The Bakery beneath the Mistletoe

First Light

Morning arrived gently, like it didn’t want to disturb me. Sunlight slipped through the lace curtains of my old bedroom, warm and golden, catching on the faint shimmer of the glow-in-the-dark stars still clinging to the ceiling. Outside, snow drifted down in slow, delicate flakes, like the sky was sprinkling powdered sugar over the town. For a moment, I just lay there under my embarrassingly pink comforter, listening to the quiet creaks of the old Victorian house waking up.

I stretched, yawned, and swung my feet to the floor, the wooden boards cold beneath my toes. The scent of coffee drifted up the stairs, strong and familiar. Mom, naturally.

When I walked into the kitchen, she already had two mugs set out and was humming a Christmas tune under her breath. Dad was reading the newspaper like someone in a cozy commercial. “Morning, sleepyhead,” Mom said, sliding a mug toward me. “Morning,” I said, wrapping both hands around it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed waking up to the smell of coffee and snow.” Dad chuckled. “Snow smells the same in the city.” “Not like this,” I insisted, sipping. After breakfast, scrambled eggs, toast, and the most perfect slice of cinnamon bread, I pulled on my boots and coat. Mom tossed me a hat she’d knitted years ago. “You’ll need that,” she said. “It’s colder downtown.”

Downtown... Meaning the bakery. My heart fluttered, nerves and excitement doing a strange dance in my chest. The drive was short but nostalgic. Every street corner held a memory: sledding down the big hill as a kid, the park where I learned to ride a bike, the bookstore where I spent entire summer afternoons buried in romance novels. Then the bakery appeared. Winslow’s Hearth.

Snow blanketed the roof. Garlands framed the windows. The gold lettering on the front door still gleamed proudly, just as it had when I was little. My breath caught. “It looks the same,” I whispered. “Of course it does,” Dad said, parking the truck. “It’s been loved.”

Inside, warmth hit me like a hug, rich with the smell of fresh bread, vanilla, and something sweet baking in the ovens. Bells jingled overhead as we stepped in. A handful of employees bustled around, laughing and chatting as they worked. Mom waved them over.

“Everyone, this is Clara,” she said, pride glowing in her voice. “She’s here for a few weeks.” A chorus of greetings filled the air.

There was Molly, the college student who managed the register in between studying for exams. Henry, the older gentleman who’d been decorating cakes since before I was born. And Lily, the sweetheart who handled all the holiday gift boxes with the precision of a surgeon. They welcomed me without hesitation, with warm, genuine smiles that eased my nerves instantly. “We’ve heard so much about you,” Molly said. “All good things, I hope,” I replied, earning a round of chuckles. I looked around, soaking in every detail, the shining glass display filled with pastries, the chalkboard menu with little doodles Mom had probably drawn, the familiar oven timers ticking away. “Is the manager here?” I asked casually, trying not to seem too interested. Mom shook her head. “Evan? No, honey. He’s off today. Poor man’s been working nonstop for weeks. He needed the rest.” Evan.

So that was his name.

And just like that, curiosity sparked inside me, unexpected and oddly warm. A man who could run all of this during the busiest time of the year? Someone who knew the flow of the shop better than anyone? Someone who, according to Mom’s tone, was both hardworking and dependable? My stomach fluttered in a way that had nothing to do with the cinnamon bread I’d eaten. “Well,” Dad said, clapping his hands. “Let’s give you the grand tour.” I followed them past the counter, past the ovens, past the mixers humming softly like old friends. Every corner felt alive with memories and possibilities. I couldn’t meet the manager today. But somehow, I already felt the pull of him. Of the bakery. Of this life. And the day had only just begun.

Dad and Mom drifted off toward the back ovens to check a batch of rising dough, leaving me near the front of the shop. I took a slow walk along the walls, soaking in the decorations I hadn’t seen in years. The holiday shelves were overflowing with nostalgic charm. Old ceramic gingerbread houses lined the ledge above the counter, the same ones I used to beg to rearrange when I was little. A garland of felt cookies hung along the menu board; my mother had stitched those herself when I was ten. Even the antique wooden nutcracker still stood proudly near the entrance, his paint chipped and faded from decades of being knocked over by excited children.

I found myself smiling without realizing it. Then my gaze drifted lower, to the display case filled with Christmas treats. Snowflake sugar cookies dusted with glittery sprinkles. Peppermint brownies swirled with white chocolate. Cinnamon star twists are arranged in perfect spirals. I ran my fingertips lightly along the edge of the glass. “This place hasn’t changed at all,” I murmured. “Yeah, it kinda refuses to,” a voice said beside me. I turned to find Molly leaning against the counter, wiping powdered sugar off her apron. She gave me a warm smile, bright, friendly, and a little mischievous. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” “It’s okay,” I said. “I was just… taking it all in.” She followed my gaze around the shop. “It does that to people. Especially the ones who grew up here.” I nodded, feeling that truth settle somewhere deep. After a moment, Molly tilted her head. “So… you’re here to help out for a couple weeks, right?” “That’s the plan,” I said. “Assuming I don’t burn the place down on day one.” She laughed, a bright bubble of sound. “Trust me, we’ve all come close. It’s part of the learning curve.” I glanced toward the office in the back. “And the manager, Evan? Is he usually around this early?” Molly’s face practically lit up. “Ohhh,” she said, dragging out the sound in a way that made me narrow my eyes. “So you’ve heard of him.” “I’ve… heard the name,” I said carefully. She grinned like she absolutely didn’t believe me. “Well, you picked an interesting time to come back. Evan’s pretty much the heart of the place. Keeps us organized, keeps things running, makes sure Henry doesn’t accidentally set fire to the mixer again.” I blinked. “Again?”

She waved her hand. “Long story. Anyway, Evan’s… uh… intense, but in a good way.” “Intense how?”

She thought for a moment. “He’s the type who takes everything seriously. Not in a boring way, no, he’s funny. But he’s committed, you know? He’s here before sunrise most days. Knows every recipe like the back of his hand. And he doesn’t ask anyone to do anything he wouldn’t do himself.” I felt something warm spark in my chest. “That’s… impressive,” I admitted.

“It is,” Molly agreed. “And honestly? He’s just a good guy. Really kind. Really patient. And he cares a lot about this place. About your parents. About… well, everything.”

Her eyes flicked toward me, studying my face like she was searching for something. I tried to ignore the little twist in my stomach.

“So,” Molly added casually, “when he comes back tomorrow, try not to be intimidated. He looks kind of serious, but he’s not mean. And he’s great at teaching people things.” “Including hopeless beginners?” I asked. “Especially hopeless beginners,” she laughed.

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying not to look as flustered as I suddenly felt.

Tomorrow I’d meet the man everyone here seemed to admire. And somehow, the thought of meeting him made my pulse skip in a way I definitely wasn’t ready to analyze. Molly smirked knowingly. “Don’t worry,” she said lightly. “You’ll like him.”

I had a strange feeling she was right.