Billionaire Winterland Proposal

The ovens hiss like they’re scolding me for falling behind, and the bell over the front door will not stop ringing. Every time it jingles, another blast of cold air sweeps in, followed by a customer shouting an order before I can even look up from the tray of gingerbread men I’m trying not to burn.

I slide the tray onto the counter—barely avoiding dropping it— and wipe my flour-streaked hands on my apron. This is fine. I can do chaos. Chaos keeps me moving. Chaos keeps me from thinking. “Sweetheart, we’re out of cinnamon!” Mom calls from the front, her voice somehow both panicked and cheerful.

Of course, we’re out of cinnamon. The entire town of Winterland is apparently determined to buy out our supply today, because what else do people do two weeks before Christmas besides inhaling baked sugar?

“I’ll grab more from the back!” I yell over the chatter.

A toddler screams, someone laughs too loudly, and my heart pulses in my throat. I breathe through it—one breath in… two breaths out. Don’t crumble. Not today. As I push into the stockroom, the warm bakery air gives way to a cooler hush. A hush I wish I could live in, just for a moment.