Baker Daddy (Small Falls #3)

Chapter 1

Marie

O h well. Here goes nothing.

The door creaked as I pushed it open, and my heart pounded so hard I worried everyone inside would hear it. The room smelled faintly of lavender and fresh crayons, a mix that should’ve been comforting but wasn’t. Warm string lights lined the walls, glowing softly over beanbags and pastel-colored chairs scattered around low tables stocked with markers, coloring books, and tiny bowls of candy. It looked like the dictionary definition of cozy.

Still, I was far from at ease.

My palms were damp, so I shoved them into the pockets of my jacket to keep from fidgeting. My friend Lucy was standing by one of the tables, chatting with a small cluster of women who all seemed happy—relaxed shoulders, soft smiles. I caught sight of her blonde pixie cut, and relief prickled through me. At least I knew someone.

"Marie! You made it!" Lucy’s voice rang out as soon as she spotted me hovering near the door. She waved me over, and I forced my feet to move, one step at a time.

"Hey," I managed, trying to sound casual, like I wasn’t seconds away from bolting.

"Welcome!" Her smile widened as she reached for my arm, giving it a light squeeze. "I’m so glad you’re here."

"Thanks," I said, though my throat felt tight. The words barely made it out.

Lucy leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice, but keeping it warm. "First times can be a little nerve-wracking, huh? Don’t worry—we’ve all been there."

"Yeah," I muttered, nodding stiffly.

"Let me tell you how things go," she said, gesturing toward an empty chair nearby. I sat because standing felt worse, like everyone’s eyes might suddenly land on me.

I looked up at a blotchy, hand-painted sign that said, “Small Falls Little’s League.” I could hardly believe that I was actually here.

Lucy perched on the arm of another chair, her hands settled loosely in her lap, her whole posture open and reassuring. "So, this group is really about support. A safe space for Littles to share and explore without judgment. We talk about everything—self-care ideas, ways to dive deeper into your Little side, even just basic stuff like managing nerves."

"Right," I murmured, nodding again. My back was ramrod straight, and I couldn’t seem to loosen it.

"And there’s no pressure to jump in right away," she added, her gaze steady but kind. "You can just listen tonight if that feels better. Or ask questions. Whatever works for you."

"Okay," I said, though my chest still felt tight.

"Just know we’re happy you’re here," she finished, her smile never wavering. She rested a hand on my arm. “Me especially. Can’t believe my bestie is exploring her Little side.”

I was grateful that she didn’t actually call me a Little. Not that I definitely wasn’t of course, but this was all so new I didn’t really know what to think.

"Thanks," I said again, softer this time. A flicker of relief passed through me.

Rebekah slid into the chair next to me, her movements slow, deliberate. I noticed the soft pastel pink of her cardigan and the way her hands rested lightly in her lap, as if she knew sudden gestures might send me bolting. Her voice was gentle, low enough that no one else could hear.

"First time’s always the hardest," she said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I remember feeling like my heart was gonna beat right out of my chest."

I glanced at her, trying to figure out if she was just being polite or if she meant it. Her eyes—warm, steady—didn’t waver. I didn’t know Rebekah as well as Lucy, but she seemed kind. She’d been one of the founding members of the Littles League, and she was a pillar of the local community.

"You were nervous?" I managed, though my throat felt tight.

"You bet your bottom I was," she said, smiling with this easy confidence that made me feel even more like a deer caught in headlights. "I was in charge the first couple times and that was terrfying! Like, I don’t know what I’m doing.” She let out a musical laugh. “It gets easier. You don’t have to know all the answers tonight. Or any answers! Just showing up is huge."

"Thanks," I murmured, even though my brain was stuck on repeat: What am I doing here? What am I doing here?

Rebekah leaned back slightly, giving me space but still close enough to feel like a safety net. It was kind, sure, but none of it was sinking in. My stomach churned, and I forced a smile to hide how badly I wanted to crawl under the nearest table.

"Alright, let’s get started!" Lucy’s voice cut through the room, bright and upbeat. She clapped her hands twice, drawing everyone’s attention.

A woman across the circle immediately launched in, her words spilling out as if she’d been holding them in all week. "So, last weekend, I finally had a full day of little time," she said, practically glowing. "Like, uninterrupted. No phone, no emails, nothing. Just me and Daddy."

The others around her nodded along, a few offering excited murmurs of encouragement.

"I did crafts all morning," the woman continued, her hands moving animatedly as she spoke. "Made bracelets, painted some rocks. Then I took this bubble bath with my favorite lavender soap. Oh! And my Daddy got me a new stuffie—a big fluffy bunny. We named him Whiskers."

"That sounds so sweet!" someone chimed in, and the circle erupted into little giggles and chatter.

I froze. The image in my head—her surrounded by glitter glue and bubbles and stuffed animals—felt like something from another planet. I thought about the crumpled coloring book shoved in the back of my closet, the cheap crayons I’d bought on a whim and barely touched. And a stuffie? My bed was empty, save for an old pillow I hugged when things got bad.

My face burned as envy prickled under my skin. They made it look so . . . easy. Like slipping into Littleness was second nature. For me, it felt like fumbling around in the dark, unsure if I’d ever find the light switch.

"Marie, what about you?" someone asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Is there anything you’d like to share?”

I stiffened. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Instead, I gripped the edge of my chair tighter and gave a shaky laugh. "Oh, um, nothing like that," I said quickly, hoping they’d move on.

"That’s okay!" Rebekah’s voice was there again, calm and steady. "It’s not a competition. Everyone’s journey looks different."

"Right," I said, forcing another weak smile. But all I could think was: Maybe mine doesn’t look like anything at all .

The laughter and chatter around me grew louder, like a radio I couldn’t turn down. My fingers dug into the back of my chair. Hard.

I didn’t belong here.

My chest tightened as I scanned the circle. They leaned in close to each other, voices light and easy, talking about their favorite pacifiers or showing off glittery stickers from their journals. Like old friends. Like there was no question about whether they belonged. Nobody tripped over their words, nobody second-guessed.

Meanwhile, I was sitting here like some weird impostor, too big and clunky for the space I was taking up. Did they notice? Could they tell?

"Relax," I told myself under my breath, “you want to be here.” I wasn’t upset that they were relaxed, just frustrated that I didn’t instantly know how to get into the right headspace.

"Marie?" Lucy’s voice floated toward me, soft and sweet, but it only made my pulse pound harder. I looked up, startled, and she smiled warmly from across the way. "You doing okay over there?"

"Yeah." My voice cracked. "Totally fine." Totally lying.

Her smile faltered, just a little, before she turned her attention back to the group. But I felt her watching me out of the corner of her eye. And Rebekah, too. They probably thought I was rude or awkward. Or worse—broken.

Heat flooded my cheeks. My grip on the chair tightened until my knuckles turned white. I had to get out of here.

I shot to my feet so fast the chair scraped against the floor with an awful screech. All eyes flicked to me, curious and confused. My stomach dropped.

"Sorry!" I blurted, forcing a nervous laugh that sounded fake even to me. "I, uh—" Think of something. Anything. "I have to get up early for work tomorrow. Long day ahead."

"Are you sure?" Lucy’s concern was instant. She half-rose, her brow furrowing as she studied me. "You don’t have to go just yet. We’re glad you came."

"Really, it’s fine," I insisted, already backing toward the door. My throat felt tight, like my words were squeezing through a straw. "Thanks, though. I’ll, um . . . see you next time. Maybe."

"Marie—"

"Bye!" I practically threw the word over my shoulder as I slipped out the door, shutting it behind me before anyone else could try and stop me.

My heart was still racing, but at least I wasn’t trapped anymore. At least those eyes weren’t on me, waiting for me to explain why I didn’t measure up.

I hugged my arms around myself, staring at the pavement. The tension in my chest eased, just barely, but everything else felt heavy. Disappointment. Embarrassment. Shame. I hated that I’d run. Hated that I hadn’t been brave enough to stay.

"At least you went," I muttered, though the words rang hollow. “Maybe I'll do better next time.”

I was normally fine around people. I was the manager of a coffee shop, after all. Talking to folks was my job. But there was something about finally opening this part of myself up that terrified me. How was I supposed to figure out if Littleness was really for me?

A breeze picked up, tugging at my sleeves, and I shivered. Maybe I just wasn’t built for this.

***

The next morning, the hiss of my espresso machine filled the air, sharp and comforting. I wiped down the counter with quick, practiced strokes, my hands moving on autopilot. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around me like a blanket, soothing in a way nothing else could. This was my space. My rules. My rhythm.

No vulnerability here—just the ease of my comfort zone.

"Morning, Marie!" Mr. Callahan’s smile peeked out from under his bushy mustache as he shuffled up to the counter, his usual knit cap pulled low over his ears. "You got that cinnamon roll for me today, or do I have to stage a protest?"

"Hold your horses, Callahan," I teased, grabbing the tray of pastries from the display case. My fingers moved fast, bagging his favorite treat without missing a beat. "Wouldn’t want you leading a revolution before your first cup of joe."

"Coffee and jokes. You’re spoiling me." He winked as I slid his latte across the counter.

"Just don’t forget to leave me a tip for my comedy set." I shot back, already turning to greet the next customer in line.

People came and went, the bell above the door chiming its cheerful tune every few minutes. My muscles eased with each order, my focus narrowing to the here and now. Foam art on a cappuccino. Perfectly toasted bagels. A light laugh at someone’s bad Monday joke. This was easy. This, I knew how to do.

"Marie, can I get a refill?" Sandy called out from her usual spot by the window.

"Coming right up!" I grabbed the pot of house blend and made my way over, dodging a toddler clutching a sippy cup like it was her lifeline. Sandy handed me her mug, and I filled it to the brim with a steady pour.

"Busy morning," she said. Her eyes flicked toward the line snaking past the pastry case. "Looks like everyone decided to wake up early today."

"Good for business," I replied, flashing a quick grin. "Keeps me on my toes."

But even as I bantered and poured and prepped, my mind kept circling back. Little League. The group. That room full of people who seemed so… open. Comfortable. Like they belonged there.

Not like me.

I belonged here.

"Marie? Earth to Marie." Sandy waved her hand in front of my face, snapping me back to the moment.

"Sorry! Zoned out for a sec," I said, forcing a laugh. "Guess I need a coffee more than anyone."

She gave me a knowing look but didn’t press. I hurried back behind the counter, diving into the next order—a caramel macchiato with extra whip—and tried to drown out the thoughts buzzing in my head.

"Two blueberry muffins, please," a woman ordered, her voice cutting through the noise like a needle through fabric. I grabbed them without thinking, slipping into that familiar groove, the one where nothing else existed but the next task.

Still, the questions wouldn’t quit. What if I’d stayed? Would Lucy have coaxed me into talking? Would I have found the courage to admit what felt too big, too raw to say out loud?

"Marie, you okay?" Sam, one of my baristas, leaned closer, his brow furrowed. "You’re kinda quiet this morning."

"Yeah, just tired," I said quickly, brushing him off. "Late night. You know how it is."

"Sure." He didn’t sound convinced, but he turned back to the register anyway, leaving me to wrestle with my own thoughts.

The line thinned out eventually, giving me a chance to catch my breath. As I wiped down the espresso machine, my gaze drifted toward the stack of coloring books tucked behind the register. I’d picked them up ages ago, telling myself they were for nieces and nephews who rarely visited. But really, they were for me. For the nights when the world felt too heavy, and I needed something to ground me. Something simple. Safe.

I hadn’t touched them in weeks. Too afraid, maybe. Afraid of what it meant to need something like that. Afraid of what people would think if they knew.

The low hum of conversation filled the café, a steady backdrop to the hiss of steaming milk and the clatter of mugs on saucers. I wiped my hands on my apron, scanning the room for anything out of place. The line at the counter had thinned, leaving tables packed with regulars nursing their caffeine fixes. Sam was stacking fresh croissants into the display case, his movements efficient if not a little careless.

"Two sugars, right?" I asked the man waiting at the counter. Mr. Heron nodded, his newspaper folded under one arm. I handed him his coffee, exchanging a quick smile before turning back toward the espresso machine. That’s when I heard it.

". . .Dwight Wilkins is back in town."

I froze, my hand hovering over the steam wand. Dwight Wilkins? I hadn’t seen him for years. He was Brett and Marcus Wilkin’s brother. He was probably back for Marcus’s wedding. My ears perked, tuning in to the voices drifting from the corner table by the window.

"Can you believe it?" one woman whispered. I recognized her as June, a teacher from the middle school. She leaned toward her friend, her tone sharp with judgment. "After everything that happened? I mean, who does he think he is?"

"Bad news, that’s who," the other woman replied. Fran, I think her name was. She sipped her tea, glancing around like she expected someone to overhear. "And he wants to open a bakery? Here? Does he even know how small this town is? It’s a slap in the face to Marie, honestly."

My stomach tightened. My fingers gripped the edge of the counter as I tried not to look too interested. Dwight Wilkins. A bakery. Bad news. A dozen questions fought for space in my head, but none made it past the sudden rush of heat prickling the back of my neck.

"Didn’t he used to be in some garage band or something?" June asked, her voice dropping even lower. "Left town after all that drama with his brother? You remember that, don’t you?"

"Of course I do. Everyone does," Fran said with a sniff, as if not remembering would have been a crime. "And now he thinks he can just roll back in and play businessman? Please. He’ll run his place into the ground before he sells his first loaf."

"Or worse," June added, her lips pursing. "He might actually succeed."

That last word hung in the air, heavy enough to make my chest ache. Succeed. In my town. With my customers.

I’d always had a tiny little crush on Dwight. He was the bad boy of the Wilkin’s brothers. Something happened between him and Marcus and he left town to join the army. When he was out, he got in a band and actually made it pretty big. I found it hard to believe that he wanted to open a bakery. A soldier/rockstar/baker? Sounded a little far-fetched to me.

"Marie, you okay?" Sam’s voice cut through my thoughts, and I realized I’d been standing there too long, staring at the frothing pitcher in front of me.

"Yeah, fine," I lied, grabbing the rag from my pocket and wiping down the counter. But my hands moved mechanically. My focus stayed glued to the corner table. June and Fran didn’t seem to notice me watching as they went on dissecting Dwight Wilkins’ supposed audacity.

"Near Main Street," Fran said. "That’s what I heard. Somewhere close to the hardware store. Near his brother’s place."

I pulled myself away then, forcing my feet to move. The familiar rhythm of pouring coffee grounded me, but my pulse wouldn’t settle. Near Main Street. Close to the hardware store. I could picture the spot already—prime location. Too prime. A bakery there wouldn’t just nibble at my business; it could tear chunks out of it.

I handed off the counter to Sam, who gave me a quick thumbs-up before diving into the next wave of orders. My chest felt tight, like I’d been holding my breath for too long. I needed space. I grabbed a rag from under the counter and moved toward the back tables, where the chatter of customers dimmed to a low hum.

The rag was damp in my hand as I wiped down one table, then another. My mind wouldn’t shut up. A bakery near Main Street? That spot could siphon half my morning crowd without blinking. It wasn’t just the pastries—it was the vibe, the routine, the rhythm people counted on when they came here. If Dwight Wilkins opened his doors, what would happen to The Daily Grind? What would happen to me?

I scrubbed harder than I needed to on a streak of dried coffee. Maybe I could expand the menu. Add a few new seasonal items—pumpkin scones, or something trendy like lavender muffins. People liked that kind of thing, didn’t they? Or maybe I could host some events: live music nights, latte art workshops. Something to keep folks loyal.

I moved to the next table, wringing the rag between my hands before wiping down the surface. My gaze landed on the small stack of napkins left behind by a customer. Neat, orderly, with a little doodle scrawled on top. It reminded me of last night—the crayons, the soft lighting, the way those women had smiled like it was easy to just be .

My chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t about Dwight. It was about me. At "Little League," I’d barely spoken. Barely dared to look anyone in the eye. And when everyone else started sharing their stories, I’d bolted. Just like now, running to the back tables instead of facing the problem head-on.

I paused mid-wipe, staring at the tabletop. It hit me all at once—how much I hated feeling out of control, whether it was at work or anywhere else. I couldn’t figure out what scared me more: losing my business to Dwight or letting people see the cracks in my armor. Both felt like they’d swallow me whole.

I had to be brave, but I didn’t know how.