1
“Ijust put another two dozen heart-shaped cookies in the display case closest to the door, Ivy.” My best friend, Ella Hart-Goldman, wiped flour from her hands onto one of the bakery’s towels, then brushed a bit of dough off her cat-eye glasses. “How many more are you rolling out today?”
I closed the door to the industrial oven and stretched my back a bit, enjoying the residual heat. Although the February weather outside was cold and snowy, the kitchen was warm and toasty. “After this batch bakes? I’m thinking I’ll probably do another three dozen. That should get us through the next couple of days.”
Ella nodded in agreement as she picked up a basket of apple muffins with buttercream frosting and pink, heart-shaped sprinkles. She headed toward the front of the store, humming along with the sappy love song playing through the bakery’s speakers. I smiled at her cheery exit. In all the time I’d known her since she’d moved to Jingle Junction, I’d never heard her hum anything on tune.
Watching her through the doorway between the backroom kitchen and the front part of the shop, I felt a wave of gratitudefor her presence. She’d learned a lot since she’d come to work with me at Bell’s Bakery, the delicious shop that had been in my dad’s family for three generations. It meant a lot to me that Ella was proud to work here.
Because so was I. It had been part of my life for as long as I could remember.
I had practically grown up in the bakery, and I loved every brick in its old walls. Nestled in the heart of the holiday-themed town of Jingle Junction, the bakery was a charming, historic establishment that embodied the spirit of Christmas year-round. The old brick building exuded a timeless charm along with a delicious aroma, its facade adorned with forest green awnings that stretched over the sidewalk. A wide doorway flanked by potted trees that sparkled with tiny white lights welcomed customers, pulled inside by the delectable scent of freshly baked bread, sugar cookies, and warm cinnamon rolls mingling in the air.
I always tried to make sure that the large display window was a focal point, showcasing the bakery’s festive spirit with mannequins dressed as Santa and his elves, alongside stunning examples of the elaborate wedding cakes we made and other seasonal displays.
When I’d taken over for my grandmother, I’d done as much as I could to make the interior welcoming, too. Inside, the bakery was a cozy haven of warmth and delectable scents and treats, designed to tempt the tastebuds and welcome patrons to their own little slice of the holidays, no matter the time of year. Two glass display cases flanked the counter, filled with an array of cupcakes, cookies, pies, and other sweet delights. The counter itself, with its old-fashioned cash register, was a hub of activity where I chatted with customers and took their orders. Lace curtains adorned the bakery windows, adding a touch of vintage elegance, while little round tables with delicate metal chairs andpink-and-white cushions invited customers to sit and savor their purchases.
Even with the historical charm preserved, the bakery had been due an overhaul to be sure certain things were completely updated. Behind me, the modern industrial kitchen gleamed with state-of-the-art equipment, spotlessly clean and ready for any baking challenge. It was the only part of the bakery that I’d made sure to update, since the older appliances couldn’t keep up with demand. I had also recently invested in putting in a new coffee bar, which attracted a steady stream of customers eager to try my special fancy coffee drinks, crafted with the latest gleaming equipment. Since we didn’t have an official coffee shop in town, I’d decided to add an espresso maker a few years back when I took over the store. Ella and I took classes, and now we could make all the fancy coffee drinks found in most big-city coffee shops.
My bakery was more than just a place of business; it was a community hub, a slice of holiday magic that brought joy to everyone who entered, and a piece of Jingle Junction history. My great-grandmother and grandmother had both rolled out dough on the very counter I worked at daily, and I tried to put their love and care into everything I baked. Apparently, that talent had skipped a generation, because my own mother, Marigold Bell, was much happier as a free-spirited artist than she ever would’ve been as a baker.
And that was okay with me. I never wanted to make waves. I was well aware that I’d been born a people pleaser who hated confrontation. I’d come to terms with that truth a long time ago. The last thing I wanted was any sort of conflict with my mom. She was all about wild clothes and tribal jewelry, mingled with a hippie-level love of self-expression and artwork. I was happiest wearing jeans and basic t-shirts, with my pink bakery apron over the top of them. When I was little, I used to wonder if maybe I’dbeen adopted, because Mom and I were so different, but Mom swore that wasn’t the case. I was 100% a Bell.
And Ilovedthat I was a Bell, especially when it meant I got to spend my free moments right here at the bakery. Every chance I’d gotten, I’d been in the bakery and helping my grandma. By the time I was in high school, I could make everything on the menu board. Kneaded bread, frosted cakes, crimped pie crusts—you name it. I’d done it all. So, eight years ago when she announced she was retiring and asked me to take over the family business, I jumped at the chance, even though deep down, I was terrified. No one else in the family seemed to doubt me, however, and Gramma answered my questions and cheered me on, right up until the day she passed away.
It had been scary, but it turned out to be worth it.
Ella hurried back into the kitchen again to gather more treats for the display case, hustling with a smile. “A couple of weeks until Valentine’s Day, and I’m already tired of the hearts,” she joked, eyes rolling as she picked up the last tray of heart-shaped cookies.
I bit back a smile because I felt the same way, although I’d never be so bold as to say it out loud. Besides, she had more reason to dislike this holiday than I did. We were best friends, not just because we got along so well—but the fact she moved to Jingle Junction from her own adorable Cupid Cove meant she understood completely the ins and outs of being part of a family-founded holiday town.
I found it hilarious that she’d chosen yet another themed place to live, however, since she could have moved anywhere. But our chance meeting in college and instant friendship—not to mention her encounter with my old high school friend, Mark, when she’d come to visit me the first time—ended in her choosing Christmas over Valentine’s Day.
While it had been love that led her to stay in Jingle Junction, the same hadn’t happened for me when I visited her little town. Despite numerous visits to the most loving town ever, visiting the oceanside town of Cupid Cove made me uncomfortable more than anything.
Not that I didn’t appreciate love, don’t get me wrong. Maybe if I’d ever had a serious boyfriend during the holiday I’d feel differently, but I hadn’t, at least not as of yet. I chose, instead, to focus on my career and making my own town of Jingle Junction perfect for the citizens and tourists who ate up—no pun intended—the tasty treats we served. I’d been taking orders for other people’s Valentine’s Day parties for a long time. That meant I was usually the first person to know who was dating whom, just by seeing who was getting our dark chocolate fudge torte shaped like a delicious heart, and seeing what sort of frosting inscription they wanted on it.
I admit it made me lonely sometimes, but who had time for love when this place kept me so busy?
“I guess Holly and Max are still going strong?” Ella mused as I followed her out into the front of the shop, taking the cookies from her as she cleared away a couple of china plates some departing customers had left. She quickly set them in the plastic tub, the clatter of china tinkling in the quiet interior. “I saw them cuddling up at the movie theater last night, and they looked very… smitten with each other.”
“Yep, over two months and still dating,” I said. “Very much in smit.”
My stepsister, Holly, and her romance with Max, the owner of the town’s animal rescue, had been the hot topic of chat in town since they’d started going out just before Christmas. I knew enough of their backstory that it still amused me. Holly’s return to Jingle Junction from her life in the city meant a lot to our parents, though. So, no matter how hilarious her initialinteractions with Max and his errant reindeer friend, Rudy, were, I was more than happy she’d decided to take my dad, Luke, up on his request to stay. She spent a lot of time shadowing my father these days, preparing to take over managing the Bell family’s interests here in town. She seemed happier than I’d ever seen her.
“She seems thrilled to be with him,” I said. “Plus, Max knows if he so much as steps a toe out of line with her, he’s going to face the wrath of the whole Bell-Silver family.”
Ella laughed. “If Max knew what was good for him, he’d run for the hills. With as many siblings as you have now, he’d be chopped into sauerkraut if he did Holly wrong.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at that, because it was true. With four Bell siblings and four Silver step-siblings on the roster in our blended family, we were a force to be reckoned with, no question. And while we’d all been friends before my parents’ amicable divorce and my dad had remarried Fran Silver, it felt pretty natural to just call one another sister and brother. His new wife, Fran, was a widow, and her late husband had been Dad’s best friend, Emmanuel. She and her four kids had lived next door to our house for as long as I could remember. Years of playing back and forth and walking together to school had turned into a clan that was as fun and crazy as it comes.
When your dad was the mayor, and your blended family owned half a dozen businesses in town, not much happened to the Bells or Silvers that wasn’t discussed over coffee in Jingle Junction. I was used to it.
“They are good with each other,” I said, “and that’s all that matters.”
Ella gave me a pitying glance as she picked up the plastic tub. “All right, I’m going to say what’s on my mind.”
“Shocking,” I said dryly, but I had a good idea what Ella was thinking.
