The bell above the door jingled as a gust of autumn wind swept in, scattering a few golden leaves across the checkerboard floor. The scent of cinnamon and warm bread wrapped around the two women like a cozy blanket. "Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. Every time I try to bake a pie, it comes out looking like a science experiment gone wrong." A soft chuckle came from behind the counter. "Well, maybe if you stopped trying to rush it. Baking’s like life—you can’t force it to turn out right." "Says the woman who’s won the county fair blue ribbon three years running." The first woman leaned against the glass display case, eyeing the rows of perfectly golden pastries. "I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you had some kind of magic in that kitchen." "Magic? No. Just patience and a little extra butter." The baker slid a still-warm cinnamon roll across the counter. "Here. Consider this a peace offering for your poor, neglected pies." "Oh, you’re a saint." The woman took a bite, her eyes widening. "Okay, fine. Maybe I *do* need to slow down. But if I do, who’s going to keep you on your toes?" "Darling, I’ve got a whole town full of people for that." The baker wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron, grinning. "Now, are you here for just the cinnamon roll, or do you need something to take home to that husband of yours?"