The bell above the door jingled as a gust of autumn wind swept in, sending a few golden leaves skittering across the checkerboard floor. The scent of cinnamon and warm bread wrapped around the two women like a cozy blanket. “You’re telling me *Mabel* actually accused *you* of stealing her famous pumpkin roll recipe?” A laugh bubbled up, rich and warm. “Oh, she didn’t just accuse me—she *declared* it from the top of the town square fountain. Said I’d ‘betrayed the sacred trust of bakers everywhere.’” “Well, that’s dramatic. Did she at least offer proof?” “Proof? Honey, she pointed at my new oven and said, ‘That’s *exactly* the kind of contraption a recipe thief would buy!’” The counter creaked as someone leaned against it, arms crossed. “You *did* get that oven right after the Harvest Festival last year…” “Because it was on sale! And because my old one sounded like a dying lawnmower. Besides, Mabel’s recipe is *half* brown sugar and *all* ego. Mine’s got actual cardamom.” A pause. Then, softly: “…You *do* put cardamom in yours, don’t you?” “Of course I do. And if Mabel had half a brain, she’d stop blaming me and start wondering why *her* rolls taste like sad, overworked pie crust.” The timer dinged, and the scent of vanilla and butter intensified. “Well, either way, you’d better brace yourself. She’s coming in here tomorrow with a fresh batch of accusations—and probably a casserole.”