Page 23 of The Holiday Whoopie
“So you finally hired yourself an assistant?”
I jump, not having heard the bell over the door chime, sending a jaunty loop of cream across a row of pies.
Awesome.
“Oh—good morning, Mrs. Bradford.” I set down the piping bag and grab a towel. “Ah, no. He’s just, uh, using my Wi-Fi.” I wave toward Jack, who’s typing away like he’s negotiating a movie deal. “You know.” I wipe up my mess. “Important Hollywood stuff.”
The phone rings. Before I can move toward it, Jack rises from his seat and lifts the landline from its cradle. “Making Whoopie, where every craving has a happy ending.”
I shiver, suddenly reconsidering my playful marketing slogan.
Jack’s eyes meet mine, a lazy smile playing over his lips. “Jack speaking. How can I help you?”
I swallow.
“Hollywood stuff, hmm?” The gleam in Mrs. Bradford’s eyes is more “the knitting circle is going to love this” than I’d like.
My customer-service expression tightens. Tossing the towel in the laundry bag, I step to the counter. “Your usual Sunday order?”
She nods, eyes merry as the holiday.
At least the townspeople seem to be enjoying my squatter problem. At this point, I can’t tell whether the increased traffic is thanks to Making Whoopie’s recent celebrity endorsement or its new cashmere-loving, six-foot-something mascot with eyes the color of dark chocolate ganache.
Not that I was staring at his eyes. I just happened to be making dark chocolate ganache when he looked up. That’s all.
I hand Mrs. Bradford the dozen assorted pastries for her grandkids. “Hope the kids enjoy the new holiday flavors.”
“Oh, you know they will.” Her expression softens. “You’ve made me the coolest meemaw in town.”
A pang of jealousy knots my hands into fists. “I’m sure that has more to do with how much you love them.” I would’ve loved a grandmother like Mrs. Bradford.
A few more customers filter in, and I wonder if I’ll have to save the pastry piping for later.
“Can I help you?” Jack slides in beside me, the heat of him lingering along my arm like static electricity.
I tell myself the goosebumps are from the front door constantly opening and the subsequent winter air gusting through. I do not believe me.
As a proud, card-carrying Type-A control freak who color-codes her grocery list, letting someone else take over my bakery—even for five minutes—should make me break out in hives.
Instead, I get back to piping while my lawyer/cashier/squatter charms Mrs. Perrault into the last Stuff My Stockings whoopie pies and a half-dozen mini fruitcakes, leaning on my counter like it’s a velvet-roped Hollywood club instead of an innuendo-laden bakery.
A slip of paper from the order he just took is waiting on my prep counter—visible but neatly out of my way. An order I might not have had time to make if Jack hadn’t been manning the counter.
“What do you recommend, Mr. Lourd?” The elementary school principal arches her brows like she’s asking for more than a pastry suggestion.
I over-pipe a pie.
Readjusting the now half-empty bag, I try to tune out the counter flirting and finish the Morning After Mint whoopie pies—yet another order Jack took.
And while my mind might wander into unhelpful territory when it comes to my lawyer, I must admit that I’ve never been less stressed about work.
And with a possible lawsuit looming, that’s saying something.
The murmur of Jack’s voice, too low to make out, sends the woman into a fit of giggles.
Who would’ve thought that the man who grinched his way into Hideaway would start acting like one of Santa’s elves?
If Santa’s elves were six feet of broad shoulders, smug charm, and the kind of hands that make you wonder what else they’re good at besides kneading bread—which he did yesterday, helping me make dough.
