The bed is covered in a lilac duvet, with delicate iris illustrations along the edges. Several fluffy white pillows adorn the top of the bed and a few silvery ones too.
I cover my mouth with my hand, shocked, unable to move. My throat tightens. It’s not just the bed. It’s what it means.
Thatthis—the bakery is working.
That he sees us pulling this off.
That he believes in me.
I let out a big breath, walk toward it, and run a finger over the shiny bow till I reach a white envelope.
I slide it open and a piece of paper falls out, folded in quarters. I unfold it, and I feel like sunshine as I read.
Dear Mabel,
The biggest dreamer should have a proper place to keep dreaming big.
Also, I miss you.
Corbin
My heart catches in my throat, and I’m not even sure what to say. Or do. How to respond. It’s such a huge gift, so thoughtful, and so perfect for me. And the letter is somehow even better.
I set the paper down on the bed, then run my hands across the cover.
Oh god. It’s so soft. The bed is calling out to me. I turn around and fall back on it, sighing contentedly.
I’m going to sleep so good tonight. I open my phone and instead of an accidental text, I dictate a deliberate one.
Mabel: Alexa, is this the greatest bed ever? Alexa, how many hours till December 27th when Corbin returns? Alexa, how should I show the man who gave this to me how much I love it? Alexa, what would you do if you like—I mean, really like, your business partner? Alexa, send Corbin a note telling him I miss him too.
“Enjoy the smash cake and the gingerbread,” I call out to a middle-aged woman who came in for both treats for her kids.
“I will,” she says, and as she leaves the bell above the door tinkles.
Business has been good on the day after Christmas, but now that it’s evening, it’s slowing down. As I straighten up and do some prep for tomorrow, the bell rings again, and in walks…a woman with gray hair and a knitting bag, and a stern expression.
I square my shoulders but hold my own as I head to the register. “Hi, Dottie. Let me know if I can help you with anything.”
She marches right over to me. “I have a bone to pick with you.”
Tension slams into me. “Over what?”
She points a wrinkled finger my way. “I’m going to lose the betting pool.”
My brow knits. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play innocent with me.”
I shake my head. “I really don’t—” Wait. I think I know what this is.
“We had a bet about how long you were going to stay open. And here you are, proving me wrong, clearly. Little Miss Cozy Valley. Little Miss Sassy Baker. Little Miss Redemption.” She shakes her head, tutting. “Making me look like a fool for betting against you.”
Oh, okay. I see where this is going now, and I don’t mind the direction at all. With a smile—somewhat smug—I say, “Sorry, not sorry.”
“Neither am I. Arnie’s been slipping me some of those seven-layer bars. And the pistachio chocolate chip cookies,” she says, and that makes sense—his orders have expanded beyond the original Danishes.
“Has he now?”
