Excerpt One:
“Thanks for coming, Rye. I know this is early for you.”

“This is important.” Riley bites into the gingerbread and lets out a blissful sigh. “Mmm… just the right amount of spice.” 

She cradles the mug in both hands, inhaling deeply. 

I know that look, and instinctively brace for whatever she’s going to say. 

“You won’t forget me when you make it big, will you? If I have to keep sharing you, I’m afraid there won’t be anything left just for me.”

Her fear comes out the way it always does—half joke, half confession—and I respond the way I always do. 

With humor. 

Not because I want to minimize her feelings. She has good reason to feel the way she does. But if I take her words too seriously, we’ll spill over into territory that neither one of us can handle at six o’clock in the morning. Not when we have something important planned five minutes from now.

So I stick my tongue out instead. 

“Judging by the way my Instagram numbers jumped overnight, that might just be a possibility.” I wait a beat, then tone it down a notch just to be on the safe side. “Joking aside, it’s wild, considering I came in second.”

“I think America is affronted on your behalf.”

I almost snort. “Maybe they’re sympathy likes. Anyway, the winner deserved it.”

“Only you would be genuinely glad for someone else winning when we both know you needed that first place prize money for a refurb and the rent increase. What a wagon that Mrs. Wallace is, serving a rent increase to the bakery and the bookstore and who knows how many other businesses.” 

Wagon. This time I snort for real. “You are so Irish, you know that?”

Riley gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry you came in second. You deserved to win.”

“It’s okay. Someone on the show told me that contestants who come in second are often more popular than the winners and, you know what, they might be right because… ” I pull my cell phone out of my apron. “My inbox has been blowing up.”

“Oh..?”

“Listen to this. A cruise line wants me for a holiday residency next year. Live baking demonstrations while influencers sip champagne.  Can you imagine?”

Riley starts picking at her sweater. “On a ship like… on the open seas?”

“No, ‘fraidy cat. They operate on the Hudson, the Mississippi, and other rivers. But that’s not all.” I scroll through more emails. “There’s a seasonal TV show, an invitation to teach at a new culinary institute and, wait for it, an offer to consult on a script for a Hallmark show about a baker. I haven’t even looked at the rest, and there are a dozen more since I last che—”

“Clara.” Riley’s mug lands on the table with a soft thud. “These are big-time offers.”

I don’t even try to stop myself from pulling a face.

“I know right?”

“It’s not surprising, though. You were definitely the fan favorite, and that smile of yours at the end…”

“Crying on national TV wouldn’t have fit my brand.” I laugh softly as I bite into my own gingerbread slice. A personal victory, considering half the town showed up at the community center to watch the finale last night. “Besides, I was genuinely happy for the winner.”

Excerpt Two:
Most of my regulars aren’t rolling in money, but they’re willing to pay for coffee and baked goods from a third generation baker. 

It’s their way of making sure I don’t sell out to a chain. 

The hardware store went first; shortly after the Harvest Welcome festival in October. Mr. B knew whose pipes would freeze the second temperatures dropped below twenty degrees and whose drive would form black ice first. Lots of teenagers got their first job there. You’d walk in needing one hex nut bolt and leave forty minutes later fully updated on weather patterns, his wife’s health, and whose nephew was dating whom.

The pharmacy hurt in different ways. Bo, a sweet man who communicated primarily through nods, knew everyone’s allergies and didn’t need software to flag medication interactions. More importantly, he kept an unofficial eye on our seniors. If someone failed to pick up a prescription on time, he noticed.  

Rationally, I understand that businesses change hands all the time. People retire or die, their kids don’t want to take over the business, buildings get sold. But when you lose enough places like Mr. B’s, the pharmacy, and now the music shop, the town you grew up in only looks the same. The pieces that made it feel like home are gone.

 My thoughts veer toward the dark side again: what will happen to this place if I go? Mrs. Wallace raised my rent two years ago, too. Is there a conversation happening somewhere that I’m not aware of? Has she had an offer on the building? 

These are utterly unhelpful thoughts. Thanks, brain.

I press the heel of my hand up against my chin. There’s nothing I can do about hypothetical situations and conversations. What I can do something about, however, is the fact that Albi Drechsler has been sitting next door for far too long without a cup of coffee and something to eat.

Which is, technically, a perfectly reasonable neighborly concern. 

Not me avoiding my problems.

Not a keen interest in him, either. Although I’m less certain about that one.

I should stay here and finish inventory, or obsess about dog treats, but kindness is doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.

The decision is made before I can second-guess myself into changing my mind. I pack up the leftover savory muffins I was going to have for dinner, pour the last of the day’s coffee into a takeout cup, and head to the music shop.

Because that’s what people do in towns like ours. 

They look in on each other.

XXX