Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

O nly two things have the power to drag me away from the inn this time of year—the lure of freshly baked goodies and the ability to cross people’s names off my Christmas list. Lucky for me, my current locale allows me to do both.

Main Street is as charming as ever this time of year, with wreaths hung on every lamppost and twinkle lights strewn along the cobbled street, making the snow glow as it falls to the ground in soft, fat flakes.

All of Cider Cove looks like a postcard come to life—adorable, festive, and begging me to spend way too much on Christmas treats I don’t need but can’t resist.

Fish sits snug in my tote bag, resting against my side with her head poking out from the top. You should really consider adding more wreaths to the inn. They really are festive. Although I think even these can use a few more baubles like those cherry red balls that Sherlock likes to eat. And I think you should string some twinkle lights through them as well. It’s a classic combination you can’t go wrong with. Without the lights, the wreaths look a bit bare for my taste, she muses, glancing up at one with a critical eye.

A laugh bubbles from me. “You have no idea how happy it makes me that you share my affinity for mass quantities of Christmas décor—which leads me to my philosophy about Christmas décor, the more the better. Especially the more red ornaments and twinkle lights. I so agree, you can never go wrong with that classic combo because—” I stop short and give a quick sniff to something warm and sweet that’s tantalizing my senses. “Is that cinnamon?”

Sherlock gives a quick sniff of the frosty air, along with a soft woof of excitement. I smell cinnamon. There’s cinnamon! Do you smell cinnamon? Can we please follow the cinnamon?

Jingle prances by his side, his little paws crunching in the snow. Cinnamon rolls! I smell cinnamon rolls! I live for cinnamon rolls!

“ Ooh , so do I,” I muse as I do my best to sniff those cinnamon rolls right into my stomach. “Oh wow, they really do smell divine.”

The air is so thick with the heavenly scent it’s managed to hypnotize the masses as every person on the street makes a beeline for the bakery—and I happen to be one of them.

If I had any willpower against baked goods before I found myself in the family way, I’m powerless against it now.

Who am I kidding? I was powerless to it before, too.

Both dogs begin to bark and prance because clearly they’re pretty powerless in that arena as well.

Another laugh bubbles from me as I take in their enthusiasm. “And the two of you have no idea how happy it makes me that you share my affinity for mass quantities of cinnamon rolls—which leads me to my philosophy about cinnamon rolls, the more the better. Especially cinnamon rolls with coffee. And that’s another classic combo you can never go wrong with.”

At this point in my life, I prefer the cinnamon rolls to the Christmas décor.

All three furry cuties share a laugh at that one as a blast of icy wind bears down on us. I pull my coat tighter around me. The scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls is wafting out from the Cider Cove Bake Shop, demanding my immediate attention.

Fish gives a dramatic sigh. Cinnamon rolls, Bizzy? Really? What’s Emmie going to think if she finds out you’re traipsing around town enjoying someone else’s cinnamon rolls. She works very hard to make only the best quality desserts for the inn. You’re practically cheating on your bestie for a cinnamon roll.

“Technically”—I hold up a finger—“it’s a cinnamon roll and a gingerbread latte I’ll be having, so it’s essentially a double betrayal.”

Fish yowls with a laugh as Sherlock and Jingle dance and prance as I steer us toward the bakery.

The warm, cozy glow from the window pulls me in like a moth to a flame—or like a cinnamon roll to frosting—and in seconds, we’re standing inside as the heat instantly thaws my cheeks.

The butter-yellow walls offer up a hug all their own, but it’s the thick sweet scent of freshly baked goodies that has half the town clamoring for the shop to take their money.

I order a half dozen rolls without hesitation, and a gingerbread latte to go along with them—may Emmie forgive me—and feel a twinge of guilt as I watch an employee dressed as Mrs. Claus expertly drizzles frosting over the rolls.

I can’t wait to sink my teeth into one, and from the way Sherlock is sitting so obediently, tail wagging in perfect rhythm, I’d say he’s hoping for a taste, too. I quickly wolf one down as if I were competing in the Olympic speed-eating finals, going for the gold with a cinnamon roll in record time. Of course, I split another among Fish, Sherlock, and Jingle. I’m not a monster.

We step back out into the crisp, snowy air, my bag of goodies tucked securely in my arm, and head down the street to the shop my mother and Georgie own, Two Old Broads. My sister came up with the name and it sort of stuck.

The storefront window is adorned with a strand of thick bushy green garland interwoven with twinkle lights and a quaint wooden sign advertising “Holiday Specials Galore!”

I crane my neck past the holiday specials to peer inside, and I can already see it’s packed with last-minute shoppers, bustling about in search of that perfect gift. And in less than two seconds, I’m going to be one of them.

“Let’s do this,” I say, steering my furry crew through the door.

Inside, the scent of pine and cider hits me like a wave—fresh, clean, and festive. Shelves are stacked with homemade knits, quirky trinkets, and wonky quilts in every imaginable holiday print.

The wonky quilt is sort of what started the party as far as the two of them opening a shop. Georgie came up with the idea to put together quilts with strips of fabric cut in any and every angle and in every and any pattern, too. The quilts themselves are so soft and luxurious, not to mention adorable in a quirky, crazy grandmother sort of a way, that they just fly off the shelves. And with each new holiday and season, the patterns are switched up to match, which just makes them that much more irresistible.

Christmas carols blast from the speakers, only to compete with the chatter from the legions of shoppers. I can hardly move around the thicket of bodies crowded into this space, let alone focus on what I should buy and for whom.

I give a quick glance around. “No sign of either my mother or Georgie,” I say.

I see Junie up ahead, Fish mewls as she all but stands straight up in my tote bag as if she didn’t want to miss out on any of the action. And with this many women in a confined space, there’s bound to be something to see.

Sure enough, there she is. Georgie’s daughter, Juniper Moonbeam—aka Junie—looks to be running the show today. In fact, she’s so swamped she hardly has time to acknowledge me with a wave.

Junie is buried under a mountain of wrapping paper and bags, and that line of shoppers at the counter stretches to the door. Poor thing.

Sherlock nudges his poochy counterpart. Come on, Jingle. I know where they keep the treats. Follow me.

Treats? Jingle prances right alongside of Sherlock. I love this place! I knew I smelled turkey!

“Turkey?” I mutter under my breath as my stomach grows hot at the thought of it. “Come on, Fish,” I say, inhaling the sweet peppermint-scented air to stave off any nausea trying to ruin my day. “Let’s grab a few things and get out before poor Junie has a meltdown.”

I’m in, she mewls as I begin to pick and pluck at everything I see. I try on a faux-fur scarf and catch a glimpse of myself with it on in the mirror. Now, that’s more like it, Fish mewls once again. Do you think they have it in my size? I’m not opposed to a little fur on fur when it comes to fashion.

I stifle a laugh. “In that case, I’ll grab one so we can share it.” I snap up a few cute ornaments as well that I definitely don’t need but simply can’t resist, ante up at the counter, and soon all four of us are back out into the festive streets of Cider Cove.