Page 56 of The Holiday Whoopie
Audrey points to the tray of thirty-six perfectly identical mini whoopie pies, glossy tops catching the light. The filling smells like peppermint and something darker, richer—chocolate? Espresso?
“Pairing special.” She tucks parchment under the edges. “Tell Lucy and Eileen it’s for sampling with the mochas.”
I think back to the phone orders I took since officially helping out this past week in the shop. “When did they order this?”
“They didn’t.” Audrey shrugs, her eyes cutting to the side. “But it’s a party. And parties need snacks.”
Amanda, having come around the counter, reaches for one. I smack her hand away, feeling oddly protective of Audrey’s generosity. “Those are for customers.”
“But Iama customer.” Amanda pouts, dramatically shaking out her hand. “By the way, what are they called?”
Audrey’s lips twitch. “Kiss My Mocha.”
Amanda holds up her hand. “Nice.”
Looking embarrassed but still smiling, Audrey high-fives her.
Amanda turns her raised palm to me. “Eh?”
Leaving her hanging, I turn to Audrey. “Why don’t you bring the pies over?” The owners of Chowder House Rules also asked after Audrey when I delivered their surprise whoopie pies yesterday. “I’m sure Lucy and Eileen would want to thank you.”
“That’s okay. They won’t even notice if I’m not there. Besides”—she points to the timer set on the counter—“the new batch for Little Italy is about to come out.”
Knowing Audrey is never going to see how much she’s appreciated in this town if she doesn’t make time for it, I pick up a potholder. “I could take those out for you while you go next door.”
The look Audrey gives me tells me that while the faith she has in my customer service has grown in leaps and bounds, that hard-fought trust has not translated to baking tasks.
She grabs a spatula and points at the door. “Go, Hollywood. Mingle. Be festive.”
I drop the potholder.
“I’mfestive.” Amanda, still pretend pouting, can’t hide the glee in her eyes from seeing me get my marching orders.
Audrey smoothers a smile before kissing me. Quick. Warm. Mint on her tongue, sugar on mine.
It’s the first time she’s ever initiated affection in public, and it makes me forget how sentences work.
Turning back to the oven, but not before I see her cheeksdarken, she adds, “Whoever brings me back a chai gets to be the first to taste test my new whoopie pie flavor.”
Amanda grabs the tray of mini pies out from under me, hitching the tray on her forearms before sliding around the counter and quick-walking to the door. “Come on, Jack!”
Shaking my head, I follow, taking the tray from her and casting a last look at Audrey, who’s already sliding the next sheet into the oven before stepping out into the crisp afternoon.
Once again, Hideaway Harbor is a snow globe come to life—flurries sifting down lazily while the harbor bells ping somewhere out in the gray. The Winter Market stalls across the square wear their garlands like beauty queens. People bustle with paper cups and knit hats and the kind of cheer that makes my Los Angeles reflexes brace for a punchline.
“Are you staying past Christmas?” Amanda asks as we pass the crowd still gathered on the sidewalk walking toward the coffee shop chanting “Pep-per-mint! Pep-per-mint!”
Amanda’s tone is casual, the way a rattlesnake might casually admire your shoes before striking. “Because you should really let the Haven know in case they need your room for other guests.” She bumps me, making me stutter step to keep the whoopie pie tray level. “Or are you staying somewhere else? Like the favored local bakery?”
“And you?” I angle the tray away from her interference. “Have you officially checked out due to spending most of your time with a certain candymaker with rainbow hair?”
Color climbs her neck, perfectly matching her hat. “Don’t jinx it.”
I nod and so does she, a silent truce forming as we pass by the large chalkboard sign that reads PEPPERMINT MOCHA APPRECIATION DAY in hand-lettered loops so enthusiastic they look like they might hug you.
Inside Love at First Sip is cacophony. Steam hisses. Milk frothers scream. A toddler in a reindeer sweater tries to eat a candy cane like a drumstick. The whole place smells like a milk chocolate chip ice cream cone that’s been melted over a campfire. Eileen is airborne—figuratively, but still—floating from table to table with a garland headband, and a barista I’ve never seen before is behind the counter doing five things with two hands while also managing the playlist and probably orchestrating the tides.
“Kiss My Mocha whoopie pies from Making Whoopie.” I set the tray on the bar beside the espresso machine. “For pairing with the peppermint mochas.” There’s a collective sigh from those within sniffing radius. “On the house.”
