Page 21 of The Holiday Whoopie
Of course,busy is good. It’s what I wanted. What I said I needed so that I could feel justified on focusing on theotherreason I wanted to move to Hideaway.
Shaking my head, I tap awake my laptop and double-check that my November expenses are logged before setting up December’s log.
“Wait.” Jack rounds the prep table between us and leans over my shoulder. “You have Internet here?”
Damn it. “Yes. I have Internet.” I lean back, away from whatever delicious cologne he’s wearing. “We’re not that out in the sticks, Hollywood.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Tell that to The Haven’s Internet service provider.” Pushing off the table, he takes a few steps back.
I breathe in air untainted by Jack and let it out in a shaky laugh. “Yeah, well, they’re more remote—and I’m pretty sure against anything that would keep their guests from relaxing.” I grab the stack of remaining mail and begin sorting again.
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He leans against the wall next to one of my cooling trolleys, looking far more delicious than the whoopie pies next to him.
First my nose, now my eyes. I can’t trust my senses around this guy. Shifting in my chair so he isn’t in my directline of sight, I focus on my piles—Christmas card, kitchen equipment catalogue, utilities bill.
“Hey, what flavor are these?”
“Experimental dozen.” I toss the growing pile of junk in the recycling bin before it topples over. “Twelve varieties I’m testing.”
Junk,The Almanac, Christmas card.
The growing pile of Christmas cards from people in town makes me feel generous. “Help yourself.” Plus, maybe if he’s got a pie in his mouth, he’ll stop talking. Or better,leave.
I hear the rustle of parchment paper, then silence, followed by a muffled hum of appreciation that I try not to find satisfying—or naughty.
An envelope catches my eye at the bottom of the unsorted stack.
Heavy bond paper. Too narrow to be a Christmas card. No return address. And it’s thick and official-looking in the I-mean-business kind of way.
Curious, I tear it open—and stop breathing.
CEASE AND DESIST
The edges of the paper blur slightly the longer I stare at the letter, my mind screaming the heading too loudly to comprehend anything written after.
Jack says something, his voice soft and tentative, but I can’t make it out.
I blink, hoping the rapid movement will allow me to focus, to read and comprehend.
It doesn’t.
“Audrey?” Jack’s voice is louder now, followed by his palm, heavy and warm, dropping on my shoulder. “What’swrong?” His touch and gentle shake finally jar me out of my mental spiral.
This time when I blink, I’m able to focus—on him. And whatever he sees in my expression darkens his own.
“I, uh…” Clearing my throat but still not trusting myself to speak, I hand him the letter.
His eyes scan the document before lifting his gaze to mine. “Cease and desist over the use of the name Making Whoopie.”
Hearing the words out loud makes me want to upchuck my chai.
“Did you register your business name with the state?”
I think back to those early weeks—permits, equipment quotes, tax ID forms. Did I register the name? I kind of thought I did… but now I can’t remember.
Before Maine, any legal advice or needs I had, I used my mother’s lawyer in the city. But when I came here, I was so focused on proving myself, proving that this was a good move, that I did everything myself. And I have done since.
And there was a lot. Much more business know-how than an expert baker realized.
