Chapter Text
Sharon didn’t even both going to Nat’s place when she got into town. She was only here for the Christmas holidays, and she’d scrimped and saved her time off from her job in New York for these precious couple weeks. But it was worth it. Christmas in her hometown was always worth it. And it didn’t hurt that this time, even though she was – as always – desperate for the familiar, she also had news to share. And there was only one place where she could share her news in a familiar place: Mrs. Wilson’s.
Sam spotted her as soon as she fumbled with the door, pushing too soon and trying to twist the knob with her gloved hand, and he hurried to open it for her. “You still have your suitcase?” He grabbed it for her – in typical home-for-the-holidays fashion, it was her largest one – and set it aside before pulling her into a hug. “Don’t let my sister know you came here before you even got settled just so you could get some of her baked goods. Her head is big enough.”
“I seriously doubt it,” Sharon said cheerfully. She hugged him back and buried her face in his sweater. Just as she’d expected, he smelled of fresh baked goods and a hint of spice from his aftershave. Like so many smells here, it reminded her of home. “I can’t imagine Sarah being full of herself.”
“She’s not full of herself,” Sam admitted. “But as her brother, it’s my job to head off any ego before it can take root.”
Sharon rolled her eyes and pulled away just in time to see Sarah carrying a plate of cookies to a table.
Sam looked behind the counter, then around the shop. “Where is she?” Spotting Sarah, he raised his voice. “Sarah! Look who the storm blew in!”
Sarah turned at the sound of Sam’s voice and smiled widely as she saw Sharon, who smiled back and gave her a wave. Sarah wove through the crowd. “Sharon! I heard you were coming in!”
“Didn’t even bother putting her luggage down first,” Sam said.
She gave him a betrayed look. He’d told her not to mention it! And then it occurred to her, since neither of them were particularly concerned that Sarah might get an ego, that turnabout was fair play. “I’ve been craving the Christmas cookies since last Christmas,” Sharon confessed. “You still have some left, right?” She twisted her wrist to look at her watch, but her glove was in the way. She grimaced and clumsily tried to tug her gloves off.
“Someone mentioned you might be in today, actually.” Sam leaned in to help her with her gloves as Sarah laughed. “I agreed to set two boxes aside with the understanding that you would pay and deliver one of the boxes to Nat.”
Sharon sighed. She hadn’t even seen Nat yet, but this was absolutely a Nat move. Then she brightened. That meant cookies were left. “I’d better eat mine here, then.”
Sam grinned and nodded. “I’ll get the cookies. Are you going to get coffee? You remember where it is, right? We’re kind of busy – you might have to make it yourself.”
Bucky appeared at Sam’s elbow. “I’ve got the coffee,” he announced, handing Sharon a cup. “Good to see you again, Sharon. Nat with you?”
Sharon smiled. “I suspect she’s waiting at home where it’s nice and warm, otherwise she’d be here.”
Bucky smiled back and everyone there continued not to talk about how obvious his crush on Natasha was. He looked at Sam and Sarah. “You tell her?”
Sam gave him a look of irritation. Like so many things about Sam, it was still good-natured. There was a reason everyone in town liked Sam. “We we’re going to,” he said. “And then someone interrupted.”
Bucky frowned. His mouth began to form the word “Who?” and then his frown deepened. “Oh. Ha, ha. I’m going to go help Misty.”
“If she even lets you,” Sam said.
Bucky made a face at him and headed to the counter, where he said something that made Misty, currently working the cash register, raise her eyebrow in stony silence until Bucky took the hint and slunk off.
Sharon sighed happily. “It’s good to be home.”
Sarah’s smile faltered. “You’d better sit down.” Before the words were out of her mouth, she was guiding Sharon to one of the few empty tables.
Sharon fell into a seat, and Sarah sat across from her. Since there were only two chairs, Sam stood beside Sarah. Sharon looked at each of them in turn. This seemed… serious.
Sarah leaned in. “I know you don’t like change…”
Sharon’s features twisted. “In my defense, most changes are terrible. Nat was telling me about Nick’s Inn and how the people who took it over are driving it into the ground with some egotistical waste of a business.”
“Hey, Steve,” Sam greeted someone nearby.
The man drew closer, but Sharon didn’t pay him any attention. She shook her head and leaned in. “It’s some sort of bistro now? A bistro. Like anyone here asked for a snobby bistro with overpriced, overhyped, soulless food with some fancy French pastry chef who thinks he’s better than everyone else. Nick’s was perfect just the way it was!”
She took a sip of her coffee, waiting for Sarah and Sam to affirm her rant. Instead, both were silent. And the silence was becoming awkward. She frowned and looked between Sarah and Sam in a questioning manner.
“Sharon,” Sam offered. “This is Steve Rogers.”
Sharon, still confused, turned to greet the man. He was handsome, in a blonde-jock-next-door sort of way. And he looked desperately awkward. She tried to smile at him even as she couldn’t help but think she was missing something.
Sam continued with, “He’s the head pastry chef at Nick’s.”
Sharon’s eyes widened.
To his credit, as awkward as it was, Steve held out his hand.
She shook it, feeling like a right idiot. “I’m so sorry!”
“It’s okay.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant it or if he just wanted to get out of there. She felt compelled to try and make it right, though. “I also heard Nick’s has-” crap she hasn’t heard anything good. “Very good…” crapcrapcrapcrap. “Structure.”
“Structure,” he repeated.
Was Sam choking? Let him.
“Structure,” she repeated. “Very good bones.”
He didn’t look convinced. If anything, he looked concerned about her. A genuine, should-she-be-committed concern. “Yeah. I heard that, too.” He’s a terrible liar. “Well. You should come over and see… the structure sometime.”
She smiled. “I will,” she promised, lying just as well as he did.
“Actually,” a still-breathing Sam said, “you should hear this, too.” He looked expectantly at Sarah. After a moment, so did Sharon and Steve.
Sarah took a deep breath. “We’re selling the bakery.”
Sharon wasn’t aware of anything but a ringing in her ears. She wasn’t sure if her eyes worked. She couldn’t see clearly. But did it really matter? Mrs. Wilson’s was- she couldn’t even think it. How? Mrs Wilson’s was where she’d worked after school and on holidays, along with Sarah and Sam and Bucky. The employees had become her family. She’d grown up there.
One thought crystallized in tiny fragments that slowly bumped into each other as her brain started to function again. If she lost Mrs. Wilson’s, she’d lose a part of herself.
“You can’t sell the bakery,” she managed, tripping over her words but not enough to stop the words from tumbling out. “It’s a landmark.”
Sarah patted her hand. “Have to. I’m moving away”
Sharon gaped at her. “What? Where?”
“The kids and I are moving to Florida to be with their dad and to help look after his folks.”
Sam nodded. “And I can’t keep this place going myself. But.” He gave Sarah another pointed look.
Sarah leaned away from him. Siblings supported each other, sure, but that support had limits. “I think it’s high time you share something, Sam.”
Sam made a face at her. “Fine.” He breathes through his nose. “Sharon. We know how much you don’t like change. And this is our mom’s place. We don’t want to see it change, either.”
“Not enough for you to stay, though,” Sharon argued.
“Sharon.” He waited, and after a moment she shut her mouth, her lips thin. “I don’t want to stay and run this place without my family,” he explained. “Which brings me back to what I was saying – even though we have people interested in the place, we want to sell it to someone we know can carry on Mrs. Wilson’s much like it’s been carrying on. Give it, basically. It would be free. If they keep it the way it is.”
Deciding that Sam was taking too long to get to the point, Sarah burst out with, “We’re having a baking competition!”
“A-” Sharon blinked at her. “A baking competition?”
Sarah nodded. “Whoever can recreate Mom’s recipes. Starting with the twelve days of Christmas cookies.”
Sharon looked down at her coffee. When she looked up again, she said, “And anyone can compete? And you’ll ignore those other offers and sell them the shop?”
Sam grinned. “That’s the idea. It’s not about the money. We’ve gotten by on too little money long enough to know how to make ends meet.”
“So even I could win,” she suggested.
Sam’s grin froze. After a moment, he looked at Sarah, who looked back with equal trepidation.
“I can do it,” Sharon said. “I worked here for years growing up.”
Sam made a face. “And you did great work,” he commended her. “And the more you worked outside of the kitchen, the better it was.” He ignored how Sharon’s jaw dropped and turned to Steve. “You mentioned wanting your own place. You in?”
“Yeah.” Steve nodded. Too much, in Sharon’s opinion. Nobody nodded that much. “Give me the details and I’m there.”
“Me, too!” Sharon tossed in. Okay, true. Sharon could neither bake nor cook to save her life, but that didn’t mean she was going down without a fight.
“What’s wrong?” Natasha asked as soon as she opened the door.
Sharon blinked at her, then looked down at herself in search of something amiss. Had she forgotten her suitcase?
Natasha plucked the bag of cookies from her hand, and Sharon’s head popped up.
“Don’t you dare,” she warned.
Natasha didn’t listen, instead digging into the bag. “Both boxes of cookies, all cookies accounted for. So they told you.”
Sharon barely managed to grab her box of cookies before she stumbled. “You knew?”
Natasha shrugged, a humble gesture that was anything but. “I know everything that happens around here. Except who the new owner is going to be, of course.”
“Me,” Sharon said firmly
Natasha watched as Sharon struggled to pull her suitcase into the apartment. She continued to watch as she bit into a cookie and Sharon almost strangled herself trying to get her scarf off. Only when Sharon was free of her winter gear did she say, “Are you sure?”
Sharon frowned at her. "Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be sure?”
“Because you can’t cook?” Natasha offered, as helpful as ever. “Or bake? I’d say you could poison people with your food, but they’d spit it out before it could do any damage.”
Sharon set her hands on her hips and almost dropped her box. She scrambled to catch them. “I’ll have you know that I’m up for a promotion at the magazine. Chief food decorator.”
“But you just decorate, right?” Natasha drawled. “Not make.”
Sharon groused. “I just have to practice, that’s all. How hard can it be?”
Natasha tapped a finger to her chin. “How long have you been trying again? Like. How old are you.”
Sharon made a face. “I’m going to take that as you volunteering to be my guinea pig.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Feigning triumph, Sharon proceeded to wrestle her suitcase into her room. Gasping for air wasn’t the best way to feign triumph, but she wouldn’t admit defeat. She couldn’t.
But there was one thing she knew: She was going to have to train.
The next day, she stopped by Mrs. Wilson’s to pick up more cookies and details on the contest. She asked for copies of the recipes, only for Sam to give her a flat look and tell her that it defeated the purpose. Sharon asked for any recipes, and he guided her out of the restaurant, said, “You know we like you. But please don’t do this,” and saw her on her way. She stole a flyer for the competition on her way out, though.
She went to the book shop and bought several cookbooks. She already knew how to decorate, and if she were judged on frosting alone, that would be one thing. But she knew it wouldn’t be enough.
After that, she went to the grocery store, one of the baking cookbooks open to an ingredient for macaroons in her cart, propped up against her purse. She scanned the shelves, stopping to wait on someone scanning ingredients in the baking aisle.
He glanced at her, and the apology froze in his mouth.
Her eyes widened. She hurried to cover it up. Her? Embarrassed about earlier? Nooooooooo. She forced a fake smile. “Hi!”
He didn’t seem to buy the act, but he still matched her with a less than enthusiastic smile of his own. “Hi.” His eye caught sight of the cookbook. “Practicing?”
Sharon nodded. “I figure if I’m going to keep Mrs. Wilson’s the way it is, I’d better brush up on my baking skills.”
Even his frown was polite. “Sam was saying you set macaroni and cheese on fire once?”
Sharon waved a hand away. “It was an accident.”
“And that they used to leave out the food you made so roaches would eat it and die?”
“Okay, that-” That explained some things, actually. She’d always wondered why she’d found bits of whatever she’d made the day before in corners of the kitchen when she started her shifts. “That’s harsh.”
His frown was still polite, but there was something sharp in his eyes. Something that instinctively told her to be careful. “My point is, are you sure you should enter the contest?”
“Are you sure you should open your mouth?” she snapped back. His brows jumped up, and she knew the polite thing to do would be to apologize. But she wouldn’t. That had hurt, damn it. “I can learn how to bake.”
His frown turned less polite. “That’s like saying you’re going to learn how to paint.”
Sharon shrugged. “It’s all the same in the end, isn’t it? Baking, especially. Cooking. It’s all about chemistry.”
“No,” he argued, and it sounded like he was trying to hold back, like an asshole would after he’s been put in his place. Good. “There’s more to it than that. There’s an art to it.”
She scoffed. “I’m a cake decorator in New York. I think I can handle it.” She caught his expression, the one that said, “Sure, sure, little lady,” and leaned forward. She’d forgotten about her cart, and she barely grabbed it before it crashed into him. “Why do you want to enter the contest, anyway?” Come to think of it, if she could get the pastry chef to drop out, her odds would improve… Hmm… And she could hit him with the cart…
He seemed to realize the same thing, because he moved close enough she couldn’t get up to ramming speed. “I want my own place. I can’t afford it. Winning it, though?” He smiled at her. “That I can do.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you think you’re a little too confident?”
“Not really, no. I used to cook and bake for my mom all the time. I know some tricks.”
“I do, too,” she vowed. Lied, maybe? No, vowed. With a little bit of lying. Like, 90%. 95%. Damn it.
He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be sure to let the roaches know you’re back in town.”
“Figures you can communicate with them,” she spat out.
They stared at one another for several moments, and Sharon slowly began to lean into the cart again until it threatened to touch his coat.
He looked down at the cart, then up at her again. “We got off on the wrong foot.”
Understatement of the century. “I should cook for you as an apology.”
“Please don’t.” It came out way too fast, though. Way too fast. “I’m sorry for being rude,” he added, speaking more slowly. “I shouldn’t have implied you’re a menace in the kitchen, just based on things I’ve heard around town.”
Around town?
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for considering murdering you with my shopping cart.”
He did a double-take. “Wait. Present tense? Or- Are you still-”
She shrugged. But he seemed troubled enough that she relented. “I’m sorry for thinking you’re some sort of hot-shot asshole who’s only come into my life to destroy everything I love. I’m sure you’re…”
“Not a hot-shot?” he asked hopefully.
“Fine?” she offered at the same time.
He nodded. “I’ll take it.” He studied her for a second. “Can I ask – why does Mrs. Wilson’s matter to you so much?”
She pulled the cart back, but not so she could get up to ramming speed. She watched him. “Have you ever had a home?”
He looked perplexed that she would even ask. “Yeah.”
She nodded. “For me, that was Mrs. Wilson’s. A bunch of us worked there. Mrs. Wilson – Sam and Sarah’s mom – she basically took us in when no one else would. She gave us jobs, she gave us food, she invited us to holiday dinners. No matter if our parents were too busy for us or what, she was always willing to take us in. That place… Mrs. Wilson’s is home. It’s family. And I don’t want to see it turned into a McDonald’s.” She inclined her head in acknowledgment of his apparently magnificent pastry chef skills. “Even an upscale McDonald’s.”
His expression went from thoughtful to irritated in seconds. He forced a smile. “That’s commendable,” he said after a moment. “Good luck with that.” He turned to the shelf, grabbed something seemingly at random, and gave her another forced smile as he walked past. Glancing down at the cookbook, he stopped. “Are you sure you want to start with that?”
Her chin jutted out. “Who says I’m starting?”
He studied her for several seconds, and she realized they both knew that, even if she weren’t starting today, she was definitely still crap at it. “I’m just saying. Macaroons are tricky.”
She pressed her lips together. “I watched a lot of Great British Baking Chef last night, so I think I know what I’m doing, thanks.”
“You watched a lot of what now?”
She hated how he sounded so amused. “You know what I mean.” He didn’t deny it, and she pressed her fingers to the cookbook. “Plus, I have this.”
He shifted his weight. He’d better say something, she thought because his silence was irritating. “Well. I guess you’ve got it all down.” Damn it, his voice was irritating, too.
“I sure do,” she said with bravado. She turned her head away in what she hoped was a regal manner and shoved her cart forward at last.
She thought he continued to watch her after, so she made a show of putting things in her cart like an expert until she felt him leave. Not that she knew what any of it was, but she was sure she’d find some use for it. She’s a chef, damn it. And this is her doing chef stuff.
“Guinea pig.” Sharon set the plate down in front of Natasha.
Natasha looked at the plate, currently piled high with macaroons. “No.”
“Please.”
Natasha looked at the plate again. “Shar. My health insurance isn’t good enough for this.”
“Please.” This time, Sharon added clasped hands and her most desperate expression.
After several seconds, Natasha sighed dramatically and hit the pause button on her Christmas movie. Her hand hovered over the plate, going from cookie to cookie, and it didn’t escape Sharon’s notice that Natasha chose the smallest one.
Sharon watched anxiously as Natasha took a bite.
And yeah, Natasha spitting it out almost immediately wasn’t a good sign.
“Feedback,” Sharon said quickly. “Other than it being poison.”
Natasha looked at her in alarm. “Is it poisoned?”
“No! I’m just trying to work out what I did wrong!”
Natasha licked her lips gingerly and cringed. “For one thing – is there supposed to be salt in this?”
Sharon frowned. “What? No! I mean, there can’t be-” Oh, no. Wait. Without saying another word, she turned and headed to the kitchen. Oh, no. She’d pulled out the salt.
Natasha leaned against the door frame. “How do you manage to decorate?”
“It’s- it’s easy.” Sharon waved her hands at the countertop. “Why isn’t this easy?”
Natasha opened her mouth to say something, then saw Sharon’s lost and frustrated expression. She went over and gave Sharon a hug instead, which meant that Sharon was in more trouble than she’d thought. Natasha did not pity people easily, and she didn’t give hugs unless situations were extreme. “At least you can decorate,” Natasha said after a moment.
Sharon should have poisoned her.
Not that Natasha would have eaten enough of the macaroon for the poison to work, but still.
The next morning, she was back at Mrs. Wilson’s and waiting for her order of cookies when Steve came in. She felt what was quickly becoming a familiar sense of embarrassment and hastily turned back to the counter. She was fifth in line, and – damn it – Steve was now sixth.
She half-turned, realized that he was, in fact, right behind her, and bit the inside of her cheek. She should say something, shouldn’t she? She really should. She swallowed. “I’m sorry, by the way. For being so rude yesterday.”
His surprise was evident, but also ephemeral. “It’s fine. I mean, I was pretty rude, too.”
“True.”
Was it her imagination, or was that a bit of a grin? “I apologize. I shouldn’t have talked to you that way.”
“True,” she repeated. This time, she risked giving him a smile of her own. But then she remembered the competition, and it disappeared. “I won’t go down without a fight.”
“I’m sure,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Are you ready for the competition?”
She nodded. “I’ll be there.” The first bake-off was that night at five thirty, to give people time to get there after work. Misty had loaned them her family’s event center to use, and there would be multiple bakers and people were welcome to come and watch. Sharon wasn’t sure she was up to cooking in front of an audience – more like getting humiliated in front of one when the judges ate her cookies – but she couldn’t not try.
“Let me get this,” Steve said as the line shuffled forward. “To make up for yesterday.”
“I’ve got to make up for yesterday, too,” she argued.
“Let me get the pastry,” he offered. “You get the coffee?”
Her eyes narrowed, but she couldn’t tell if there was a trick or a trap here. “Okay,” she said, and she couldn’t help that her tone was cautious.
His smile wasn’t as confident, but when she stepped up to the counter, he stepped up beside her and handed Bucky the money.
Bucky gave Sharon a curious glance, but Sharon shrugged. It wasn’t like she knew what was going on. She hadn’t even figured out how to bake yet and she only had nine hours left to figure it out.
Once they got the cookies and coffee, they divided them up and found themselves walking together to the door. They stopped and smiled awkwardly, each indicating for the other to go first, then started forward at the same time and went through the same spiel.
“I’ll just hold the door open,” he said.
She smiled and slipped through, waiting for him on the sidewalk and hoping they were going in separate directions. It had been awkward enough.
He followed her and shivered, ducking his head down at a blast of wind.
She frowned at him. “Where’s your scarf?” she demanded.
“Don’t have one.” He looked up and down the street. “Just moved into town six months ago. Didn’t think the winters were going to be like this.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “We need to get you a scarf. Do you have gloves?”
“Yeah.” He held up his hands, and she appraised the knitted mittens. He lowered his hands. “They work,” he said defensively.
She took a sip of her coffee, dropped the cookie box into her purse, and grabbed his sleeve. “Come on.” Ignoring his brief protest, she led him across the street to one of the clothing shops, into the store, and straight to the rack of scarves before she stopped and looked at him expectantly.
He studied the scarves, then her. “How’d you know this would be here?”
She motioned for him to get on with it. “I told you. Mrs. Wilson’s is home. And Bucky buys a lot of leather jackets and he likes second opinions. I know this store very well.”
“And you wouldn’t like for it to change,” he murmured, selecting the most outlandish scarf and draping it around his neck. “What do you think?”
Her nonplussed expression about her not liking change turned to one of amused disbelief. “No,” she said, shaking her head. She ran her fingers through the other scarves in search of one that didn’t make him look so ridiculous everyone would laugh at him. She found a plainer one and held it out to him.
“No, I think I’ll take this one,” he said decisively. He touched his fingers to it.
“Steve, that’s- that’s very…” She waved a hand at him. “Attention-getting.”
“But it made you smile,” he argued. “And I don’t see any others here that would do that.” He looked down at her, into what she was sure was her stupidest, blinkingest face, and grinned. “So I’ll take this one.”
She blinked some more, turning stupidly to watch him as he paid for the scarf, and then continued to watch stupidly as he smiled.
“I’ll see you tonight!” he called.
She nodded stupidly, and she kept nodding as he exited the store.
It took several minutes for her brain to start working again, and she carefully assessed the situation. She had until 5:30 to beat one of the best bakers in town, and she had no idea how to bake, or to understand what that was about.
What the hell was that?