If Santa did exist, she could only imagine the jolly man would be all about equal opportunity.
“I bet you really love Christmas, Bridget Vixen! Oops, I mean Bridget Dasher,” the girl replied, her cheeks growing rosy as she giggled at her mistake.
The pinpricks were back. But this time, they had nothing to do with her French tyrant of a boss.
“I do,” she replied, hoping the little girl didn’t notice the thread of sadness woven around her words.
She wasn’t lying. She’d always loved her last name—loved the connection to a time of year focused on family, friendship, and festivities. And she did love Christmas—the Christmases of the past where she wasn’t working or separated from Lori. Christmases, from over a decade ago, when she’d gather around a twinkling Christmas tree with not only her sister, but her parents and her grandma Dasher.
How she missed them.
The little girl’s gaze traveled to the cookie display, and she pressed her nose to the glass.
“Mommy, can I get an angel cookie, too?”
The woman peered into the case. “I didn’t see those! They’re precious! Yes, let’s add a dozen.”
Bridget removed the tray containing the decorated angels and angled it so the girl could get a better look. “The angels are my favorite. Have you ever made a snow angel?”
The girl nodded with gusto. “Yes! When we visit my nana in Minnesota for Christmas, it’s not like Texas. There’s lots of snow! As soon as we get there, I run outside with my cousin, and we make snow angels all over Nana’s backyard,” she replied, waving her arms and kicking her legs as if she were about to make one right here in the store.
Bridget chuckled. “I used to make them with my little sister when we were your age. My dad used to say that if you find a snow angel with no footprints leading up to it, you may have come upon one made by a real Christmas fairy. They like to make snow angels, too. He used to tell us that Christmas fairies would fly down from the North Pole, make a snow angel, then fly back to help Santa and his elves. And if you happened to catch one in the act, they’d grant you a Christmas wish.”
“Wow! I never heard of a Christmas fairy,” the little girl replied, wide-eyed.
Bridget leaned over the counter and waved the girl in. “Not many people know about them,” she said with a conspiratorial wink, like her dad used to do.
“Brigitte! Vite, vite! Look at all these customers!” Gaston Francois squawked, cutting short her conversation with the child as he glanced greedily at the packed shop before snapping her apron tie between his meaty fingers and pulling her down a few inches.
She gasped as the beady man eyed her warily.
“And what are you doing working the counter? Why aren’t you in the back, finishing up the wedding cakes? I’m running a business here—not a silly fairy cookie shop,” he hissed.
Her gaze darted toward the cashier and the drove of staff, boxing cakes, cookies, and puff pastries as if their lives depended on it.
Working for the temperamental chef was no walk in the park. When she’d started as an assistant baker, she’d hoped to learn from the man. Instead, she’d found herself doing the work of not only a pastry assistant but also the manager and the head baker. She could barely recall the last time the man lifted a finger in the kitchen. If he did show up, he’d hide away in his office, gobbling down whatever delectable pastry she’d prepared that day.
She was quite literally the Cinderella version of fondant and frosting.
“Sorry, chef, it was so crazy up front, I thought I’d help out,” she answered.
The shop was always busy, but the week before Christmas, it hummed, no, pulsed with a frenzied cinnamon-spiced, mistletoe-infused buzz of sugary-delicious energy. And this year was no different—except for one thing.
Instead of working through the holiday like a freight train barreling down the track with no end in sight, by this time tomorrow, she’d be boarding a plane headed for the snowcapped mountains of Colorado for Lori’s wedding.
A week of holiday bliss, away from the demanding glare of Monsieur Gaston Francois, celebrating with Lori, Tom, and members of Tom’s immediate family. It wasn’t a large group, but she’d have her hands full cooking, baking, and coordinating all the activities she’d set up.
That was who she was. The doer. The planner. The one behind the scenes making it