Not Your Average Vixen - Krista Sandor

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