Heat floods my cheeks. “Does everyone know about that?”
“Small town, honey. News travels faster than Santa on Christmas Eve.” She sets my coffee and scone on the counter. “And the story’s been improving with each retelling. By dinnertime, you’ll have delivered a twenty-minute omega manifesto while the llama performed an interpretive dance.”
I laugh.
“I’m Beatrice, by the way. Most folks call me Bea.”
“Melody.” I take a bite of the scone and nearly moan. The pastry is buttery and tender, with ribbons of peppermint running through it that complement rather than overwhelm. “Oh my god. This is amazing.”
“Family recipe,” Bea beams.
A timer rings shrilly from the back room, and Bea’s smile drops. “Excuse me a sec.”
She rushes to the back, and I hear muffled curses followed by the clatter of a baking sheet. When she returns, her expression is frazzled, and a new streak of flour is decorating her forehead.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Almost burned another batch.” She sighs, pushing a stray curl from her face. “Third time today. Too many orders, not enough hands. My assistant quit last month. She moved to Spring Blossom for some fancy bank job, and I haven’t found a replacement.”
I glance around the empty bakery. “Slow day?”
“First lull I’ve had since six this morning.” She gestures to a mountain of papers peeking out from under the counter. “I’ve got three special orders to finish by tomorrow, inventory to count, and paperwork that’s piling up faster than snow in January.” She pauses. “Sorry, didn’t mean to dump all that on you. Holiday stress talking.”
I look closer at the paperwork: order forms, invoices, and delivery schedules, all in complete disarray.
My fingers literally twitch to organize them.
This is the kind of chaos I excel at taming.
“I could help,” I offer. “With the paperwork, at least. I’m an executive assistant back home. Organization is kind of my superpower.”
Bea looks at me like I’ve just offered her a winning lottery ticket. “Are you serious? But you’re on vacation.”
I shrug, taking another bite of the heavenly scone. “Some people relax by lying on beaches. I relax by organizing chaos into neat little spreadsheets.” I tap the stack of papers. “Plus, I’ve got nothing but time and a failed gingerbread house waiting for me back at the cabin.”
“I couldn’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking, I’m offering. On one condition.”
“Name it.”
I point to the scones. “Payment in pastries.”
Bea throws her head back and laughs, the sound full and genuine. “Deal.” She extends her hand, which I shake without hesitation. “But I insist on adding coffee to your compensation package.”
“You drive a hard bargain, but I accept.”
Just like that, my afternoon plans shift from gingerbread construction to spreadsheet creation. Bea clears a small table in the corner for me, bringing over the stack of papers and her ancient laptop.
“This thing moves slower than molasses in January,” she apologizes as the computer wheezes to life. “I’m not exactly tech-savvy.”
“I’ve worked with worse,” I assure her, already sorting the papers into neat piles by category.
There’s something deeply satisfying about organizing inventory for a small bakery versus preparing quarterly reports for Marcus. Here, each number represents something tangible: bags of flour, cartons of eggs, pounds of butter. And when I explain the new filing system to Bea, her gratitude is genuine, not the obligatory “good job” that Marcus might toss my way if I’m lucky.
By late afternoon, I’ve created a new inventory tracking system, streamlined the order forms, and set up a simplespreadsheet on Bea’s laptop to track daily sales. There’s still plenty to do, but at least it’s a start.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Bea says, refilling my coffee mug for the fourth time. The bakery has closed for the day, and we’re alone in the cozy space. “I haven’t seen the top of that desk in weeks.”
