You don’t buy sexy underwear for someone you’re not attracted to. Maybe there was more to them? Maybe attending her sister’s wedding together would catapult their relationship to the next level—whatever that may be.
“Bridget, Mrs. Miller’s here!” Della called, poking her head out the half-opened door.
“Lori, I need to get back to work. Try not to give Scooter a second thought. I’ll handle him.”
“He’s supposed to be flying in the day of the wedding, so, hopefully, he won’t have time to do anything too outlandish.”
“That’s right!” Bridget affirmed. “Don’t give him a second thought. You enjoy Kringle Mountain. I’ll see you soon!” she said, injecting extra cheer into her voice. The last thing she wanted was for her sister to worry about anything the week of her wedding.
“Do you want me to get the cake?” Della asked, poking her head out again.
“No, I’ll get it,” she answered, ending the call.
She hurried inside and headed for the refrigerated room that held all the orders. And there it was—a gorgeous five-tiered cake.
The Millers had recently fallen on hard times. They’d been loyal customers for years. But when Peggy Miller put in the cake order for her daughter and saw the price, she’d asked for something less elaborate, citing her financial hardship.
But Bridget had offered to make the cake at half-price. It was the right thing to do. Her grandma Dasher had sold baked goods from her dusty West Texas home. And more times than Bridget could count, she’d witnessed the woman not only charging a fraction of the cost but outright giving away her culinary creations, especially around the holidays.
Following her grandmother’s baked-goods dance superstition, she twirled to give the cake one last round of love. Then, carefully, she slid the cake out of the refrigerator and headed for the front where Gaston Francois looked ready to blow a gasket.
“Where have you been? We cannot have Madame Miller waiting,” the little man barked.
“I apologize for the wait,” she said, setting the cake on a side table as the mother of the bride assessed the marzipan masterpiece.
“It’s perfect!” the woman exclaimed as tears came to her eyes. “And thank you for giving me a discount. This cake will be the centerpiece of the wedding.”
“You’re very welcome. It was my pleasure,” she answered, smiling at the grateful customer.
“Discount?” Gaston hissed, his fat cheeks growing red.
Bridget threw the man a nervous glance, then turned back to Mrs. Miller. “And I altered the recipe. I glazed the cakes with a simple syrup before I frosted it. It’ll keep it moist and delicious for days,” she added, silently thanking her grandma Dasher for teaching her that trick.
The woman lifted the cake box into her arms. “My daughter is going to love it. You’re an angel, Bridget Dasher.”
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Miller,” she said as a blanket of warmth enveloped her body.
There was nothing better than seeing her confectionary creations bring people happiness. She turned to her boss, but instead of being happy with a satisfied customer, Gaston glared at her, red-cheeked and seething.
“What’s wrong, chef?” she asked.
“You did not charge her full price?”
“No, chef. Mrs. Miller recently lost her job, and her husband’s been ill.”
“This is not a food bank, Brigette.”
She should have expected this. The man was a miser.
She gave him a placating smile. “I’m happy to pay the difference out of my wages. Now, I better get back to work.”
Gaston turned a deeper shade of red. “You’re not getting back to anything.”
“I’m not?” she replied, her voice barely a whisper.
This was not good.
Gaston Francois’s beady gaze darkened. “You dared to change my recipe?”
Oh no!
She tried to swallow, but her mouth had grown dry.
“Not changed, enhanced,” she sputtered.
“Enhanced?” he growled.
“Clients had commented that the cakes were a bit dry, that’s all. I decided to try something new,” she rambled, then smacked her hand over her mouth.
Altering a master chef’s recipe was the culinary kiss of death. She’d only made a tiny tweak, but it was still a change.
The little man cocked his head to the side as a slippery smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth. “You like to try new things, Brigette? Like giving away my cakes and enhancing my recipes that were perfected at Le Cordon Bleu? You, a girl with no formal training. No credentials.”
She stared at him. There wasn’t a right answer—not after what she’d admitted.
“I—” she began, but the chef raised his meaty index finger, silencing her.