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When the bake-off was first announced, Nana had insisted that every cent of the entry fees go to the Mission, and when she won, she’d donated the prize money too. Emily had grown up watching her grandmother roll out dough on Christmas Eve so strangers would have something sweet the following day and that was the thing she was trying to honor. Not just the recipe. The reason behind it.

Not him.

Definitely not the way his hands had felt around her waist and the way he’d kissed her breathless. No.

“Welcome, welcome, everyone! It looks like all our contestants are here and ready to get started!” A round of applause rippled through the bakery. Elsie was already filming from the corner, wearing a tailored Kelly-green business suit, phone held out, branding Maple Falls one Instagram story at a time. Emily tried to tune her out.

“Now the rules are simple,” the mayor continued, “you have three hours, one kitchen, and five contestants.” He spread his arm wide, motioning to Emily, Cole, Cassidy, Kit, and Mrs. Bishop. “Madison, Mrs. C., and my beautiful wife, Edith, will be your judges. And the rest of you are the audience!” He beamed at the crowd—the mayor had never met a microphone he didn’t enjoy, and December only made it worse.

In the crowd, she could see Zoe on the stool Cassidy had reserved for her near the window, both hands wrapped around a mug of Cassidy’s peppermint hot chocolate, her baby bump round and visible beneath a cream cable-knit sweater. Jackson stood behind her, one broad hand resting on the back of her stool, keeping one eye on his fiancée and one eye on the baking stations.

Tyler stood beside them, his red flannel unbuttoned over a Maple Falls Fire Department T-shirt, with Emma perched on his shoulders so she could get a better look, her small hands gripping his hair for balance while Robyn stood next to him, holding Emma’s jacket and making sure she was steady.

Near the back, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed like he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come, was the new vet. Ethan something. The aloof man was tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and a defined jaw. He’d moved to Maple Falls a few weeks ago, and scowled more than he talked.

Emily hadn’t found the time to introduce herself, but she’d have to soon. Nutmeg was due for his annual checkup. Thankfully, she’d also heard that Ethan was much better with animals than people.

Mrs. C., naturally, was already making her way over to him.

“Are you single, dear?” she asked, loud enough for half the room to hear.

Ethan looked over his shoulder as if he was secretly praying she was talking to anyone other than him.

Mrs. C. patted his arm. “We’ll work on that.”

Emily shook her head and got back to work. She measured out her flour and tried to feel the kitchen the way she usually did—the temperature, the rhythm, the collective energy of a space she’d run for years. She couldn’t quite get there. There was too much Cole in her peripheral vision.

She glanced over and saw that he was steadily working at his station, consulting his recipe card at each and every step.

They passed each other near the spice shelf at the forty-minute mark. He reached for something, she was already there, their hands nearly touched and didn’t. He stepped back. She stepped forward. Neither of them said anything. She could feel his eyes on her for just a moment before she moved away.

This was fine. This was completely fine.

She was here to bake.

The first thing she noticed, around the hour mark, was the oven.

She’d put her first batch in at the correct temperature—she knew she had; she’d checked it twice—but when she opened the door, something was wrong. The edges were barely set. The color was off. She pulled them out and looked at them and looked at the dial; the dial said the right number, but the cookies told her something different.

She put the batch on the cooling rack, told herself it was a fluke, and started the second batch.

“How’s it going?” Elsie appeared at her shoulder with her phone.

“Great,” Emily said breezily, because this was being filmed.

“Those look amazing,” Elsie said, of the first batch, and Emily smiled through her teeth because the woman meant well, she really did, even if she couldn’t tell an underbaked cookie from a coaster.

“Thank you,” she said, and turned to prepare a second batch, except now, the rum extract was missing.

She checked the shelf. The counter. The shelf again. It wasn’t there.

“You doing alright over there?” Kit called from her station, red bandana around her hair, blowtorch at the ready.

“Just dandy,” Emily said.

She kept moving. She’d use a substitute. She’d make it work without the rum and tried not to think about the warmth it added, the depth underneath everything, the note Mrs. C. had said she’d recognize if she tasted it.

She checked the first batch again, trying to see if they were salvageable, but no dice. They hadn’t risen right, and they never would no matter how long she put them back in the oven for.