mom, Kimberly, and my grandma Vicki.”
Two women turn and look at me.
They’re related by marriage, not blood, but they could pass for mom and daughter.
