Page 17 of The Cinnamon Spice Inn (Maple Falls #1)

“I love dogs,” Kit continued, bending to give Cocoa one last scratch before standing up again.

“Is this the only one you have? My aunt has two—Labradoodles, so quite a bit bigger than this little gal, but just as affectionate.” She barely took a breath before adding, “Oh! Before I forget, I made you some apple pie tarts with a little bit of ice cream, and I’ve got some recipes to show you in action.

I figured instead of just talking about my cooking, I’d let the food speak for itself.

Sometimes, my mouth gets me into trouble.

I mean, if that’s okay. If you don’t want me to cook, I don’t have to.

I just thought, well, you should see what I can do. Does that make sense?”

Madison blinked. The woman was a whirlwind. She hadn’t even had a chance to get a word in before Kit was already moving, gesturing toward the insulated bags she had brought.

“I can get started right away, well, after I wash my hands. Hygiene is super important, don’t you think?” Kit asked.

“I do. How about we head to the kitchen?” Madison suggested.

“I’ll be sure to keep Cocoa out,” Gram added. “Or give her to George.”

Madison glanced around. “Where is Dad, by the way?”

“Out feeding the animals, I suppose.” Gram waved a hand then muttered something under her breath about “that son-in-law of mine” before shuffling back to the front desk.

Thankfully, the burnt smell from the morning no longer lingered, and the kitchen was back to smelling of roasted herbs with a hint of nutmeg, though it was missing the fresh warmth it had when her mom ran things.

The copper pots hanging from the rack gleamed under the soft glow of the overhead lights, and the butcher block counters had seen years of flour-dusted mornings and simmering soups.

Kit wasted no time getting to work in the kitchen. Before even unpacking all her ingredients, she plated one of her tarts. It was a golden, flaky pastry topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, drizzled with caramel, and finished with a dusting of cinnamon and sugar.

“Normally, I’d serve the tart warm, but I just took it out of the oven before coming here,” Kit said, watching Madison’s reaction with an eager expression. “So it shouldn’t be too cold—but hopefully, you get the idea.”

Madison took a moment to admire Kit’s plating. Despite throwing it together in haste, she had done a marvelous job. She cut into the tart, letting the ice cream melt slightly as she scooped up a forkful, making sure to capture as many flavors as possible.

The moment the dessert hit her tongue, a soft moan escaped her lips.

“Oh my goodness, you weren’t lying. This is heavenly. The tart apples, the flaky crust, the sweet caramel, the cold ice cream—it’s the perfect balance of sweet, creamy, and tart.”

She’d be a fool not to hire Kit on the spot.

“I’m glad you like it. Hopefully, you’ll like this too,” Kit said.

Madison barely had time to process what she meant before Kit was already using a mandoline to julienne Honeycrisp apples, which she quickly tossed in lemon juice.

She did the same with Manchego cheese, adding it to the apples along with chives, shallots, and olives before gently tossing everything together and seasoning it with salt and more lemon.

It was clear—Kit was a wizard in the kitchen.

“You don’t have any dietary restrictions, do you?” Kit asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“And what about seafood? Love it, hate it, could live without it?”

“I love it. I’m a food writer based in New York—I’ve pretty much eaten a little bit of everything.”

“Well, I wish you hadn’t said that. Now you’re gonna make me nervous, and I was already nervous before I got here.”

Madison laughed. “You have no reason to be.”

“Well, I hope that’s true,” Kit said, winking. “Either way, my crab croquettes are to die for. Doesn’t matter if you’re a food critic or not.”

Madison watched as Kit moved around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients, her energy infectious.

She glanced down at the tart and took another bite. When she was working, she typically only took a couple of bites of each course to pace herself and keep her palate clear. Not today. She was going to eat every last bit of this tart.

“I’ve eaten here before,” Kit said while working.

“You have?”

“Mm-hmm, my great-aunt brought me a time or two,” Kit continued, barely slowing down. “I know your previous chef was French-trained, and he was amazing, but I’d love to lean into something even cozier than I remember. Farm-to-table, seasonal, nostalgic flavors—things that feel like home.”

Madison nodded, already imagining the transformation.

“Although there’s one thing I remember that I would love to bring back.

Your mom’s cinnamon rolls. One time I stopped in for a visit, and your mom gave me one.

Talk about heavenly.” Kit threw her head back and laughed at the memory.

“I was thinking… what if we brought it back with a twist—apple butter in the center.”

Madison felt something catch in her chest. Her mom’s cinnamon rolls were legendary, the kind of thing that made guests return to the inn year after year.

“There’s this guy, Zach. He makes the best apple butter in town,” Kit added casually, continuing to work.

Madison cleared her throat. There was no way Kit could know about her history with Zach. “I love it. We’ll make them the signature breakfast dish.”

“Perfect. I’ve got more ideas, too,” Kit said, brimming with energy. “Wild mushroom soup, maple-braised short ribs, butternut squash risotto. Think cozy, comforting, but still special.”

“Yes.” Madison’s voice was firm. “That’s exactly what the Cinnamon Spice Inn should be.”

Madison leaned against the counter, picturing it. The dining room, refreshed. Warm lighting, mismatched stoneware mugs, tables set with sprigs of rosemary in Mason jars. Candles flickering, cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven.

The kind of place that didn’t just serve food but wrapped you in warmth. Her mother had created that feeling once. Madison was going to bring it back.

She took another bite of the tart and smiled. “We have a lot of work to do,” she said.

Kit grinned. “Good thing I love a challenge.”