Chapter One
Owning a business had scared the living daylights out of me. I wanted it more than anything, but wanting didn’t shrink the fear; it amplified it, like turning up the volume on a song I couldn’t get out of my head. I’ll never forget the day I signed the lease last fall. My hands trembled so hard the pen went slick in my grip. The landlord wore a cool, gotcha smile, savoring the moment as if he held every card in the deck. The clock on the wall ticked with merciless precision, each second pounding in my ears like a countdown to catastrophe. Well, at least that was my perspective back then, before I learned how quickly everything can change in the blink of an eye.
I almost set the pen down and ran—twice, maybe three times. But my high school besties, my makeshift sisters, kept me in the game. Our private, online group thread buzzed with little pep talks and bossy reminders to breathe, to sign, to trust the work I’d already done. I could hear their voices as if we were back in that drafty high school, whispering about futures we couldn’t yet picture. Their faith steadied my hand. When I couldn’t believe for myself, they believed it for me. There were four of us in high school, and we gave ourselves the nickname The Dormsters because to our seventeen-year-old ears it sounded like a rock band. So from pretend musicians (pretend because none of us played any instruments), I pulled them into my catering scheme years later, which we appropriately named Dormsters Delights, swapping pretend guitars for spatulas.
Let me backtrack for a second. Our reunion started with a chance encounter. Although we kept in touch with one another, it was always online, rarely altogether in person. But this time, Zoe was back in town for a family wedding when she bumped into Trixie at the mall. Ten minutes later, they were resurrecting our old dream of opening a shop. One call to Min-day turned into a rapid-fire group thread that lit up my phone, and within weeks we were huddled around the wobbly table in my apartment, poring over rental listings on my laptop, and taste-testing recipes, glaze versus ganache becoming a full-blown debate that left spoons clattering and our cheeks sticky. It was chaotic, exhilarating, unmistakably us.
Money was the only thing the girls didn’t have, so I dug into my savings, took a small loan from my parents (who blessed us with no interest and no deadline to repay), and secured the first location we unanimously loved in a small mall to open the shop. I made sure to set up a profit share so my best friends could earn their stakes with their talent and sweat. It was the vow our teenage selves had made—commitment and trust—and seeing them roll up their sleeves, eyes bright with the same fire we’d scribbled into spiral notebooks and sealed with pinky swears, I’d never been prouder of them.
The first weeks of business blurred by in a haze of flour and spreadsheets, and a door chime that startled me every time it jingled. I quickly learned which problems demanded a phone call and which ones simply required a deep breath. I learned to nod at the unexpected, such as late deliveries, last-minute cancellations, and the mixer sputtering like it was on its last legs just five minutes before opening. Each challenge taught me to roll up my sleeves and keep moving forward.
Little by little, as I found my rhythm and built some business muscle, the chaos around Dormsters Delights softened to a manageable hum. The fear didn’t leave, not exactly; it slid into the passenger seat, buckled up, and let me take the wheel for a change. Naturally, I had three relentless backseat drivers always ready to direct. I found my footing, breathed through the hiccups, and let myself relax just enough to see I could do this, and that doing it was already changing me.
Then the Christmas holidays rolled around again, the season I loved the most, second only to Halloween. The storefront blinked to life with ribboned boxes in the display, while cinnamon, butter, and vanilla curled through the air. Orders stacked up like gift boxes. Office parties, family gatherings, last-minute walk-ins stamping slush onto the entry mat to order several last-minute freshly baked goods. The ovens roared like heaters (I swear, I could have turned off the heater and no one would have noticed), the air smelled of peppermint mochas, although I only smelled my French vanilla. That first sip of coffee each morning wrapped around me like a promise, assuring me that no matter how chaotic the day ahead became, there would always be a hidden pocket of energy and patience waiting just for me. Then again, maybe I’m just a tad nutso for my French vanilla.
We worked in a whirl of gossip and laughter. Needless to say, by closing time we were bone-tired. The sign CLOSED was flipped over and our ovens went quiet, but the girls all wore warm smiles. For the first time, I knew deep down this little shop would make it. Not because of luck or a miracle order, but because of these women who’d leapt with me, who believed before there was proof and poured their talent and heart into every batch. It was their trust, their laughter echoing in the kitchen, and their unwavering commitment that turned flour and sugar into something magical, reminding me every day that the real secret ingredient was always us…together.
“Hey, Carmen,” one of my besties called out, “I’ve got a friend who just started a business organizing Christmas parties. I know we’ve already outdone our December calendar, but I was thinking…”
Her name is Min-day Hassle—hyphen right in the middle, like a secret wink. Not Mindy, as I’d blurted the first time we met in high school. She’d leveled me with the most epic Really? side-eye, and I’ve never slipped since. Min-day always has something up her sleeve, and nine times out of ten, her ideas turn out to be nothing short of brilliant. But whenever she pauses mid-pitch? That’s when my nerves kick in.
Why, you ask? Because, God bless their big, romantic hearts, my three besties had turned my love life into their pet project for some reason this year. It had become their unofficial side hustle. If they could have, they would have printed “matchmaker” on their business cards, right between catering and cupcakes. They approached my dating life (which, admittedly, was nonexistent) the way they planned an event: color-coded calendars, shortlists, and a frankly alarming number of follow-up texts. They auditioned dates the way they sampled frosting—by flavor, by finish, and by whether they’d hold up under pressure to my obvious strong personality and inability to hold back my honest opinions. What can I say? My parents taught me not to lie.
Past dates that went nowhere included a dentist with movie star teeth, who ended the evening by handing me a toothbrush instead of leaning in for a goodnight kiss; the butcher with heroic forearms and a knife collection (in his bedroom, not kitchen) that would’ve made even Michael Myers jealous; and the yoga instructor who spoke in breathy affirmations, constantly assessing my legs before shaking his head, as if my calves had somehow offended his chakras. Each date was its own brand of awkward, leaving me to wonder if true chemistry, like love at first sight, was just another fairy tale best left to romance novels.
Min-day ran point with spreadsheets of potentials; Zoe managed the wheres and whens, making sure every detail of their plans ran smoothly; Trixie, ever resourceful, handled the background checks through her cousin’s friend’s network—because of course she did. Together, they formed the kind of support squad I never dared dream of, each woman bringing her own flair to the chaotic ballet that is my luckless love life, turning it into a team sport. Suddenly, it wasn’t just me against the odds; it was all of us, cheering from the sidelines. Go, me, go.
Which is why, when Min-day paused mid-pitch, I braced because experience had taught me the next words out of her mouth would include a time, a place, and a man with “potential” in bold italics…in her spreadsheet somewhere.
After my last short-lived boyfriend fiasco where he cheated within a month, I swore off men and poured everything into building my catering and baking career. I traded date nights for dawn deliveries and let the whir of mixers drown out the static of heartbreak. In my best friends’ defense, they only doubled down on meddling in my love life because of the mystery that landed on my shop’s counter once a month since January: an anonymous bouquet sent to me, always impeccable, always unexpected. Each arrangement secretly pulled me in with its beauty because what normal girl wouldn’t love to have a secret admirer. Every card was signed the same way, in looping, unmistakable handwriting: “Your Casualty, C.A.”
Peonies in January, ranunculus with satin ribbon that matched our boxes, garden roses that smelled like July even in a snowstorm…the kind of arrangements that made you feel seen, pouring in every month like clockwork. The signature felt like a wink across a crowded room, cryptic enough to be maddening, yet romantic enough to make even my cynical self pause. The girls wouldn’t stop swooning, convinced it had to be love at first sight.
I kept telling myself I didn’t care. After all, if Mr. Interested was truly interested, he would have shown up by now and asked me out instead of hiding in the shadows. That was my logic, anyway. Yet, every time the bell over the shop door chimed, my head jerked up before my heart even had a chance to hold me back. No matter how much I tried to play it cool, part of me was always half-expecting the infamous “Casualty C.A.” to stroll in, flash that devil-may-care grin, and claim responsibility for every flutter in my chest. It was ridiculous, really, how hope kept sneaking in through the smallest cracks, despite every attempt I made to shut it out.
Needless to say, my gals had no luck trying to bribe the delivery guys with cupcakes for intel because the poor souls had no clue who Mr. Interested was.
Snow whipped against the front windows, tracing frosty patterns on the glass as I sat behind the reception desk, steeling myself for whatever Min-day would say next. With her, the phrase “a new party planner friend” could just as easily mean an actual event…or a new someone waiting under the mistletoe. Actually, that’s how she met her boyfriend last year, at one of the company catering events we were hired for. Bruce, unaware that he was standing beneath a mistletoe strung from one end of the wall to the other, was approached by Min-day. She greeted him, pointed upward, and said, “Don’t disappoint.” And he didn’t, if memory serves me right, he responded with a huge smile.
“Well, we thought—” Min-day began, playing with her gazillion lava bead bracelets.
“We?” I echoed, wrestling the snarky grin dying to break free. Of course it was “we.” They moved as a pack now—matchmakers masquerading as caterers and bakers, armed with piping bags and opinions. They shared a look, the one that meant a spreadsheet already existed with my name plastered in the header. I curled my fingers around my empty coffee mug and braced for whatever plan “we” had baked up this time, knowing that when they said “we,” my calendar was already compromised. Penciled, highlighted, and, let’s be honest, already booked.
Uh-oh. Zoe Kalomipopoulos (yes, it took me a solid month in high school to remember there are two “po”s in that name) tilted one perfectly arched Greek eyebrow at me. Not a good sign. I could practically hear the soundtrack to an intervention cue up. Zoe’s smile stayed sweet, but her eyes said buckle up.
Then Trixie Brown popped up front to flank the other two, and that sealed it. I was in real trouble. Their synchronized we-know-what’s-good-for-you stares hit me like a judge’s final gavel strike. Zoe tapped a finger against her palm, thoughtful, like she’s mapping out a battle strategy. I knew exactly what was coming: a plan, a party, and, if they had their way, a six-foot-something hunk waiting under the mistletoe with my name already on his lips. I had plans this year. Or rather, I did right up until my parents announced an around-the-world trip to recapture their youth. Overnight I inherited their car keys, Mom’s meticulous watering schedule for every plant with a name, and full house-sitting duty. And my calendar started to look like…yeah. I was so, so screwed.
“I’m sorry to say this, Miss Carmen Page…” Zoe began.
Toasted, no doubt about that. Zoe, my five foot five, all-spunk, dark-haired friend, only rolled out my full name when she meant business. A verdict was coming, and I was about to be sentenced to holiday plans I hadn’t agreed to.
“…but you need to stop saying no to us.” My bleach-blonde pal, Trixie, finished without missing a beat, like they shared a teleprompter. She tipped her chin, lipstick a fearless red, one hand on her hip, the other tapping the counter like a countdown to my surrender. I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. No point. They knew I knew I was toast.
Min-day was already nodding, her approval unmistakable, brows arched so high they nearly grazed her wispy bangs. So this was what having siblings felt like: an abrupt plan flung like tinsel, and suddenly I was the tree, no way to shake any of them off. I’d grown up an only child, but with these three I was outnumbered, wrapped tight in their determination, equal parts exasperated and, God help me, half-tempted to enjoy it.
I let out a long I-give-up sigh and lifted a hand in surrender. “All right. Lay it on me.” I braced for impact. I mean, it was Friday so they most likely wanted to take me clubbing, which I’ve said no to like forever. I’m not a clubbing girl. I was flour-on-my-sleeve, home-by-ten, pour-me-a–French-vanilla kind of woman. Strobe lights made my head throb, bass lines rattled my fillings, and heels were for weddings. Still, with three smiles aimed my way, I felt the ground tilt in their favor.
“My friend Sally just landed a huge opportunity. The Arlington Mall owner hired her to set up their big holiday gala,” Min-day said, enthusiasm written all over her face.
That snapped me to attention, and not because I was surprised clubbing wasn’t the venue. I’d been hoping to catch someone—anyone—at that company for weeks, trying to pin down rent and square footage, dreaming of a tiny spot in one of their malls for a second shop by spring. Emails vanished into the void. Calls fell into the voicemail abyss. “Okay, amazing for her,” I said, trying to sound casual as my pulse spiked, “but what does that have to do with me?”
Zoe peered down at me over the rim of her glasses. Meanwhile, Trixie’s gaze drifted toward the front window, where fat snowflakes piled up on the sill.
I sat up a little straighter, bracing myself, because whatever came next was bound to turn my week upside down.
Min-day didn’t make me wait. “She needs four women to work the event, to walk the floor with trays, serve wine and signature cranberry spritzers, smile at VIPs. It’s good money, and even better connections.” She angled her phone toward me to read her friend’s text message.
The word connections landed like a tap on my shoulder. I could already feel the weight of a tray against my palm, and hear my polite laugh warming up for a VIP’s not-funny-at-all joke. The money, I needed, no argument there, especially if I were to secure a second location if I could get past the gatekeepers who never called back.
I laughed because what else was I supposed to do? “Me? Serve drinks? I’m lucky if the only things I have to hold are my oven mitts…okay, and a spatula.” I got up and mimed balancing a tray, wobbling on purpose. “You want me in heels, carrying full glasses, not tripping over tinsel? Are you nuts? When have I ever accompanied you gals on a job as a server? I’m the behind-the-scenes girl, the one who plates, preps, and prays the ganache sets in time.”
In my world, glassware made me think of a baseball swishing through the air right before disaster hit and a window broke. Never mind that heels turned me into a newborn giraffe or any other unsteady newborn, nothing but floppy legs. I could plate a dozen pastries with my eyes closed, but put me in a little black dress with a tray and I suddenly become a public safety announcement. Still, their faces were so hopeful I could already feel the phantom pinch of stilettos and the slick weight of a tray against my palm.
“Told you,” Zoe said, pushing away from the reception desk.
I rolled my eyes, but the sigh that slipped out sounded suspiciously like surrender.
Min-day shot out a hand—palm flat, queenly and lethal. “Don’t you dare move, Greek,” she said, and Zoe froze mid-step. “You.” Her attention snapped to me. I sat back down and straightened like a kid caught passing notes. “The last time you came out with us was one of our first catering jobs, remember?”
I could almost see the memory trying to load and spin like a buffering wheel. Actually, I did remember but have tried to forget with no success.
“It was that hospital party last year, our first event, where you—” Min-day began.
“I swiveled, plowed into a complete, devastating hottie, and poured an entire bottle of Merlot down the front of his very expensive-looking suit,” I supplied, mortified all over again. The bewildered man pinballed into a towering metal shelving unit filled with stuff nurses use for patients. Wine bloomed across his shirt while I stood there frozen in place, until I wasn’t…
I leaned in to apologize at the exact moment he bent to help me pick up the tray when our foreheads connected with a crack that sent stars skittering behind my eyes. He moaned. I moaned. Then reflex did the rest. My knee shot up and I nailed him right in the family jewels.
He folded with a strangled “oof,” one hand braced on the floor, the other reaching for the bottle rolling away like it, too, wanted to flee the scene with me. For one suspended heartbeat, our eyes met. His mesmerizing emerald green eyes appeared furious and amused all at once, and if I was honest, I haven’t been able to get them out of my mind. “I asked you to take over while—”
“You locked yourself in the van until we finished. Three hours. That was last Christmas,” Zoe said, pouting.
Trixie leaned in, one slender finger spearing the air at me. “You,” she began, cool and collected, “are officially done with the no-thank-you responses. That man last year might have been Fate gifting you. Are you practicing to be a nun?”
I opened my mouth, but she lifted her hand higher, and shushed me. “And before any of you bitches say something derogatory about nuns, one of my mom’s besties is a nun. She’s fabulous. But you?” Her gaze swept me up and down, exasperated. “You are not taking vows. You are taking an evening off and wearing a uniform for only two hours, then we’re changing into our party outfits and par-taying. All. Night. Long.”
My protest died on my tongue. With Trixie, resistance was futile.
The flimsy shield I loved to hide behind as a defense wobbled. Zoe arched a single, knowing brow; Min-day’s bracelets chimed like tiny bells, and somewhere between the snow ticking softly against the windows and Trixie’s manicured finger hovering over the calendar, I knew I was losing this round. Maybe the universe was done waiting for me to be brave.
“When?” I asked, already picturing the tray in my hand and the inevitable pinch of heels nipping at my Achilles.
I caught the quick flare of surprise on their faces. It was a blink-and-you-miss-it jolt just before they smoothed their expressions back to normal. Zoe’s mouth made a tiny O; Trixie blinked twice, and even Min-day’s bracelets went quiet for a beat. Was I really such a prude?
“Well?” I looked up at them gathered around the reception desk, trying for bravado. “Give me the when, and I’ll bring the bandages for my heels.”
“Tomorrow, early evening,” Min-day said.
“Tomorrow? Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we?” I tipped my head and narrowed my eyes. They’d clearly already said yes as a trio, and I was the Hail Mary to seal the deal if they could talk me into it. “Let me guess,” I went on, leaning back in my chair. “You’ve got the black dresses, the shoes, the shift times all lined up. And you just need one more smiling server who can carry a tray without face-planting into a Christmas tree.”
Zoe studied her cuticles a little too intently. Across from her, Trixie smoothed her sleek ponytail. Meanwhile, Min-day’s bracelets chimed back to life.
Uh-huh. Exactly what I thought.
I got up, turned toward the little break nook at the back, and then paused. “On one condition.” I didn’t have to look to feel the spike of shut-the-hell-up giddiness behind me—it crackled like static.
“What?” Min-day blurted, too fast.
“I’m going to enjoy my French vanilla in the back while the three of you sweep, mop, and close down the shop for the weekend.”
“Done,” Zoe said.
“Deal,” Trixie chimed.
“On it,” Min-day added.
I leaned back against the nook counter, cradled my freshly filled mug in both hands, and breathed in the vanilla steam curling up from my favorite coffee. The swish of a broom sounded, the wet slap of the mop skated over tiles, and the faint citrus cleaner threaded through the air.
I took a slow sip and let my shoulders drop. Maybe I should go out with them more often, especially if it came with coffee and a front-row seat to my best friends doing the closing shift.
Available at: AMAZON.COM ~ AMAZON.CA
Preorder your copy for ONLY $0.99 before its release.