CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES, it was the worst of times.
And she was definitely in the wrong Dickens story. Because this was really, very much the worst of times. At least the worst possible time for her house to fall apart. Not even the shimmering snow swirling outside the window and the scent of the real pine tree in the living room could transport her into old Bob Cratchit's kitchen.
With a grunt, Whitney Garrett kicked her oven door closed and threw herself against the stovetop. The downright chilly stovetop. The one that should have been toasty warm by now since she'd turned the oven on to preheat twenty minutes before.
Resting her head on her crossed arms, she groaned in the direction of the nearest burner.
It probably didn't work either.
The stupid oven had been on the fritz for months. But she'd thought it would hang on at least a little while longer. Just through the Christmas season. That was all she needed. Five weeks. That was not too much to ask.
Except, apparently it was.
She kicked the white metal frame and promptly screamed as her big toe throbbed. Stumbling toward the adjacent counter, she hopped on one foot until the pain subsided.
Letting out a soft sigh, she stared at the three pies—uncooked as they were—sitting on her counter. All apple cherry with precise lattice tops and rippled rims. But they were missing the golden color and rich scent that made everyone's mouths water.
She shot one more scowl at her broken appliance for good measure.
Whitney had called her landlord, Craig, about getting the oven looked at a week ago. He'd stopped by and fiddled with something near the pilot light. And it had worked for exactly five days.
He'd done the same thing with her washing machine the summer before. It had lasted for three weeks. Craig was one of those guys who insisted on being the first line of defense. He wouldn't pay for a repairman until he'd tried to fix it himself.
Picking up her phone, she punched in Craig's office number. It rang and rang, and no amount of tapping her toe made him answer. She was just about to hang up when his voicemail kicked in.
"Hey, this is Craig. The missus and me are in the Maldives for our fortieth anniversary. Leave me a message, and I'll get back to you when we get home the middle of December."
Whitney put her phone on the counter and glared at it. "Seriously?"
Craig was literally halfway around the world and clearly not checking voicemails. For three weeks. Those were weeks she couldn't spare. Not when she could bake only a couple pies at a time. And when she'd already paid for her stall at the Summerside farmers' market in two weeks.
Staring at her phone for a long moment, she debated her next move. She snatched it up and put it back down just as quickly.
Just call them.
No.
Maybe they'll change their minds.
Her fingers brushed her phone before she yanked them back. Her dad had been more than clear.
But these are extenuating circumstances.
Every other absolute failure had had extenuating circumstances too.
Her parents weren't going to bail her out of another harebrained scheme—and she'd had many of them. Even though she'd fully thought through her plan to attend the culinary institute in the spring, if things fell apart, she'd already used up every single favor a daughter could ask for.
With a huff, she pushed her phone across the rust-colored counter and turned to the pies, already picturing the way the cherries would bubble and turn the apples bright red. She just needed a place to cook them.
An image flashed across her mind. Double ovens built into the wall.
Stainless steel. Meticulously maintained. Enough room for even the biggest Christmas feast.
