“Yeah, what’s up?” He looked up at me as he used a whisk to dissolve the starter into water. I chuckled as I wondered how many people would be disgusted by what their favorite bread looked like at this stage. He quirked an eyebrow as he waited for me to talk.
“I want to try something, but I don’t have the pans or space to do it at home,” I explained. “Do you think I could do some baking here this afternoon? I have most of the ingredients in my backpack, so I won’t be using much from the bakery, and I’ll pay you for what I do use.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? You don’t have to ask me any time you want to try something new?” The answer? Probably at least two or three times a week because I never wanted Shiloh to feel like I was taking advantage of him. “Do what you want. If it turns out, let me know, and we’ll see about putting it on one of the menus.”
“That’s the thing…I’m not sure this is the type of thing we’d be able to sell,” I confessed. Cookies, other desserts, and finger foods were easy for him to implement. This was totally different.
Shiloh stopped whisking and simply started at me. “So what are you thinking? I’m sure there’s a way we can make it work. Your ideas have been amazing.”
That was high praise coming from Shiloh. I wasn’t sure he knew how much I looked up to him. He’d done everything I’d never have the courage to do. But in his case, there was the added layer of pressure because his family had been in the business for generations. He was constantly trying to live up to their expectations. I didn’t have that. I felt like I was constantly trying to prove myself. I needed to prove to my parents that I was talented enough to bake for others. I wanted Shiloh to value me enough to keep me around. Now, I wanted to show everyone who came to the Harmony House party that we were—that I was—gifted enough for them to trust me with their events.
“Come on. You’ve never been shy about telling me the latest recipes you’ve found online,” he pressed when I wasn’t forthcoming right away.
Telling anyone, even him, felt a little too vulnerable. I was pretty sure Carson wasn’t as straight as I’d originally assumed, but that didn’t mean us hanging out would lead to anything more. And this was something very personal to Carson as well. I wanted to help him relive happier memories so he might be able to change his opinion that the holidays were nothing but stress and forced excitement.
The whisk clanking against the stainless sink basin echoed in the kitchen. Shiloh didn’t keep working. He just watched me. I wasn’t getting off this hook. Maybe I could tell him without giving away anything about my motivations.
“I want to do some gingerbread,” I finally admitted.
“Oh. Well, that’s cool, but your recipe is already perfect. The orders are already coming in for cookie plates for Christmas, and almost everyone wants your gingerbread men included.”
I’d noticed. I was obsessed with checking the bulletin board where Shiloh tacked the printed orders every morning when I came in. Luckily, the cookies could be baked ahead of time and frozen so I wouldn’t be breaking my back leading up to the week before Christmas. I shook my head. “No, this is different. I want to bake the pieces for some gingerbread houses. They’re different from the recipe I use for the cookies because they can’t be soft, or the houses will collapse.”
“That’s an awesome idea!” Shiloh grabbed his notebook and started sketching out a design. “Do you think you could do something like this?”
“I mean, I think so. That’s what I want to try this afternoon.” His design was simpler than the templates I’d printed off Pinterest, but it was still cute. I kneeled to grab the cardstock patterns out of my backpack, along with the picture of what each was supposed to look like when they were done. “This is what I want to try. I’ve never actually built one, but I thought it’d be fun.”
“You’re right. It’s brilliant. We could even put something together so families could come in and we’d supply everything for the kids to decorate them.” Shiloh paused, and I recognized the moment he realized he was getting ahead of himself. “I’m sorry. Was this something you were doing for yourself? I shouldn’t keep assuming everything you create is for my benefit.”
“No, I think it’s a great idea.” And I really did. Thinking about how Carson talked about his memories of decorating the cookie houses with his brothers as a kid, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine and get excited about seeing other kids do the same thing. It was a way I could maybe help another family experience the joy without the stress that ruined things for him. “I can’t guarantee anything is going to work out, but if they turn out the way I’m hoping, we could definitely talk about putting something together. The thing is, we’d have to get an idea of how many families to expect because I don’t want to make the pieces for a dozen houses and then only have a few families show up.”
“You grossly underestimate how many people will freak about something like this. Go ahead and test things out, and let me know how it turns out.” We returned to our assigned tasks, still chatting about what a family event would look like. The more he talked, the more my excitement and anxiety battled inside my head. If it was a success, it could be the start of reviving the old Christmas fair and market along Main Street. But if it failed…
Nope. I wasn’t going to think about that.
“Thanks, Shiloh. I’ll let you know how it goes.” He continued working on prepping the bread dough for the weekend rush while I turned to the other side of the kitchen and started mixing the first batch of gingerbread. It only had a few minor tweaks from the original recipe. Unlike some I’d seen, I wanted it to be possible to eat the pieces if the guys weren’t on board with reliving the past. And now that we were talking about making this something we offered at the bakery, it was even more important that the quality be up to Shiloh’s high standards.
After the bakery shut down for the day, Shiloh and Lacey worked on cleaning up before they left while I made some minor adjustments to the original designs. I wasn’t confident the first batch of cookies would hold up the way I wanted, and I’d gotten a bit too intricate with the designs, forgetting that the beauty of gingerbread houses came from the decorations, not the cookies themselves.
Once alone in the bakery, I cranked up the stereo, blasting a country Christmas playlist that never failed to put me in a good mood. It was slow work because I had to cut each piece individually before carefully transferring them to baking sheets. While the mistakes would be covered in thick icing, sloppy work would make it harder to fit them together.
The afternoon sailed right by. Before I knew it, there was a knock at the back door. I glanced at the clock over the swinging doors, surprised to realize it was almost four o’clock. I looked around at the carnage that was the kitchen. Carson was here to pick me up, and I was nowhere near ready. On top of that, if he looked at the cooling racks, there was a good chance he’d realize what I’d been up to.
Well, that was a bridge we’d cross if it became necessary. Maybe he’d be so wiped from a long day getting people’s cars ready for the upcoming cold snap and next week’s forecasted snowstorm that he wouldn’t notice anything. I took off my apron, hanging it on the hook before making my way down the back hallway. When I swung the door open, Carson held a Styrofoam container from Stella’s. “I thought you might be hungry. You said you were going to hang out at Stella’s until I got done, but then you weren’t there.”
“Am I that transparent that you knew I’d be here?”
“Nope.” He offered me a kind smile. “You’re that devoted to a job you love. I think that’s pretty fucking cool. Not everyone’s lucky enough to be doing something that brings them to life and has a boss who encourages them to play around. Are you about ready to take off or?—”
His words cut off when he looked around the kitchen, seeing my work area still coated in flour, the mixer starting to crust with remnants of the last batch of dough, and a sink filled with soapy water. At least I’d gotten that far in getting ready to clean up.
“Why don’t I get to work on the dishes while you finish up whatever you have left to do?” he suggested. He shrugged out of his sherpa-lined flannel jacket and pushed up the sleeves on his Henley. “It smells amazing in here. Are you going to let me taste what you’ve been baking?”
“Sorry, this is a special order, and I don’t have any to spare.” That wasn’t exactly a lie, and I suspected he’d forgive my fib once he found out what I’d been working on the past few hours. “But if you’re a fan of gingerbread cookies, I could make you some next week. Shiloh said we need to start putting them in the case because so many people are already ordering them for their Christmas parties.”
“You’re going to single-handedly save Christmas in Harmony Grove if you’re not careful.” Carson stepped behind me. I scooted closer to the work table to let him pass, but he surprised me by massaging my shoulders. I let out a needy little moan, hoping he didn’t stop. I hadn’t realized how tense I was from rolling out five batches of dough, lifting the mixing bowl, and everything else. It was short bursts of exertion, but apparently, that added up over time. He leaned in, kissing my neck just below my earlobe. “Who knows, maybe my mom will be so impressed by your work tomorrow she’ll throw in the towel and say she’s just going to hire you next year.”
“Would you really want that?” As much as Carson complained about the stress of his family’s traditions, I’d hate to be the reason he lost another one. And with there being kids in the picture now, thanks to his brother and Michael, it seemed more important than ever to keep the memories alive.
