Chapter One
Cinnamon
The bell above the door jingled, startling me from my spreadsheet of doom. I slipped into my sales persona—the one that used to coax hundred-dollar tips from Wall Street types at upscale hotel bars—and looked up, only for my smile to falter when a burst of crisp October air swept in without a customer attached.
Just the wind. Again.
I exhaled slowly and pushed away from the vintage cash register, stepping out from behind the counter to close the door. The rich scent of chocolate hung in the air, mingling with the cinnamon and vanilla I'd been using all morning. Sugar & Spice had been open for exactly three weeks, and after the initial curiosity of locals checking out Woodbridge Falls' newest shop, foot traffic had slowed to a trickle. More concerning was the fact that even those who did come in mostly browsed, complimented my "adorable" displays, and left without opening their wallets.
The spreadsheet didn't lie. At this rate, I'd be out of business by Christmas.
I adjusted the black-and-orange bunting framing my front window and straightened a display of pumpkin-shaped chocolate truffles beside jars of hand-pulled taffy in autumn colors. I'd spent hours crafting each piece, from the delicate brittles to the caramels to my signature chocolate work. The shine on the chocolate shells was perfect—something Nonna had taught me was the mark of true craftsmanship. They werebeautiful. They were delicious. And they were decidedly not selling.
I flicked a speck of dust from the antique candy scale that had belonged to Nonna and checked my phone. Two-thirty and I'd had exactly four customers all day. Two had bought nothing, one had purchased a single truffle, and the fourth—bless Mrs. Holloway and her sweet tooth—had bought a small box of assorted candies for her bridge club.
The tiny shop was a postcard of autumn splendor. Garlands of silk maple leaves in fiery hues draped the shelves, miniature pumpkins nestled between glass jars of colorful hard candies, and display cases gleamed with artfully arranged confections—each one made by hand in the tiny kitchen visible through an arched doorway at the back. The warmth of the shop was deliberate—I kept it at exactly 68 degrees, perfect for both customers and candy.
"You didn't come all this way just to fail at selling candy," I muttered to myself, smoothing down my burgundy dress and adjusting the practical black apron protecting it. Nonna had always said that candy making was equal parts art and resilience. "Precision in your hands, fire in your heart," she'd say in her thick Italian accent. She would have been proud to see me carrying on the family tradition, even if my path here had been unconventional.
For a brief moment, I was back in her kitchen at fourteen, watching those work-worn hands temper chocolate to a glossy sheen. "Not too hot, Cinnamon," she'd warn, her voice warm like the melted chocolate. "Patience makes it perfect." Patience was something I'd had to learn the hard way.
The bell jingled again, and this time an actual customer breezed in. Marjorie Winters, about sixty with a cloud of silver hair and an opinion on everything, was exactly the kind of woman who'd cross the street to avoid me in my previous life.Which was precisely why I had crafted a sanitized backstory about working in "hospitality" in New York before moving upstate to open my dream business.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Winters," I said, making my voice honey-sweet. "Looking for something to satisfy that sweet tooth today?"
"Oh, my precious Cinnamon dear." The older woman bustled over, peering into the display case with exaggerated interest, her cloud of overpowering Chanel No. 5 arriving seconds before she did. "Just wanted to see how you're settling in. Those displays are something else! So festive."
I nodded. "Thank you. I'm trying to capture the Halloween spirit."
"Well, you've certainly done that." Marjorie tapped a manicured finger against her chin. "Your displays are charming. Such variety! I haven't seen old-fashioned candy like this since I was a girl."
"Thank you," I said, moving to the display case. "I try to make something for everyone. The fruit jellies and gummies are popular with kids." I pointed to the colorful squares dusted with sugar. "And these traditional hard candies are made the traditional way—pulled and twisted by hand."
Marjorie leaned closer to the glass. "What about those chocolate pieces? They look divine."
"Dark chocolate truffles with different fillings—raspberry, hazelnut, and espresso. I also make brittles, caramels, lollipops, and fudge in several flavors. The bourbon fudge has been my best seller so far."
"Far more impressive than those pretentious little cakes Belinda Quimby serves at that ridiculous Gilded Teacup," Marjorie said with a sniff. "Did you know she puts on that fake British accent? As if anyone's fooled."
Her eyes suddenly lit up with that particular gleam that meant town gossip was imminent. "Speaking of local treats—have you heard? Woodbridge Falls is hosting the regional Halloween candy competition this year as part of our Autumn Harvest Festival!"
My ears perked up immediately. "Candy competition?"
"Oh yes, it's quite prestigious, darling. Rotates through towns in the region each year. Mayor Finch nearly burst a blood vessel with excitement when we were selected." She leaned in close enough that I could count the tiny spidery lines around her eyes. "The prize is ten thousand dollars, dear. And the publicity! Last year's winner in Saranac Lake saw his business triple."
My thoughts jumped like sugar in hot caramel. Ten thousand dollars would cover three months of operating expenses, maybe four if I was careful. It would give me breathing room to build a customer base, to make this place work. The kind of second chance money I hadn't seen since my best nights working the financial district crowd.
"When is this competition?" I asked, keeping my voice casual despite the adrenaline surge.
"Just two weeks away! The entry deadline is Friday." Marjorie's gaze drifted to the bourbon fudge. "They're featuring maple this year, you know. All entries have to showcase our region's finest syrup."
Maple. The word hit me like the perfect crack of a toffee sheet. Nonna's specialty had been maple-infused truffles—dark chocolate shells filled with a smoky maple cream that melted on the tongue like sin itself. I had grown up watching those skilled hands creating them, had helped her perfect the recipe before everything in my life had gone sideways. Before the car accident that left me with chronic pain, before my life took turns I never expected, before "Sweet Cinn" became my professional name rather than just my grandmother's nickname for me.
"That's a bit last-minute to decide on a theme, isn't it?" I asked.
Marjorie waved dismissively. "Oh, they announced it months ago, precious, but you weren't here yet. Anyway, with your talent..." She gestured at the display case. "You really should consider entering."
"I definitely will," I said, straightening a jar of ribbon candy. "The timing couldn't be better, actually. This shop could use the exposure." I glanced at her empty hands. "Now, can I tempt you with anything today? That bourbon fudge is on special."
