T he Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery smells like the entire Christmas season exploded inside it—cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and vanilla hanging so thick in the air you could practically swim through it. The scent clings to my hair, my clothes, and probably my DNA at this point.
Lily’s Christmas playlist jingles through the speakers for what must be the five-hundredth time this season. If I hear “All I Want For Christmas Is You” once more, I might stuff myself into the industrial mixer and hit puree.
“ Order up ,” Lottie calls from the kitchen, pushing through the swinging doors with a tray of miniature gingerbread houses.
Each one is meticulously decorated with royal icing, candy canes for porch posts, and tiny wreaths made of green M&M’s.
They’re so perfect they make me want to cry—or gobble the entire tray down with a glass of ice-cold milk.
Hard to say which urge is stronger. Okay, fine, so we all know which is which.
“That’s another dozen for the Westfield order,” she announces, setting the tray on the counter. “And we still have twenty more to go before closing.”
“Remind me again why I agreed to help with the holiday rush?” I mutter, piping a snowflake pattern onto what feels like my millionth sugar cookie of the day. My fingers have cramped into the shape of the piping bag. I’ll probably need surgery to straighten them out.
“Because you love us?” Lily suggests, arranging peppermint bark in a display case.
“Because Lottie feeds you all the free dessert you can eat?” Suze offers from her station where she’s rolling out more gingerbread dough.
“Because it’s better than spending the day plotting murder?” Lottie adds with a wink that’s a little too knowing for comfort.
I point my icing bag at her threateningly. “Watch it, Lot, or I’ll start aiming this thing like a weapon.”
“As if you could hit anything,” Suze scoffs. “I’ve seen your aim. It’s not impressive.”
She’s not wrong.
“Those were intentional near-misses,” I defend myself. Uncle Jimmy might not agree, but what he doesn’t know won’t get me fired from the family business.
The bell above the door chimes as another customer enters, and we all look up and groan at the crowd.
Leading the pack is one of our regulars, Mrs. Finkelstein, bundled in a coat so puffy she resembles a walking marshmallow, and her Pomeranian, Cupcake, who’s sporting a red and green doggy sweater with actual working lights.
“Good morning, ladies!” she chirps. “I’m here to pick up my gingerbread mansion.”
Mansion is right. What Mrs. Finkelstein ordered isn’t so much a gingerbread house as it is a gingerbread estate, complete with multiple wings, a gazebo, and—I kid you not—a working drawbridge made of peppermint sticks.
“Coming right up,” Lottie says, disappearing into the back where we’ve been storing the architectural marvel in the walk-in fridge.
“I can’t believe how popular these houses have become,” Mrs. Finkelstein gushes. “My daughter in Seattle saw your Insta Pics account and insisted I get one for our Christmas party. She says you’re ‘totally crushing it’—whatever that means.”
“It means Lottie hasn’t slept in three weeks,” I say under my breath.
“It means we’re very grateful for the business,” Lily corrects, shooting me a look.
Lottie emerges from the back with a massive white box, which she sets on the counter with the care of someone handling a nuclear suitcase. “Here you are, Mrs. Finkelstein. One gingerbread mansion, ready for its close-up.”
She opens the box to reveal the sugary monstrosity, and even I have to admit it’s impressive.
The detail work is insane—tiny fondant curtains in the windows, delicate icicles hanging from the roofline, and a front yard populated with gingerbread people who look suspiciously like the Finkelstein family, right down to a tiny Cupcake with orange icing fur.
“Oh my goodness!” Mrs. Finkelstein claps at the massive masterpiece. “It’s perfect! You’ve outdone yourself, Lottie!”
“Thanks,” Lottie beams. “We’ve been shipping these babies all over the country since that video went viral. I had to hire two more bakers just to keep up with demand.”
“Speaking of keeping up—” Suze says, wiping flour from her forehead and leaving a ghostly streak in its wake.
“I’m so excited that the Evergreen Manor agreed to host the big Christmas gathering this year in lieu of the tragedy that happened at the community center.
That place is usually so exclusive they won’t let you in unless your family came over on the Mayflower . ”
“Or unless you slip the manager enough cash to buy her own boat,” Lily adds.
Lottie carefully closes the box with the gingerbread mansion while Mrs. Finkelstein holds Cupcake back from what would have been a very expensive snack. “Actually, they host the event nearly every year.”
“I love the Evergreen Manor,” I say. Even though I’m still a Honey Hollow rookie, despite having lived here long enough to develop a complicated relationship with the local law enforcement, baked goods, and murder, I have trotted out to that fancy establishment once or twice.
Lily nods to customers now rapt at attention.
“The Evergreen Manor is only the fanciest venue in three counties,” she says.
“It’s a gorgeous old estate on the outskirts of town.
Huge gardens, ballroom, the works. It was a private residence until a few decades ago when some rich developer bought it. ”
“That’s right,” Lottie says. “And the annual town Christmas gathering will be held there this year, and all of Honey Hollow is invited to indulge in dessert and refreshments along with a charity auction that always benefits needy families.”
“This year they’re calling it the Mistletoe & Merriment Gala,” Suze adds.
“Fancy,” I say, returning to my cookie decorating.
“Oh, it so is.” Lottie nods. “This year it’s taking place on Christmas Eve Eve .
Formal attire is not required but highly suggested.
It’s just a fun way for the residents of this cozy town to connect and celebrate and have a little holiday fun before everyone does their own thing for the big day,” she explains as she rings up Mrs. Finkelstein’s order.
“Plus, it’s a great excuse to dress up and drink free champagne,” Suze notes.
“Don’t forget all those opportunities to get under the mistletoe.” Lily winks.
Suze sighs. “I’ve got my eye on the new mailman. Have you seen his calves? The man must do calf raises in his sleep.”
“And I’ve got my eye on Alex,” Lily says with a wink her way.
No sooner does Mrs. Finkelstein leave with her architectural sugar bomb, carefully balanced in her arms like a newborn, than the bakery falls into a rhythm of rolling, cutting, baking, and decorating.
The holiday orders have been relentless, but there’s something satisfying about the production line we’ve established. We’re basically a well-oiled sweet treat machine around here.
“Speaking of events—” Suze says, sliding another tray of gingerbread into the oven. “Guess who got an invite to some fancy-schmancy shindig in Leeds tonight?”
“You, too?” Lily looks up from her frosting bowl. “And here I thought I was special.”
“I got one,” Lottie admits while arranging Christmas cake pops in a display shaped like a tree. “Everett and Noah got one, too. Although I have no idea who that little old spooky lady was who was passing them out like Halloween candy.”
“That spooky old lady would be my Nona Jo,” I confess. “And you hit the spooky nail on the head.”
Lottie gasps. “So what’s it all about? The envelope had that creepy gold writing on black paper that screams either ‘exclusive party’ or ‘human sacrifice.’”
“Honestly? Nona Jo might be into both,” I tell them, setting down my piping bag before my hand permanently fuses to it. “And I have no idea what’s about to transpire. My money is on the human sacrifice.”
And that’s true as gospel.
“Well, I’m definitely going,” Suze declares. “Any party with invitations that fancy has to have good booze.”
“Count me in,” Lily agrees. “I told Alex to wear his nice suit. The one that makes his butt look like it belongs in a fitness magazine.”
“Everett, Noah, and I will be there, too,” Lottie adds. “We can’t miss what promises to be the most dramatic event of the season. Plus, I need to scope out the competition. Rumor has it, the Velvet Fox has hired a new pastry chef from New York.”
The bell chimes again, and a harried-looking woman hustles in, unwinding a scarf the length of a python from around her neck.
“Please tell me you have gingerbread houses left,” she pleads. “My sister-in-law just texted that she’s bringing one to Christmas dinner, and I refuse to be outdone again this year.”
“Family competition is the true meaning of Christmas,” I say with a sigh as Lottie assures the woman we can accommodate her holiday one-upmanship needs.
As the day progresses, the bakery fills and empties like a holiday tide bringing in waves of customers hungry for Christmas treats.
We sell out of peppermint bark twice, restock, and sell out again.
The gingerbread house orders keep multiplying like rabbits on fertility drugs, and my hands are permanently stained with food coloring in festive shades of red and green.
I had a good run with that flesh tone anyway.
By closing time, I’m convinced that if I never see another gingerbread man again, it will be too soon. My back aches, and I’ve inhaled so much powdered sugar I’m pretty sure my lungs could sweeten a cup of coffee.
“That’s it,” Lottie announces, flipping the sign to Closed with a bang. “We survived another day of Christmas madness.”
“Hardly,” I groan, slumping onto a stool. “If one more person had asked for a rush order gingerbread house, I might have snapped and built them a gingerbread prison instead.”
“Save that energy for tonight,” Suze advises, untying her apron. “Something tells me that your Nona Jo’s little gathering is going to require all of your strength.”
“And possibly bail money,” Lily adds.
“See you all tonight at the Velvet Fox,” I say as I step outside into the frozen night air.
As I step out into the cold evening, a chill runs through my veins that has nothing to do with this frozen winter.
I can’t shake this feeling that someone at the Velvet Fox Hotel will be leaving in a body bag tonight—and for once it won’t have to do with me.
Or will it?