Page 1 of Say It Isn't Snow
CHAPTER 1
HOLLY
Hundreds of cookies surround me.Several dozen sugar cookies with a suggestively tongue-in-cheek design occupy every available space, all waiting to become decorated masterpieces too pretty to eat. I’m in my own personal form of heaven.
Seriously, I hope no one overhears the enthusiastic noises I sometimes make without realizing when I’m swept up in the baking zone and dancing around the kitchen.
A girl just loves a sweet treat, okay?
When I inhale the scent of baked goodness, I can’t hold back. I should probably turn up the cheery holiday playlist I have on in the background to be safe, or people could get the wrong idea about why I named my shop Blissful Bites Bakery.
It’s the most wonderful time of year: Christmas, my favorite.
The season with dazzling lights, cute winter outfits, delicious food meant to be shared with the people in your life, and all the snuggling with my favorite blankets.
The bakery is decked out in festive decor—pink, of course, just like my darling little cottage shop usually is. The cozy atmosphere is more comforting than ever adorned with garlands of dried orange slices, cinnamon sticks, tinsel, and dainty velvet bows dotting the miniature pine trees I put around the space.
In the front of the shop, the pastel counter stretches along the side wall with a display case full of yummy treats of all kinds arranged in baskets and on vintage cake stands I thrifted. A mismatched array of tables, antique loveseats, and the nook by the front window offer customers a comfy place to enjoy the snuggly intimate vibes.
The holiday season is also the busiest time for my custom cookie orders. They’re the top-seller I’m best known for after building my baking business online in college. Thanks to the loyal following of my customer base, I was able to open my storefront last year in my dream location on a quaint street of shops in Mayfield, Massachusetts.
My latest creations are spread in batches on every surface of the kitchen while I hum along to the music. They fill the air with their scrumptious, mouthwatering aromas. As much as I love a scented candle, nothing beats the real deal to delight your senses.
“Oh my god. So many sugary boobs.” Leta, one of the new staff members I hired part-time, gapes at the cookies I’m icing on her way in through the back door.
“I know, right?” I laugh as I carefully pipe royal icing.
Before it hardens, I use the fine needle tip of my detailing tool to create a white fluffy edging for the plunging sweetheart neckline on the well-endowed Mrs. Claus busts the customer requested.
“More than I needed to see first thing in the morning,” she says.
Admiring my handiwork, I pick up a finished cookie and shimmy it in front of me. “She’s so hot in her slutty little red number. Do you think this version of Mrs. Claus calls Santa her Daddy, or is he on his knees begging her to be his Mommy before he peels this off of her?”
Leta whoops with laughter, her shiny dark curls bouncing against her round tan cheeks. Though she’s only a handful of years older than me in her early thirties, being around her cheerful personality makes me feel like she’s here for me in place of my mom. She swats at me like she’s scandalized, but she plays along.
“You deserve to be on the naughty list just for saying that.”
“What?” I joke, fanning myself. “You’ve never thought about it? A big, strong man, well-loved by all, on his knees for you? A girl can dream.”
She shakes her head with a fond expression and gestures at me head to toe, from my soft pink hair tied high in a bow to my brightly-colored apron patterned with frosted Christmas tree cakes.
“I never would’ve guessed someone who looks like a glittery cupcake fairy could have such a dirty mind.”
I shrug. “What can I say? I’m as layered as those pretty cakes in the display case. My favorite color is pink, I love the art of baking more than anything in the world, and,” I drawl with a giggle, “I’m confidently in tune with my sensual side. Yes, you’ve heard it here, folks of Mayfield’s historic district: women have needs, too, and I, Holly Duncan, am proudly open about being one of them.”
Not that I’ve had those needs met by anyone else, man or woman, lately.
Scratch that.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone other than my battery powered besties tucked away in my nightstand.
“Shh, not so loud,” Leta chides. “If Marjorie hears you next door, you’ll give her a heart attack.”
I scoff with a smile. “Have you not seen the books she stocks in the romance section? Marjorie absolutely knows a good time.I recommend the historical romances if you want something to make you purr.”
She busies herself washing up at the sink to prep for her shift. “The same sweet elderly woman who feeds every stray cat in the alley behind the shops and waters the fake flowers in her window boxes?”
“Honestly, she’s genius for that. What a great way to overhear the best gossip on the block.” I get back to work with a fresh piping bag for the next batch. “I’m telling you, that woman has lived a good life. She’s probably got the best stories from her adventures in love. And one of these days? I’m going to get some of them out of her.”
