Page 91 of Merry Fake Bride

“Just mark me the town hero,” I boast softly to cover up the ache in my chest that grows the longer she stands right next to me.

“It’ll make my stock prices soar.” As much as I crave more, I’m grateful.

When we first properly met, Devon definitely wouldn’t have stood right next to me like this.

Maybe that’s the real reward for whatever grew between us.

“I expect to see it all over the headlines tomorrow,” she teases, and she looks at me as if there’s more to say.

Unfortunately, an alarm deeper in the bakery takes her away with a rush and I return to my stall.

I text Martin to assure him the child has been returned to his mother and settle back into the flow of selling all the baked biscuits from my stall, only this time with a cold, bare neck.

Devon’s mother, Lindsey, circles past my stall a few times to make sure I’m doing okay, and while it’s difficult to face down such a crowd hungry for sweet treats, it’s fun.

I overhear so many excited conversations about Christmas, children eager for toys or games, a grandma excited that her family is flying out to see her for the first time in ten years, a man eager to spend his first Christmas with his newborn baby, a woman celebrating a new job opportunity, and several people eager for time off work.

There’s a sprinkling of sorrow amid the crowd, too.

Many lament about the closed-down stores along the block and how their darkened doorways make things feel less festive.

Some discuss where a few of the stores have moved to but lament that they’re now too far away to visit and wish them well.

Underneath the warm, festive spirit, my stomach churns as if the snow in the air is landing directly inside me.

I did this.

Those stores are my fault and it’s difficult not to feel guilty.

I only hope I was fast enough to save the bakery, or this street will be a corporate ghost town next Christmas.

By the time the bake sale draws to a close a little after eight at night, I’m exhausted but it’s a good kind of exhausted.

My muscles ache like I’ve overdone it at the gym, and my cheeks throb from how many smiles I was brought to in the face of the townsfolk eager to talk to a new face.

“You look like shit.” Martin snorts as he passes me a coffee.

“Fuck you.”

“Telling it like I see it.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You have a good time?”

“Yeah.” I slowly sip my drink. “I honestly did. Beats being in an office.”

“Look at you, shrugging off the corporate stink for a bake sale.” Martin laughs.

“You’re one to talk!” I point at the jingling antlers on top of his head. “You know what you look like?”

“Hey, I’m a jack of all trades, remember? I’m not locked into any mold.”

Kicking snow at him, I laugh. “Go get the car, jackass.”

“Yes, Boss.” He bows deeply and then smirks. “Hey, Devon.”

As Martin hurries away to fetch the car, I turn and greet Devon with a warm smile. “Hi.”