Cricket just so happens to be riding along in the aforementioned bubble backpack, sharing space with the aforementioned Jolly Beary like reluctant roommates forced to split a studio apartment. Rookie trots happily beside me on his leash, with his tail wagging with enough enthusiasm to generate renewable energy.
A wooden sign hanging by the door proudly declares “ALL PETS WELCOME!” in a swirling script surrounded by painted hot pink paw prints. I’m both relieved and slightly disappointed. Relieved for the obvious reason that my furry entourage won’t cause an immediate eviction, but a little bummed because I was hoping Cricket and Rookie would be the excuse I needed to make Clarabelle and Peggy sit on the outside patio while I went in to shake down the suspect.
Those two grannies have been known to get a little rowdy now and again—okay, so it’s more likeagainandagain. In fact, it’s sort of a given at this point.
“Look at this place.” Clarabelle gasps as we push open the door, releasing a wave of warm, spiced air that hits us like a hugfrom a freshly baked cinnamon roll. “It’s like stepping straight into a pumpkin spice dream.”
She’s not wrong. The Whisked Away Bakery looks like fall exploded and in a good way. The bustling shop is decorated with orange twinkle lights crisscrossing along the ceiling, illuminating walls that just so happened to be painted the color of pumpkin pie. Garlands of preserved maple leaves and miniature gourds drape from every available surface. The display cases—all three of them—are topped with ceramic turkeys wearing pilgrim hats, and an army of decorative pumpkins in various shapes, sizes, and inexplicable glitter levels stands guard by the register.
Peggy clucks her tongue. “This place is cozier than a quilt at a Sunday social, with autumn wrapped around every corner.”
“I’ll say,” Clarabelle agrees. “And it’s twice as delicious.”
I have to agree as well because it’s the scent that really seals the deal—butter and sugar and spice swirling together in a scent so powerful it should be regulated as an addictive substance. And because of it, my stomach growls loud enough to be mistaken for a bear waking up from hibernation.
If you don’t buy me one of everything in those cases, I’m leaving you for a family who appreciates my sophisticated palate,Cricket announces from her backpack, already clawing at the window.
Me, too!Rookie chimes in, despite having eaten half a breakfast sausage he found under the passenger seat on the way here.
No sooner do we step in deeper than we spot Meredith Thorne herself standing front and center, her plump figure draped in an apron printed with dancing turkeys. She’s holding one end of a check the size of a refrigerator, the “$20,000” printed in numbers big enough to see from space. At the otherend stands Oliver Prescott, Bunny’s silver-haired cousin, giving a smile so bright it could guide ships to shore.
A photographer clicks away frantically, shouting encouraging words like “bigger smile!” and “think about all that money!” as if Meredith and Oliver need the reminder.
Meredith Thorne is exactly what you’d imagine from someone who gifted her bakery with a delightfully quirky name—adorable with curly auburn hair going gray at the temples, kind blue eyes magnified by vintage cat-eye glasses that probably remember the Kennedy administration, and a face that looks like it was designed specifically for grandmotherly kisses. Her Southern charm radiates from her like heat from a wood stove.
“On behalf of the Pumpkin Palooza bake-off committee”—Oliver announces in his broadcaster-perfect voice—“I’m proud to bestow the grand prize to Meredith Thorne and The Whisked Away Bakery for her exceptional pumpkin spice waffles, which demonstrated superior flavor profile, texture, and innovative use of seasonal ingredients!”
The bakery, packed with customers clutching coffee cups and pastry bags, erupts in applause. Peggy claps the loudest, letting out a whoop that could probably be heard in the next county—if not clear to Georgia.
“You get yours, honey!” she shouts over the din. “That’s how us Southern girls do it!” She nudges me with a bony elbow. “And would you look at that silver fox holding the other end? I bet that check isn’t the only big thing she’s gettin’ her hands on today!”
I nearly choke on my reply. “I think she’s just getting the check. The man is free to leave.”
“Well, I guess I don’t see a ring on his finger.” Peggy perks up like someone just told her there’s a sale on leopard print dresses. “Well then, it’s every Southern girl for herself.” She perks up andgives her red curls a strategic pat while strutting toward Oliver like a hen that just spotted the last kernel of corn.
Poor Oliver.
The man’s eyes widen as he catches sight of Peggy bearing down on him with unbridled intent. He hastily passes his end of the check to a bakery employee and mumbles something about urgent business before making a beeline for the exit.
He might be single, but he’s certainly not ready to mingle with Peggy.
Most men aren’t.
The crowd begins to disperse as the photographer packs up and Meredith spots our little group by the door. Her face lights up like someone just told her she won another twenty grand.
“Well, butter my biscuit, if it isn’t my Southern sister from another mister!” she calls out, bustling over to envelop Peggy in a hug that threatens to disappear the smaller woman entirely. “And you brought friends! And, oh heavens to Betsy, are those the sweetest little fur babies I’ve ever laid eyes on?”
She crouches down to Rookie’s level, then peers into Cricket’s bubble. “Aren’t you just the most precious little things? Like a couple of furry angels sent down to brighten our day!”
If she gives me a treat, I might reconsider my stance on humans,Cricket concedes.
I already love her. She smells like COOKIES.Rookie’s thought practically vibrates with excitement.
“Y’all must let me bring you some sweet treats—on the house, of course!” Meredith insists, already heading toward the display cases. “You just find yourselves a table, and I’ll be right over with a sampler of everything pumpkin-spiced that isn’t nailed down!”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Clarabelle says, making a beeline for a table by the window.
I follow behind, unhooking Cricket’s bubble backpack and setting it gently on an empty chair. As we settle in, I surveythe cozy bakery with its pumpkin overload and the bustling customers, all blissfully unaware that we’re here for more than just pastries.
