Chapter
One
The timer went off,and Brie Rayner pulled the last sheet of pumpkin dinner rolls from the deck oven. Steam rose from the golden-brown buns, carrying scents of cinnamon and nutmeg through the kitchen of Sweet Summit Bakery. Her shifter senses picked up every note. The bite of Ceylon cinnamon, the floral sweetness of fresh nutmeg, and the earthy richness of roasted pumpkin.
She set the pan on the cooling rack next to three dozen apple cider donuts, their maple glaze glistening under the fluorescent lights. Cranberry walnut scones waited in neat rows alongside maple pecan pastries already boxed for delivery. The Fate Mountain Lodge’s Harvest Moon Weekend order was coming together perfectly.
At 4:30 in the morning, she was ahead of schedule. Two months of running the bakery alone had sharpened her focus. Every batch had to meet the standards her mother had built over years of consistent quality and dependable service.
Brie’s mother, Maisie Green-Rayner, had apprenticed under some of France’s most demanding pastry chefs. Thesophisticated techniques her mother brought back to Fate Mountain, combined with her natural artistic flair and insistence on using only the finest local ingredients, had turned what started as a small mountain bakery into something that rivaled some of the best patisseries in the world.
Maisie built her award-winning reputation one perfectly executed croissant and flawless tart at a time. She’d passed every hard-won skill to Brie, teaching her to feel when she had kneaded dough just enough, to recognize the exact moment custard reached the perfect consistency, to understand that precision and passion together created something extraordinary. Brie felt the weight of that legacy in every measurement, every temperature check, every decision she made in the pre-dawn quiet of the kitchen.
Her phone dinged from the stainless-steel counter where she’d left it between stacks of bakery boxes. She pulled off her work gloves and swiped the screen where she found a notification for a social media post from her parents.
The photo showed Zach and Maisie on a white sandy beach, palm trees swaying behind them, both tanned and grinning with an easy happiness that made Brie’s chest tight. Her father’s ice-blue eyes sparkled with the eternal optimism she’d inherited, while her mother radiated the sophisticated elegance born from her years of training in Paris. They looked like teenagers in love, not a couple who’d been married for over thirty years.
“Day 63 of our world tour adventure!” the caption read. “Argentina’s coastline is absolutely magical. Zach convinced me to try surfing today, and I may have spent more time underwater than on the board! Missing our sweet polar bear cub every day. #worldtour #loveatsixty #livingthedream”
The comments below overflowed with heart emojis and envious responses. Brie added her own heart and “You two are goals! Love you both!” before scrolling to the next post.
More couple photos. A friend’s engagement announcement. Someone’s anniversary dinner. She kept scrolling, each image of paired-off happiness making the warm bakery feel a little emptier.
Without really thinking about it, she opened her Mate.com app.
Still no perfect match. Her profile showed the same disappointing statistics as yesterday. 87% compatibility with a guy who lived three states away, 82% with someone whose profile picture was just a sunset, and a handful of lower percentages that were pointless to think about.
No 100% compatibility. No fated mate.
At thirty, Brie wondered if she was one of those shifters who didn’t have a destined mate waiting out there. Growing up watching her parents’ incredible relationship had set a pretty high bar for romance. They were living proof that true love existed, that the mystical connection promised by fated mates was real. Which made Brie’s empty dating profile feel even more disappointing.
She was about to close the app when her phone rang.
“Sophie?” Her bakery manager wouldn’t call before her shift unless something was wrong.
“Brie, I’m so sorry.” Sophie’s voice was rough with sleep and congestion. “I woke up feeling awful. I think I’m coming down with something, and I can’t make the lodge deliverythis morning. I can barely get out of bed.” A fit of coughing interrupted her explanation.
“Oh honey, you sound terrible.” With her shifter hearing, Brie could detect a wheeze that suggested a developing chest cold. “Don’t even think about coming in. Stay in bed and get better.”
“But the seven AM delivery…”
“I’ve got it handled.” Brie looked at the neat rows of packaged autumn specialties waiting to be loaded. “I’ll take it myself when the morning crew gets here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sophie, go back to sleep. Drink tea with honey, take vitamin C, and don’t worry about work. I’ll text you later to check on you.”
At six, she heard the familiar sounds of her morning crew arriving. The front door chimed as Jake and Maggie entered, bringing a rush of November air that made Brie pull her cardigan tighter.
“Morning, boss!” Jake called out, unwinding his scarf. “Feels like winter’s really coming now.”
“Tell me about it,” Maggie replied, rubbing her hands together. “Had to scrape ice off my windshield.”
Brie walked out into the front of house and straightened a small black lantern that had been knocked askew on the service counter, its battery-operated candle casting a warm glow over the mini white pumpkins clustered around its base. She’d arranged more of them on the windowsills, mixing in a few golden gourds from the farmers’ market. Copper-colored mums in galvanized buckets flanked the entrance, while a garland ofartificial maple leaves in deep reds and oranges was draped along the top of the display case.
“How’s the lodge order looking?” Jake asked as he tied on his apron and headed for the espresso machine.
“Perfect,” Brie replied, gesturing toward the loaded sheet carts in the kitchen. “But Sophie’s sick, so I’ll be making the delivery myself.”
