Copyright © 2020 by Krista Sandor
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Krista Sandor
Candy Castle Books
Cover Design by Marisa-rose Wesley of Cover Me, Darling
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-7343629-7-8
Visit www.kristasandor.com
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Contents
Chapter 1
Bridget
Chapter 2
Soren
Chapter 3
Bridget
Chapter 4
Soren
Chapter 5
Bridget
Chapter 6
Bridget
Chapter 7
Soren
Chapter 8
Soren
Chapter 9
Bridget
Chapter 10
Bridget
Chapter 11
Soren
Chapter 12
Soren
Chapter 13
Bridget
Chapter 14
Soren
Chapter 15
Soren
Chapter 16
Bridget
Chapter 17
Bridget
Chapter 18
Soren
Chapter 19
Bridget
Epilogue
Also by Krista Sandor
The Inside Scoop + Playlist
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Bridget
“Miss, we’ll take four chocolate peppermint eclairs, two dozen of the classic French Madeleines, and a dozen of those adorable Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sugar cookies. Are those new? I don’t remember seeing those darling decorated cookies last year,” a rosy-cheeked woman donning a candy cane pin asked as she held the hand of a little girl with pigtails.
Bridget Dasher brushed her long bangs out of her eyes with the back of her wrist, then nodded to the woman who, along with her pint-sized companion, was sandwiched between a sea of bakery patrons, all eager to procure holiday treats the week before Christmas. But before she could answer, Gaston Francois, the chef and owner of Gaston Francois Pâtisserie, Dallas’s most acclaimed pastry shop, nudged his ample belly forward. He pushed her to the side, causing her to nearly fall over onto one of the assistant bakers sliding a fresh tray of fragrant macarons into the display case. The oblivious man took no notice as he thrust onto his tiptoes. At five one, the master chef could barely see over the counter. But what he lacked in height, he’d made up for in ego, pomp, and pageantry.
“Mais ouí! But, of course, madame! Who doesn’t love the red-nosed reindeer?” the man replied, his thick French accent as syrupy as his smile.
Bridget pressed her lips together in a forced grin when the woman with the macarons leaned over and whispered into her ear.
“Weren’t you the one who suggested the Rudolph cookies? They’re selling like hotcakes. You should open up a bakery of your own, Bridget. Everybody knows you’re the one who makes this place tick.”
“It’s a team effort,” she replied under her breath, her pasted-on smile still in place.
She knew damn well that the only team in this shop was Team Bridget, busting her ass to churn out pastry perfection and make this place run like clockwork. But Gaston Francois had a fancy degree from Le Cordon Bleu. The only credentials she could tout were a childhood spent baking alongside her grandmother and a few online business courses she’d taken over the years.
Who was she to open up her own shop?
No, the smart thing to do was play it safe. She had a job that paid the bills. That had to be enough.
“Brigitte!” came the chef’s high-pitched squeal, sending an avalanche of piercing pinpricks through her body.
She used to love the sound of a French accent until she started working here six years ago.
Had it been six years?
She stood there, frozen in place, and stared out at the mass of people whose lives seemed to teem with purpose and resolve.
She had purpose, right? She had Lori, her little sister, who, at twenty-five, only three years her junior, wasn’t exactly little anymore. But Lori was all she had. Warmth infused with pride smoothed out the needling pinpricks at the thought of her bubbly, bright-eyed sis. An Ivy League grad and an accomplished attorney practicing in Boston, Lori had attained every goal she’d set. And, in the space of a week, she could add happily married woman to her list of accomplishments.
The little girl whose hair she used to braid was on the cusp of starting a life with the man she loved.
Bridget swallowed past the lump in her throat. It was just excitement and nerves. She’d taken on the role of wedding planner for her hardworking legal eagle of a sister. And, of course, she’d insisted on making the wedding cake and planning a bevy of activities for the entire wedding party over the week leading up to the nuptials.
But it wasn’t like she’d had months to pull the event together. Lori and Tom’s whirlwind romance started barely five months ago. And when her sister told her that she and Tom wanted to get married over the winter holiday on Christmas Eve, like their parents had done thirty years ago at a charming mountain house located in the Colorado Rocky Mountains, the wedding countdown clock started ticking. And there wasn’t a moment to lose.
“Hey, your last name is Dasher—like one of Santa’s reindeer,” the little girl with pigtails exclaimed, pulling Bridget from the past.
She tucked away the thoughts of her sister’s Christmas wedding, then tapped her name tag.
“That’s right! I’m up there with Dancer and Prancer.”
“And Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen,” the girl added, counting off the reindeer on her fingers.
Bridget chuckled. “Don’t forget Vixen. You don’t want to leave her out.”
The child’s brows drew together. “Vixen’s a girl reindeer?”
“Why not?” Bridget answered with a playful shrug.
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 sh
e 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 happen.
“You!” Gaston ordered, pointing at a gangly teen, sweeping up the bits of powdered sugar and cookie crumbs.
The blood drained from the kid’s face. “Yes, chef?”
“Assist this woman and her daughter. Brigette needs to tend to the cakes.”
“Merry Christmas, Bridget Vixen,” the little girl said with a wave, again, mixing up the reindeer.
“Same to you. And keep an eye out for the Christmas fairies when you’re in Minnesota,” she added, then glanced at her scowling boss before making a beeline toward the back of the shop.
The swinging door closed behind her, but not a second had passed before she was hit with another barrage of people who needed her.
“How many plum tarts for the Holbert order?”
She caught the eye of a young man whipping up a batch of frosting. “Four dozen,” she answered, plucking a tasting spoon, sampling the creamy vanilla confection, then nodding her approval.
“Do you want me to make another batch of the chocolate Bûche de Noel cakes?” another baker called.
She assessed the table, lined with the French yule logs. “Let’s make another dozen. We’ve only got a few left in the case.”
A part-timer waved to her from the back of the kitchen with the bakery phone in her other hand. “Mrs. Miller’s on the line. She wants to pick up her daughter’s wedding cake an hour early.”
Bridget glanced at the clock. “Then it’s a good thing I finished it last night.”
“That’s in fifteen minutes! Are you sure?” the woman pressed.
“It’s ready, and I’ll make sure to greet Mrs. Miller myself,” Bridget replied when her phone pinged in her apron pocket.
“Is that your boyfriend calling?” Della, a sassy sixteen-year-old seasonal hire, chimed from where she stood, sliding a batch of puff pastry into one of the industrial ovens.
“I doubt it. Garrett is pretty busy at the hospital,” she replied as unease rippled through her chest.
When was the last time she’d actually seen her boyfriend?
They’d texted a few times this week, but with work and wedding planning, she’d barely had a second to herself over the last month.
“Dating a fancy doctor,” the teen clucked, but Bridget frowned.
This young lady needed to learn that, in the kitchen, the focus was on the food. Her grandma Dasher had instilled that in her from day one. But it wasn’t a gloomy attention to task that she’d prescribed—quite the opposite. Grandma Dasher believed in the magic of positivity.
Always bake with love.
And how had she infused her confectionary creations with the emotion?
By singing and dancing.
Oh, how they had loved to dance as the sweet scent of a soufflé or a lemon tart lured Lori to join them in the kitchen—especially during the holidays. They’d sway to Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas,” laughing and twirling in the warm, cozy space.
Bridget schooled her features. “Watch what you’re doing, Della. You do not want to burn anything in this bakery. Especially with chef right up front,” she warned, gesturing with her chin toward the door leading to the bakery’s retail area.
The teen cringed, then saluted her acknowledgment before turning to observe the delicate pastry as it grew crisp in the heated oven.
“And don’t forget to dance,” she added.
The girl huffed as she did a little shimmy, followed by a twirl.“ I know. I know. Always follow Grandma Dasher’s advice. Dancing spreads good karma to whatever you’re baking.”
Bridget suppressed a grin. Her grandma Dasher would be proud. But before she could fall back into her memories, her phone pinged again. She pulled it from the apron pocket, and now she couldn’t hold back her smile.
“I’ll be in the alley taking a five-minute break,” she announced to the bustling staff before heading out the back door.
She sat down on a crate, then answered the call. “Hey, little sis! How’s Colorado?”
“Birdie, Kringle Mountain House is amazing. It’s exactly how I remembered it when we used to come here with Grandma, Mom, and Dad. I can’t believe I’m getting married here! There are so many big changes on the horizon.”
All the anxiety Gaston Francois had whipped up inside her melted away at the sound of Lori’s voice. Her sister still called her by her nickname, Birdie—given to her by her parents, who said when she was a wee little thing, she’d pop her head out of the crib like a little bird. Lori was the only one who called her
that now—the two syllables a salve for her heart.
“So, you made it in okay last night? Tom’s family, too?” she pressed.
“We sure did. And the SUV they sent from Kringle Mountain House was right there, waiting for us outside the airport. I needed to make a quick pit stop on the way. But we arrived here safe and sound. They’re calling for some snow, quite a bit of snow, from what the mountain house staff says,” Lori reported.
A smile—a real smile—stretched across Bridget’s face. Her plans to give Lori and Tom the perfect Christmas wedding would only be better with the addition of a Rocky Mountain winter snowstorm.
“That’s great news! I’ve arranged for you all to ski today and tomorrow. You’ll have loads of fresh powder! Kringle Mountain House should still have a lift to bring you up to the ski runs.”
“It’s there. I can see it from my room,” Lori answered with a touch of nostalgia to her words.
Bridget nodded, grateful the staff had given Lori and Tom the room she’d selected for them. The mountain house only had five rooms—exactly what they needed—no more and no less—to accommodate Tom’s immediate family for an intimate mountain wedding.
“You’ve got the schedule of events and activities I emailed to you, right? I sent a copy to the Kringle Mountain House caretakers, too.”
“Oh, yes, Birdie, super baker and wedding planner extraordinaire, I got it. It’s so kind of you. You’ve thought of everything and have already done so much.”
A heavy beat of silence passed between them.
“What is it?” she asked, sensing something was weighing on her sister’s heart.
Lori released a shaky breath. “After Mom and Dad died, back when we were girls, and then when we lost Grandma Dasher two years later, you’ve been my rock. I don’t know what I would have done without you. And now, I’m getting married, and I’m…” Lori trailed off, her voice thick with emotion.
Not Your Average Vixen: A Christmas Romance Page 1