Dear Readers,

The Ganache Gambit is a special short story set in the world of the My Soul to Bake Cozy Mystery series—a little treat just for you! 🌟

It’s not part of the main storyline, but rather a standalone adventure that offers a deeper glimpse into Poppy Periwinkle’s magical bakery and the charming town of Whisperwind Cove. Think of it as a bonus slice of cake—rich, satisfying, and best of all… free to read!

If you’re new to the series, welcome! If you’re already a fan, I hope this sweet side story adds an extra sprinkle of joy to your reading experience.

Thank you so much for being part of this cozy, magical journey.
Don’t forget to subscribe to my blog for more free reads, book news, and behind-the-scenes fun: https://pattipetrone-miller.com 💛

Warm wishes & happy reading,
Patti Petrone-Miller
🧁✨

The Ganache Gambit

A My Soul to Bake Cozy Mystery

by Patti Petrone Miller

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Chapter 1

The Perfect Swirl

Early morning sunlight filtered through the freshly painted windows of My Soul to Bake, casting golden rays across the gleaming countertops. Poppy Periwinkle tucked a wayward strand of chestnut hair behind her ear and focused on the delicate task before her. With steady hands—well-practiced after countless mornings like this one—she piped the final swirl of glossy dark chocolate ganache atop a cupcake.

“Perfect,” she whispered, stepping back to admire her work.

The bakery hummed with rich aromas: cocoa, fresh vanilla, and the subtle hint of espresso she’d folded into her signature ganache. The blend struck a bittersweet harmony that had taken months of testing to perfect, measuring every ingredient down to the tenth of a gram.

“Morning, beautiful,” came a warm voice from behind her.

Poppy smiled before turning to see Ben Harper pushing through the kitchen’s swinging doors, already dressed in his chef’s whites despite the early hour. His dark hair was slightly mussed from the October wind, and he carried two steaming coffee cups from the café next door.

“You’re early,” she said, accepting the coffee gratefully. After nearly a year of partnership—both business and personal—Ben still managed to anticipate exactly what she needed.

“Mrs. Henley called. She’s picking up her Halloween party order at seven instead of nine.” Ben set his coffee aside and tied on his apron. “Something about her grandkids coming earlier than expected.”

“The ghost-shaped sugar cookies?”

“All hundred and fifty of them.” Ben moved to the display case, checking their inventory. “Good thing we made extra frosting yesterday.”

Poppy watched him work, still sometimes amazed that they’d found their way here. Ben had been her best friend since culinary school, the one person who understood her obsession with getting every recipe exactly right. When her grandmother passed away last year, leaving Poppy the bakery, Ben had appeared at her door with a suitcase and a business proposal.

“Partners?” he’d asked simply. “In everything?”

The memory made her smile as she arranged the ganache cupcakes in their display case.

“Earth to Poppy,” Ben said, waving a hand in front of her face. “You’re doing that dreamy smile thing again.”

“I don’t have a dreamy smile thing.”

“You absolutely do. Usually when you’re thinking about recipes. Or me.” He grinned and ducked when she swatted at him with a dish towel.

The bell above the door chimed, interrupting their playful banter.

“Morning, you two,” called Darcy, Poppy’s best friend since childhood, sweeping in with her usual whirlwind energy. Her orange and black striped scarf was perfectly coordinated for the Halloween season. “Please tell me you saved me one of those gorgeous cupcakes.”

“For our most loyal taste-tester?” Ben slid a cupcake into a box. “Always.”

Darcy grinned and accepted the offering. “You two are lifesavers. Three conference calls before eight AM should be illegal.” She bit into the cupcake and closed her eyes. “Still magic, Poppy.”

“It’s the ganache,” Poppy said. “I finally got the ratio right.”

“You should enter the Fall Harvest Bake-Off next month,” Darcy suggested. “You’d win hands down.”

Ben nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve been telling her the same thing. That ganache recipe is her secret weapon.”

“I don’t bake to compete,” Poppy protested, the same argument she’d been making for months.

“No,” Darcy said gently, “you bake because you love it. And sometimes love deserves recognition.”

As if summoned by their conversation, the lights flickered—just once, but enough to make all three of them glance up.

“That’s the third time this week,” Ben frowned. “Didn’t we have the electrician out here last month?”

“Maybe it’s the old wiring,” Poppy said, though something about the flicker felt… different. Not electrical. More like a greeting.

Darcy’s phone buzzed. “Duty calls. But seriously, think about that bake-off.” She rewrapped her scarf and headed for the door. “See you tonight for movie night?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Poppy called after her.

After Darcy left, Ben moved closer to Poppy, studying her face. “You okay? You’ve seemed a little distracted lately.”

She considered telling him about the strange dreams she’d been having—dreams of her grandmother standing in the bakery kitchen, trying to tell her something important. But Ben was practical, logical. He’d probably suggest she was still processing grief, which was likely true.

“Just tired,” she said instead. “October’s always busy with Halloween orders.”

Ben’s expression suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he squeezed her hand. “Well, whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together. That’s what partners do.”

The warmth in his voice, the certainty, made something flutter in Poppy’s chest. They’d been dancing around the shift from friendship to something more for months now, neither quite ready to name what was happening between them.

“Together,” she agreed softly.

The lights flickered again, and this time, Poppy could have sworn she caught a whiff of cinnamon—her grandmother’s favorite spice.

---

Chapter 2

Messages in Flour

The morning rush kept them busy until nearly eleven. The people of Whisperwind Cove took their Halloween treats seriously, and My Soul to Bake had become the go-to destination for everything from pumpkin spice muffins to elaborate decorated cookies.

“Mrs. Patterson wants to add two dozen bat-shaped brownies to her order,” Ben called from the front counter.

“For the church harvest festival?” Poppy asked, not looking up from the tart shells she was crimping.

“Her words were ‘the children will be expecting chocolate, and we can’t disappoint the children.'”

Poppy smiled. Mrs. Patterson had been saying variations of that phrase for as long as she could remember. Some things about small-town life in Whisperwind Cove never changed, and she found that comforting.

During the afternoon lull, while Ben handled the front counter, Poppy retreated to the prep kitchen to work on a new recipe. She’d been experimenting with a maple walnut tart for weeks, trying to get the custard filling exactly right.

She was rolling out dough when she noticed it—a pattern in the flour dust on her work surface. Not scattered randomly, but formed into deliberate shapes. Three concentric circles connected by a flowing line, like a stylized flower.

Poppy blinked, certain her tired eyes were playing tricks. The pattern remained. She brushed it away with her palm, flour dispersing into nothing.

“Odd,” she murmured.

“What’s odd?” Ben appeared beside her, carrying a tray of dirty dishes.

“Nothing. Just…” She gestured at the now-clean work surface. “Thought I saw something in the flour.”

Ben set down the tray and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Maybe it’s a sign that we should take a break. You’ve been working non-stop all week.”

The familiar warmth of his embrace made her relax against him. “We’ve got Mrs. Henley’s order to finish.”

“Which is already done and packaged. And before you ask, yes, I double-checked the count.” His lips brushed her temple. “Come on. Let’s grab lunch from Giuseppe’s and eat in the park. The leaves are perfect right now.”

It was tempting. The October afternoon was gorgeous, and she could use some fresh air. But something made her hesitate—a feeling that she needed to stay close to the bakery today.

“You go,” she said, turning in his arms. “I want to work on this tart recipe while I have the time.”

Ben studied her face with those perceptive dark eyes. “Poppy, what’s really going on? You’ve been distracted for days. If something’s bothering you—”

“It’s nothing concrete,” she interrupted. “Just… feelings. Like Mom used to get sometimes.”

Florence Periwinkle had been known throughout Whisperwind Cove for her intuition. People joked that she could sense a thunderstorm three counties away, or know when someone needed a friendly ear before they even realized it themselves.

“Then trust your feelings,” Ben said simply. “But also trust me enough to tell me if you need help.”

She stood on her toes to kiss him softly. “I will. Promise.”

After Ben left for lunch, the bakery felt different—quieter, but not empty. Like it was holding its breath, waiting for something.

Poppy returned to her tart preparation, but her attention kept drifting. The afternoon light slanted through the windows differently than usual, casting shadows that seemed to move independently of the clouds outside.

Then she smelled it—cinnamon. Warm and complex, exactly the way her grandmother had always prepared it for her famous snickerdoodles.

But Poppy hadn’t been baking with cinnamon today.

She followed the scent to the front of the bakery, where the afternoon sun illuminated dust motes dancing in the air. The fragrance was stronger here, almost like her grandmother had just walked through the room.

“Grandma?” she whispered, feeling foolish but unable to stop herself.

The scent intensified for a moment, then faded.

When she returned to the kitchen, there was another pattern in the flour on her work surface—not the circles this time, but letters. Crude but unmistakable:

SOON

Poppy stared at the word, her heart beginning to race. She’d cleaned the surface thoroughly before Ben left. No one else had been in the kitchen.

The bell above the front door chimed.

“Ben?” she called, relief flooding through her.

No answer.

She wiped the flour message away quickly and walked to the front counter. The bakery was empty, but the door was slightly ajar, October breeze stirring the colorful leaves scattered across the threshold.

She was reaching to close the door when she noticed the man standing across the street. Medium height, unremarkable features, but something about him made her pause. He seemed to be watching the bakery with unusual intensity.

When their eyes met, he smiled—a polite, forgettable expression—and continued walking.

Poppy closed the door and locked it, though she couldn’t say why. The man had done nothing threatening. But something about him had felt… off.

When Ben returned twenty minutes later, arms full of Italian food containers, he found her scrubbing the prep surface with unnecessary vigor.

“Everything okay?” he asked, setting down their lunch.

“Fine,” she said quickly. “Just wanted to get a head start on tomorrow’s prep.”

Ben caught her hands, stilling their frantic motion. “Poppy. Talk to me.”

She looked into his concerned face and felt the words tumble out—the flour patterns, the cinnamon scent, the strange man across the street. Everything except the word “soon,” which felt too frightening to voice.

Ben listened without interruption, his expression growing more serious with each detail.

“Has anything like this happened before?” he asked when she finished.

“Not exactly. But…” She hesitated. “Grandma used to say the bakery had its own personality. That it would let her know when something important was coming.”

“And you think something important is coming?”

“I think something important is already here.”

---

Chapter 3

The Stranger’s Knowledge

The rest of the afternoon passed normally, but Poppy found herself glancing frequently at the windows, half-expecting to see the unremarkable man watching from across the street. Ben stayed close, finding reasons to work in the kitchen rather than the front counter, and she was grateful for his steady presence.

They were closing up when the man appeared again—this time inside the bakery.

Neither of them had heard the bell. One moment they were alone, counting the day’s receipts, and the next he was standing by the display case as if he’d been there all along.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, moving protectively closer to Poppy. “We’re closed.”

The man smiled that same polite, forgettable smile. “I was hoping to speak with Ms. Periwinkle. About her grandmother.”

Poppy felt the blood drain from her face. “How do you know about my grandmother?”

“Your grandmother was well-known in certain circles,” the man said. “She had a gift for… problem-solving. I believe you may have inherited that gift.”

Ben stepped fully in front of Poppy now. “I think you should leave.”

“I think,” the man said, his eyes never leaving Poppy’s face, “that Ms. Periwinkle has been receiving messages. Flour patterns. Familiar scents. Perhaps even dreams?”

Despite Ben’s protective stance, Poppy found herself speaking. “Who are you?”

“A friend of your grandmother’s. Someone who worked with her when unusual situations arose.” The man’s demeanor was calm, almost soothing. “My name is Whit, and I’m here because your grandmother asked me to watch over you.”

“My grandmother never mentioned anyone named Whit,” Poppy said.

“Your grandmother was excellent at keeping certain aspects of her life separate. It was safer that way.” Whit glanced around the bakery appreciatively. “She built something special here. A place where people feel safe, welcome, at peace. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

Ben’s hand found Poppy’s, squeezing gently. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that some bakers have a gift beyond creating delicious food. They can influence emotions, ease troubled spirits, even provide sanctuary for things that need a safe place to rest.” Whit’s attention focused on the kitchen door. “Your grandmother had that gift. And based on the spiritual activity I’ve been sensing, so does her granddaughter.”

“Spiritual activity?” Poppy’s voice came out as a whisper.

“Someone—or something—has been trying to communicate with you. The question is whether it’s benevolent or if you’re in danger.”

Ben moved closer to the front door. “I’m calling the police.”

“By all means,” Whit said mildly. “But they won’t be able to help with what’s coming. Only Poppy can do that.”

“What’s coming?” Poppy demanded.

Whit studied her for a long moment. “Tell me about your ganache recipe. The one everyone says is so special.”

The question seemed to come from nowhere, but something made Poppy answer. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I’ve been perfecting it since she passed away.”

“And how do you prepare it?”

“I…” Poppy frowned, realizing she’d never really thought about her process. “I follow the recipe, but I also just… feel my way through it. I know when the temperature is right, when the mixture needs more time, when it’s perfect.”

Whit nodded as if this confirmed something. “And how do people react when they eat it?”

“They say it makes them feel better. Comforted. At peace.”

“That’s because you’re putting more than chocolate and cream into that ganache,” Whit said gently. “You’re adding intention, emotion, a little piece of your heart. It’s a form of kitchen magic, and it’s been protecting this town for longer than you realize.”

Ben made a sound of disbelief, but Poppy felt a strange recognition, as if Whit were naming something she’d always known but never acknowledged.

“Even if that were true,” Ben said, “what does it have to do with mysterious flour patterns and strange men lurking around our bakery?”

“Because something has been feeding off the positive energy Poppy creates here. Something that’s gotten stronger since her grandmother died and left the bakery unprotected.” Whit’s expression grew serious. “And now it’s hungry for more than just ambient comfort. It wants the source.”

“The source?” Poppy’s heart began racing again.

“You, my dear. It wants you.”

The lights in the bakery flickered violently, then went out completely, plunging them into the grey twilight of late October. In the darkness, the scent of cinnamon bloomed again—but this time it was wrong somehow, too sweet, almost cloying.

When the lights flickered back on a moment later, Whit was gone.

And written in flour across the prep surface, visible even from the front counter, was a single word:

TONIGHT

---

Chapter 4

Secrets in the Attic

“We’re calling the police,” Ben said firmly, pulling out his phone. “And then we’re going to my place until we figure out what’s going on.”

“No.” The word surprised Poppy as much as it did Ben. “If this… thing… is connected to the bakery, to my grandmother, then running away won’t solve anything.”

“Poppy, someone broke into our bakery and wrote threatening messages. This isn’t the time to be brave.”

“This is exactly the time to be brave.” She moved toward the kitchen, studying the flour message. Up close, she could see that the letters weren’t written with fingers or any tool—they appeared to be pressed up from underneath, as if the flour had been pushed into shape by an invisible hand. “Ben, what if everything that man said was true?”

“You mean the part about kitchen magic and protective ganache? Come on, Poppy. You’re a scientist. You went to culinary school. You know there’s no such thing as—”

“As what? As intuition? As some people having a gift for making others feel better?” She turned to face him. “You’ve eaten my ganache cupcakes. How do they make you feel?”

Ben paused, clearly thinking. “Good. Really good. Like… like everything’s going to be okay, even when it’s not.”

“And that’s not magic?”

“That’s just good baking. And caring about people. It doesn’t mean—”

He was interrupted by a crash from upstairs. Both of them froze, staring at the ceiling.

“Did you leave a window open?” Ben whispered.

Poppy shook her head. The small apartment above the bakery had been her grandmother’s before it became hers, and she was meticulous about keeping it secure.

Another crash, followed by what sounded like boxes hitting the floor.

“Stay here,” Ben said, grabbing a rolling pin from the prep counter.

“Absolutely not.” Poppy took his free hand. “Partners, remember? In everything.”

They climbed the stairs together, the old wooden steps creaking under their weight. The apartment door was slightly ajar, though Poppy was certain she’d locked it that morning.

Ben pushed the door open carefully, and they both gasped.

The living room looked like it had been searched by someone in a hurry. Couch cushions were on the floor, books scattered from their shelves, picture frames askew on the walls. But the strangest part was the trail of flour leading from the kitchen to the hallway—as if someone had walked through the apartment with flour on their shoes.

“The attic,” Poppy whispered, following the trail. “It’s leading to the attic.”

The narrow stairs to the cramped attic space were visible at the end of the hallway, and the trap door at the top was hanging open.

“I haven’t been up there in months,” Poppy said. “Not since I was looking through Grandma’s things after the funeral.”

They climbed the attic stairs together, Ben’s rolling pin at the ready. The small space was filled with cardboard boxes and old furniture, all covered in a thick layer of dust—except for one corner, where the dust had been disturbed recently.

A large trunk sat open, its contents scattered across the floor. Poppy recognized some of the items—her grandmother’s recipe journals, some old photographs, a few pieces of jewelry. But there were other things too, things she’d never seen before.

“Look at this,” Ben said, kneeling beside a leather-bound book. The cover was unmarked, but when he opened it, they could see it was filled with recipes written in her grandmother’s careful handwriting.

But these weren’t normal recipes. The ingredients included things like “moonwater,” “salt blessed under a new moon,” and “herbs gathered with gratitude.”

“‘Comfort Cake for the Grieving,'” Ben read aloud. “‘Bread of Peaceful Sleep.’ ‘Ganache for Grounding and Protection.'” He looked up at Poppy. “This one has your name on it.”

Poppy took the book with trembling hands. There, in her grandmother’s familiar script, was indeed her ganache recipe—but with additional notes she’d never seen:

“For my darling Poppy, when she’s ready to understand. The secret isn’t in the measurements, sweetheart. It’s in the love. Bake with intention. Protect with purpose. And remember—some recipes do more than feed the body.”

Beneath that, in different ink, was a newer note:

“If something begins calling to you from the other side, add cinnamon and sea salt. Bake with both hands and heart. The result will show you the truth.”

“Other side?” Ben’s voice was carefully neutral, but Poppy could hear the worry underneath.

Before she could answer, they heard footsteps on the stairs below. Heavy, deliberate footsteps that didn’t belong to either of them.

Ben moved protectively in front of Poppy, rolling pin raised. “Who’s there?” he called.

“Friends,” came Whit’s voice. “May we come up?”

“We?” Poppy whispered.

Whit’s head appeared at the top of the attic stairs, followed by an older woman with silver hair and kind eyes. She moved with the easy confidence of someone who belonged wherever she happened to be standing.

“Ms. Periwinkle,” the woman said warmly. “I’m Eleanor Hartwell. I was your grandmother’s… consultant… on certain matters.”

“Consultant for what?” Ben demanded, still holding the rolling pin like a weapon.

“For when the boundaries between worlds grow thin,” Eleanor said simply. “October is always a challenging time, but this year is special. It’s been exactly one year since your grandmother passed away, which means the protective barriers she built around this place are starting to weaken.”

Whit climbed the rest of the way into the attic. “We felt the disturbance earlier when you made contact with whatever’s been trying to reach you. That’s why we’re here.”

“Made contact how?” Poppy asked.

Eleanor gestured to the scattered contents of the trunk. “Something searched through your grandmother’s things, looking for a way to communicate more directly. The question is whether it’s your grandmother herself, or something else using her memory to get close to you.”

The temperature in the attic suddenly dropped ten degrees. Their breath began to fog, and the scent of cinnamon bloomed around them—but wrong again, too sharp, almost medicinal.

“It’s here,” Whit said quietly. “And it’s not your grandmother.”

---

Chapter 5

The Test of Truth

The cinnamon scent grew stronger, almost overwhelming, and Poppy found herself thinking of her grandmother’s kitchen on Christmas morning—but the memory felt forced, artificial, like someone else was pushing it into her mind.

“Don’t let it use your emotions against you,” Eleanor said urgently. “Whatever this thing is, it’s been studying you, learning what your grandmother meant to you.”

“How do we stop it?” Ben asked, still clutching the rolling pin.

“We don’t stop it,” Whit replied. “We give it what it wants—but on our terms.”

Eleanor nodded. “It’s been trying to communicate, which suggests it needs something from Poppy specifically. The question is whether we can control the interaction safely.”

As if summoned by their conversation, flour began to swirl up from the attic floor—dust and particles that shouldn’t have been able to move in the still air. The flour formed letters in mid-air, spelling out words that hung suspended for a few seconds before dispersing:

HELP ME

“It’s asking for help,” Poppy whispered.

“Or pretending to,” Ben said grimly.

More flour swirled, forming new words:

TRAPPED
LONELY
REMEMBER

“Those could be your grandmother’s feelings,” Eleanor said thoughtfully. “If part of her spirit is somehow caught between worlds, she might indeed be trapped and lonely.”

“Or,” Whit countered, “something else is using those emotions as bait.”

Poppy stepped forward, ignoring Ben’s attempt to hold her back. “If it’s really my grandmother, she’ll know things only she would know. Things I haven’t told anyone.”

She took a deep breath and spoke to the swirling flour. “What did you call my stuffed elephant when I was little?”

The flour paused in its motion, then reformed:

MR. PEANUTS

Poppy’s heart clenched. That was correct—her grandmother had indeed called her beloved stuffed elephant Mr. Peanuts, despite Poppy insisting his name was Elephant.

“That could be information gathered from watching you,” Ben said softly, but his voice lacked conviction.

“What was the last thing you said to me?” Poppy asked the swirling dust.

The flour reformed more slowly this time:

KEEP THE RECIPES SAFE
TRUST YOUR HEART
LOVE ABOVE ALL

Tears started in Poppy’s eyes. Those had indeed been her grandmother’s last coherent words, spoken in the hospital room just hours before she passed.

“Grandma?” she whispered.

The flour swirled again, but this time it formed a shape rather than words—the same pattern she’d been seeing in the bakery. Three concentric circles connected by a flowing line.

“That’s our family symbol,” Poppy said, recognition flooding through her. “Grandma used to draw it on birthday cakes, on notes she left for me. She said it represented the three generations of Periwinkle women—her grandmother, herself, and me—all connected by love.”

Eleanor and Whit exchanged a meaningful look.

“If it’s really your grandmother,” Eleanor said, “then she’s trying to tell you something important. The fact that she’s reaching out now, when the barriers are thin, suggests urgency.”

“What do you need, Grandma?” Poppy asked the flour.

The response came immediately:

DANGER
SOMETHING COMING
PROTECT THE RECIPES

“What’s coming?” Ben asked.

But the flour was already dispersing, the supernatural energy that had been animating it fading away. The attic returned to normal temperature, and the oppressive feeling of being watched lifted.

“She’s gone,” Whit said unnecessarily.

Eleanor was already moving, gathering the scattered contents of the trunk. “If your grandmother is warning about danger, we need to take it seriously. These recipes, this knowledge—it’s more powerful than you realize, Poppy. In the wrong hands, it could cause real harm.”

“What kind of harm?” Poppy asked.

“The recipes in these journals don’t just provide comfort,” Eleanor explained. “They can influence emotions, alter memories, even open doorways between worlds. Your grandmother used them responsibly, to help people and protect the community. But someone with darker intentions…”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

“So what do we do?” Ben asked.

Whit was studying one of the scattered recipe cards. “We test Poppy’s abilities. If she’s inherited your grandmother’s gift, she’ll be able to detect if someone else tries to use these recipes inappropriately. She’ll be the early warning system.”

“And if I haven’t inherited anything?” Poppy asked.

“Then we find another way to protect what your grandmother built,” Eleanor said firmly. “But something tells me that won’t be necessary.”

They spent the next hour carefully packing her grandmother’s journals and special recipes into a secure box. Eleanor and Whit seemed to know exactly which items were important and which were simply sentimental.

“Keep the ganache recipe close,” Eleanor advised as they prepared to leave. “It’s your strongest protection. As long as you’re baking with love and intention, the bakery will remain a sanctuary.”

“And if something threatens that sanctuary?” Ben asked.

Whit smiled grimly. “Then we teach Poppy to bake something a little more… assertive.”

After Eleanor and Whit left, promising to check in the next day, Poppy and Ben sat in her small living room, the box of special recipes between them on the coffee table.

“This is insane,” Ben said for the third time. “Yesterday we were normal bakers. Today we’re apparently guardians of magical recipes and supernatural sanctuaries.”

“Are you okay with it?” Poppy asked quietly. “With all of this? Because I would understand if you wanted to walk away.”

Ben took her hands in his. “Poppy, I’ve been in love with you since culinary school. If you told me you were secretly a dragon, I’d ask if you needed help finding a good cave. A little kitchen magic isn’t going to scare me off.”

“You love me?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Ben’s eyes widened as if he hadn’t realized what he’d said. Then he smiled—that warm, wonderful smile that had been making her heart race for months. “Yeah. I do. Have for years, actually.”

“I love you too,” she whispered.

He leaned forward to kiss her, soft and sweet and full of promise. When they broke apart, both of them were smiling.

“So,” Ben said, settling back against the couch cushions. “What do we do now?”

Poppy looked at the box of recipes, then at the man who’d just declared his love for her, then at the cozy apartment above the bakery that had become her whole world.

“Now we go to bed,” she said. “And tomorrow we bake. Just like always.”

“Just like always,” Ben agreed. “But maybe with a little more… intention.”

They were about to head to the bedroom when the lights flickered again. Not the violent strobing from earlier, but a gentle pulse, like a goodnight kiss.

And drifting through the apartment came the faintest scent of cinnamon—warm and comforting and exactly right.

---

Chapter 6

Morning Revelations

Poppy woke to the smell of coffee and something else—something sweet and spicy that made her think of autumn mornings and her grandmother’s kitchen. She padded downstairs to find Ben already at work in the bakery, humming as he pulled a tray of muffins from the oven.

“You’re up early,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.

“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well be productive.” He leaned back against her. “I’ve been thinking about what Eleanor said—about baking with intention. So I tried an experiment.”

He gestured to the cooling muffins. “Pumpkin spice, but I focused on feelings of comfort and safety while I made them. Just to see if anything would happen.”

Poppy picked up one of the muffins and took a bite. The flavor was perfect—warm spices, tender crumb, just the right amount of sweetness. But there was something else too, a feeling of being wrapped in a soft blanket on a cold day.

“Ben,” she said slowly, “I think it worked.”

“Really?” His face lit up with excitement and a little apprehension.

“Really. How does that make you feel?”

“Terrified and amazed in equal measure.” He pulled another tray from the oven. “I made a batch of regular muffins too, just to compare. Want to try one?”

The difference was subtle but unmistakable. The regular muffins were delicious, but they were just food. The intentional muffins felt like a hug from the inside.

“So we both have it,” Poppy mused. “Whatever ‘it’ is.”

“Apparently.” Ben started arranging the muffins in the display case. “The question is, what do we do with it?”

Before Poppy could answer, the bell above the door chimed. She looked up to see Mrs. Henderson, one of their regular customers, hurrying in with an expression of barely controlled panic.

“Oh, you know,” Catherine said with a light laugh. “Your grandmother had such a gift for making people feel better with her baking. I was hoping Poppy might be willing to share some of her grandmother’s recipes.”

“I’m afraid my grandmother’s recipes are family secrets,” Poppy said, her instincts screaming at her to be cautious.

Catherine’s smile faltered slightly. “Of course, I understand completely. It’s just that I have a friend who’s been terribly depressed since her husband passed, and I thought perhaps one of your grandmother’s special comfort cakes might help.”

The request seemed reasonable, but something in Catherine’s tone made Poppy’s skin crawl. Behind the counter, she noticed that the flour in the open canister was beginning to swirl slightly, as if agitated by an unfelt breeze.

“I’d be happy to bake something for your friend,” Poppy said carefully. “But I use my own recipes.”

“I see.” Catherine’s eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. “Well, perhaps another time then.”

She turned to leave, then paused. “By the way, you might want to check your storage room. I noticed some unusual… activity… back there when I was walking past earlier.”

After Catherine left, Ben and Poppy exchanged worried looks.

“She was lying about something,” Ben said immediately.

“Definitely. And did you see the flour?” Poppy gestured to the canister, which had now settled back to normal.

“It was reacting to her presence. That can’t be good.”

They hurried to the storage room behind the kitchen. Everything appeared normal at first glance, but then Poppy noticed that several containers had been moved slightly. Someone had been searching through their supplies.

“She was in here,” Poppy said with certainty. “But what was she looking for?”

“Maybe we should call Whit,” Ben suggested.

Before Poppy could respond, the temperature in the storage room dropped dramatically. Their breath began to fog, and the familiar scent of cinnamon filled the air—but this time it felt like a warning.

Flour from a torn bag on the floor began to swirl up, forming letters in the air:

SHE WANTS THE RECIPES
DANGER
DON’T TRUST HER

“Grandma?” Poppy whispered.

The flour swirled again:

PROTECT WHAT I BUILT
USE THE GANACHE
TRUST YOUR HEART

Then the supernatural energy faded, leaving them alone with the scattered flour and the certainty that Catherine Blackwood was not who she claimed to be.

“We need help,” Ben said firmly. “And we need it now.”

---

Chapter 7

The Collector’s Gambit

Eleanor and Whit arrived within an hour of Poppy’s frantic phone call, bringing with them an elderly man with twinkling eyes and a canvas bag full of what appeared to be kitchen supplies.

“This is Marcus,” Eleanor explained as they gathered around the prep table. “He was your grandmother’s… technical advisor.”

“Technical advisor?” Ben raised an eyebrow.

Marcus smiled and began unpacking his bag, revealing an assortment of unusual items: salt in seven different colors, herbs Poppy didn’t recognize, and what appeared to be antique measuring spoons made of silver.

“I help people understand the science behind the magic,” Marcus explained. “Your grandmother was remarkably intuitive, but even intuition benefits from a little knowledge about how things actually work.”

“Speaking of which,” Whit said seriously, “tell us everything about this Catherine Blackwood.”

Poppy described the encounter, including the flour’s reaction and the clear evidence that Catherine had been searching their storage room.

Eleanor’s expression grew increasingly grim as the story progressed. “Did she touch anything? Taste anything?”

“I don’t think so. We were careful not to offer her anything to eat.”

“Good. Because Catherine Blackwood isn’t just some random person interested in your grandmother’s recipes.” Eleanor pulled out an old photograph and placed it on the prep table. “She’s what we call a Collector.”

The photograph showed a woman who looked remarkably like the Catherine they’d met, but the picture was clearly decades old—the clothing and hairstyle were from the 1970s.

“That’s impossible,” Ben said. “This woman looks exactly the same age.”

“Collectors don’t age the way normal people do,” Marcus explained. “They sustain themselves by harvesting other people’s emotional energy. The more powerful the source, the longer they can maintain their youth and vitality.”

“She’s been tracking your family for years,” Whit added. “Your grandmother was always too well-protected for Catherine to get close, but now that your grandmother is gone…”

“She thinks I’m vulnerable,” Poppy finished.

“Exactly. And if she gets her hands on your grandmother’s recipes, she’ll be able to create a network of energy sources all over the country. People will think they’re just buying comfort food, but they’ll actually be feeding Catherine’s supernatural appetite.”

The full horror of the situation settled over Poppy like a cold blanket. “How do we stop her?”

“We don’t just stop her,” Eleanor said firmly. “We trap her. But it’s going to require very precise baking, and a level of magical intention you’ve never attempted before.”

Marcus began laying out ingredients on the prep table. “We’re going to create what your grandmother called a ‘binding ganache.’ It looks and tastes exactly like your signature recipe, but it’s designed to capture and hold supernatural entities.”

“Like a magical flypaper,” Ben said.

“Exactly like magical flypaper,” Marcus agreed. “But much more delicious.”

“There’s just one problem,” Eleanor said. “The binding only works if the target consumes the ganache willingly. We’ll need to make Catherine want it badly enough that she’ll ignore her natural caution.”

“How do we do that?” Poppy asked.

Whit smiled grimly. “We let her think she’s winning.”

Over the next two hours, they crafted an elaborate plan. Marcus taught Poppy how to modify her ganache recipe, adding precise amounts of blessed salt, moonwater, and herbs that had been growing in consecrated ground. The process was exhausting—each ingredient had to be added with specific intentions, and Poppy found herself pouring not just her emotions but her actual energy into the mixture.

Meanwhile, Eleanor and Whit prepared what they called “bait”—a fake recipe book that would appear to contain her grandmother’s most powerful formulas, but was actually filled with harmless cooking instructions written in deliberately mystical-looking language.

“The trick,” Eleanor explained as she carefully aged the pages with tea stains and candle wax, “is to make her think she’s stealing something valuable. Collectors are greedy by nature. If she believes she’s found a treasure trove of magical recipes, she won’t be able to resist sampling them.”

Ben, meanwhile, had been tasked with creating an assortment of normal baked goods that would serve as camouflage. “If the binding ganache is the only special thing on the table, she’ll be suspicious,” Marcus had explained. “But if it’s just one option among many, she’ll be more likely to try it.”

As the afternoon wore on, Poppy found herself marveling at how naturally this all felt. Six months ago, she would have laughed at the idea of magical baking. Now she was measuring moonwater like it was vanilla extract and focusing her intention like it was an ingredient she could weigh and measure.

“How did my grandmother do this for so many years without going crazy?” she asked Marcus during a brief break.

“The same way you’re doing it now,” he replied kindly. “One day at a time, one recipe at a time, always remembering that the magic serves love, not the other way around.”

By late afternoon, everything was ready. The binding ganache looked identical to Poppy’s usual recipe, but she could feel the difference—a subtle energy that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. The fake recipe book was convincingly weathered and mysterious-looking. And Ben had created a spread of baked goods that would have looked tempting in any normal bakery.

“Now we wait,” Eleanor said. “And hope that Catherine’s greed overcomes her caution.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Just as they were setting up the display, the bell above the door chimed, and Catherine Blackwood walked in. But this time, she wasn’t alone.

She was accompanied by two other people—a severe-looking man in an expensive suit and a woman with calculating eyes who seemed to catalog every detail of the bakery as she entered.

“Good afternoon,” Catherine said with that same false smile. “I’ve brought some friends who are very interested in learning about traditional baking methods.”

Poppy felt Ben tense beside her, but she forced herself to smile pleasantly. “Of course. We’re always happy to share our passion for baking.”

“Wonderful.” Catherine’s eyes immediately went to the fake recipe book, which Eleanor had positioned prominently on the counter. “Is that one of your grandmother’s recipe collections?”

“Just some old family recipes,” Poppy said with studied casualness. “I was thinking about organizing them properly, but there are so many…”

“Perhaps we could help,” the severe man suggested. “We’re collectors of culinary history ourselves.”

“That’s very kind, but—”

“Nonsense,” Catherine interrupted, moving closer to the counter. “I insist. In fact, why don’t we sample some of these delightful-looking treats while we work? I’m particularly interested in that ganache—it has such an… unusual… aroma.”

Poppy’s heart raced, but she kept her expression neutral. “Of course. Help yourselves.”

As Catherine reached for a ganache cupcake, Poppy caught Eleanor’s eye and saw the older woman nod slightly. The trap was set.

Now they just had to hope it would work.

---

Chapter 8

The Binding

Catherine bit into the ganache cupcake with obvious relish, her eyes closing in appreciation. “Oh my,” she said. “This is extraordinary. I can taste the… intention… in every bite.”

Beside her, the severe man and calculating woman were sampling other items from the display, but their attention kept returning to the ganache cupcakes.

“The recipe must be quite special,” the severe man said, reaching for a second cupcake.

“Family secret,” Ben replied, watching as the man took a large bite.

For a moment, nothing happened. Catherine and her companions continued eating and making appreciative comments about the various baked goods. Poppy began to worry that the binding ganache hadn’t worked, that they’d made some mistake in the preparation.

Then Catherine suddenly stopped mid-chew, her eyes widening.

“This is…” she began, then seemed unable to finish the sentence.

The severe man was staring at his half-eaten cupcake with an expression of growing alarm. “What did you do to these?”

“Just baked them with love,” Poppy said innocently.

Catherine tried to stand up from the small café table where they’d been sitting, but her movements were sluggish, as if she were moving through thick honey. “You can’t… this isn’t possible…”

“Actually,” Eleanor said, emerging from the kitchen where she’d been waiting, “it’s quite possible. You see, you’re not the only one who knows about binding spells.”

The calculating woman looked around frantically, as if seeking an escape route, but her movements were becoming increasingly labored. “Release us,” she demanded. “You have no right—”

“We have every right,” Whit said, appearing beside Eleanor. “You came here intending to steal recipes that weren’t yours, to exploit innocent people for your own supernatural appetites. The binding is simply… justice.”

Catherine’s false charm had completely disappeared, replaced by cold fury. “Do you have any idea what you’re dealing with? We are Collectors. We have power you can’t imagine.”

“Had power,” Marcus corrected, stepping out from behind the counter. “Past tense. The binding ganache not only traps you, it severs your connection to the energy sources you’ve been feeding on. You’re about to become very, very mortal.”

As if to prove his point, Catherine’s appearance began to change. The silver hair darkened to gray, then to brown, showing its true color. Lines appeared around her eyes and mouth. Her skin lost its unnatural smoothness.

“This is what you really look like,” Eleanor observed. “Amazing how different people appear when they’re not sustained by stolen life force.”

The three Collectors continued to age rapidly, not into elderly people but into their actual chronological ages—which appeared to be somewhere in their fifties or sixties.

“How long will the binding last?” Ben asked quietly.

“Permanently,” Marcus replied. “They’ll live out normal human lifespans from this point forward, but they’ll never again be able to harvest supernatural energy from others.”

Catherine made one last desperate attempt to stand, but collapsed back into her chair. “You don’t understand,” she said, her voice now hoarse and much older-sounding. “Without our… activities… certain balances will be disrupted. There are things we keep in check, entities we prevent from crossing over…”

“Entities like you, you mean,” Whit said dryly. “Don’t worry. Nature abhors a vacuum. Other guardians will step up to fill any legitimate protective roles you might have played.”

“And in the meantime,” Eleanor added, “Poppy and Ben will be here, continuing your grandmother’s work of creating genuine sanctuary and comfort for people who need it.”

Over the next hour, the effects of the binding ganache became more pronounced. The three Collectors aged into their true appearances and seemed to lose all memory of their supernatural abilities. They left the bakery confused and disoriented, but harmless—just three middle-aged people who couldn’t quite remember why they’d been so interested in old recipes.

“Will they be okay?” Poppy asked, watching them walk away.

“They’ll be fine,” Eleanor assured her. “Confused for a while, but they’ll create new lives for themselves. Normal lives. It’s actually a mercy—they’ve been sustained by stolen energy for so long, they’d forgotten what it felt like to be genuinely human.”

After Eleanor, Whit, and Marcus left—taking the fake recipe book with them “for safekeeping”—Poppy and Ben sat alone in the bakery, processing what had just happened.

“We trapped three supernatural entities with ganache,” Ben said wonderingly. “Six months ago, the weirdest thing in my life was trying to perfect my sourdough starter.”

“Are you sorry?” Poppy asked. “About all of this? About what our life has become?”

Ben reached across the table and took her hands. “Are you kidding? We get to help people, protect the community, and work with actual magic on a daily basis. Plus,” he squeezed her fingers, “I get to do it all with the woman I love.”

“Even if that woman inherited a legacy of supernatural responsibility and a bakery that apparently serves as some kind of interdimensional waystation?”

“Especially then.” Ben stood up and pulled her into his arms. “Besides, someone has to carry on your grandmother’s work. I can’t think of anyone better qualified than you.”

They were interrupted by a soft knocking at the door. Through the glass, they could see Mrs. Henderson again, looking anxious.

“We’re closed,” Ben called.

“I know,” Mrs. Henderson replied. “But I wanted to thank you for this morning. That muffin… it helped more than you know. My daughter and I had the best conversation we’ve had in years.”

Poppy unlocked the door. “I’m so glad.”

“I don’t know what you did,” Mrs. Henderson continued, “but there was something special about that muffin. Something that helped me remember how much I love her, instead of focusing on how much I was afraid.”

After Mrs. Henderson left, Poppy turned to Ben with tears in her eyes.

“This is why,” she said softly.

“Why what?”

“Why Grandma did all of this. Why she kept the recipes secret, why she worked with people like Eleanor and Whit, why she spent her whole life turning this bakery into a sanctuary.” Poppy gestured around the warm, welcoming space. “It was never about the magic. It was about the people. About helping them remember love instead of fear, hope instead of despair.”

Ben nodded. “And now it’s our turn.”

“Our turn,” Poppy agreed.

As they turned off the lights and locked up for the night, Poppy felt a presence—warm, loving, and infinitely proud. For just a moment, she could have sworn she saw her grandmother’s reflection in the darkened window, smiling and nodding approval.

Then the moment passed, leaving only the lingering scent of cinnamon and the knowledge that some legacies were worth carrying forward, no matter how unusual they might be.

---

Epilogue

Six Months Later

The spring morning sun streamed through the windows of My Soul to Bake, illuminating the familiar scene of Poppy and Ben working side by side in perfect harmony. The bakery had never been busier—word had somehow spread throughout Whisperwind Cove that their baked goods had special properties, though most customers couldn’t quite articulate what made them so special.

“Mrs. Cole needs three dozen ‘confidence cookies’ for her daughter’s job interviews,” Ben called from the front counter.

“And Mr. Kowalski wants another healing honey cake for his arthritis,” Poppy replied, sliding a tray of cookies into the oven.

They’d developed an entire menu of intentional baked goods over the past six months, each one designed to provide specific emotional or spiritual support. The “confidence cookies” were infused with intentions of self-assurance and clarity. The “healing honey cake” carried wishes for physical comfort and recovery.

Most customers didn’t know exactly why the treats worked so well—they just knew that a visit to My Soul to Bake always made them feel better.

“Oh, and Eleanor called,” Ben added. “She wanted to know if we could provide dessert for the Guardian Council meeting next month.”

“Guardian Council?” Poppy raised an eyebrow.

“Apparently it’s a thing. A gathering of people like us—bakers, florists, blacksmiths, artisans who use their crafts to help maintain balance between the everyday world and the supernatural one.”

It still amazed Poppy how naturally this double life had become. By day, they were simply the beloved owners of Whisperwind Cove’s favorite bakery. But they were also part of a quiet network of people who worked to protect the boundary between worlds, helping lost spirits find peace and preventing entities like the Collectors from exploiting innocent people.

“Speaking of supernatural visitors,” Ben said, nodding toward the kitchen, “I think we have company.”

Poppy looked over to see a faint shimmer near the prep table—not quite visible, but definitely present. The flour in the open canister was swirling gently, forming the familiar pattern of three concentric circles.

“Hi, Grandma,” Poppy said softly.

The shimmer seemed to pulse with warmth, and for just a moment, Poppy could feel her grandmother’s presence as clearly as if she were standing right beside her.

Then the sensation faded, leaving only the comforting scent of cinnamon and the knowledge that some bonds transcended even death.

“She’s proud of us,” Ben observed.

“She’s proud of what we’ve built together,” Poppy corrected. “The bakery, the life we’re creating, the way we’re helping people.”

“And?”

Poppy smiled, her hand moving unconsciously to her still-flat stomach. “And she’s excited about the future.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “Are you saying…?”

“I’m saying that the next generation of Periwinkle bakers might be arriving sooner than we expected.”

Ben whooped with joy, lifting Poppy off her feet and spinning her around the kitchen. When he set her down, both of them were laughing and crying at the same time.

“A baby,” he said wonderingly. “Our baby.”

“Who will probably inherit the gift,” Poppy pointed out. “Are you ready for a toddler who can influence emotions with their finger paintings?”

“Bring it on,” Ben said firmly. “We’ll teach them to use their abilities responsibly, the way your grandmother taught you. Love first, magic second, and always in service of others.”

As if in response to their conversation, the flour swirled again, this time forming a single word:

CONGRATULATIONS

Then it settled back to normal, leaving them alone with their joy and their plans and the endless possibilities of the future.

Outside, the spring day was beautiful. Inside, the bakery hummed with contentment and the promise of new life. And in the space between the everyday and the extraordinary, love continued to work its own particular magic, one perfectly baked cupcake at a time.

The bell above the door chimed as their first customer of the day arrived, and Poppy and Ben returned to work, ready to provide whatever combination of comfort, healing, and ordinary magic the world might need.

After all, that’s what partners do—in baking, in love, and in life.

THE END

Thank you for reading “The Ganache Gambit.” The My Soul to Bake series continues with more sweet mysteries, supernatural adventures, and the everyday magic of small-town life in Whisperwind Cove.