Broken Pact (Avalon Falls #1)

1. Coraline

1

CORALINE

I shimmy to the beat of the pop song playing through the bakery’s speakers, silently thanking the universe for the foresight to install a sound system in both the front and kitchen. The scent of decadent melted chocolate fills the air, mingling with the rich aroma of brewed coffee.

It’s paradise . Which is something I never thought I’d say living in my small town. But the universe works in mysterious, unpredictable ways. Just like my late grandma, Nana Jo. She left me a significant amount of money when she passed away, only allowing me to use it to open my very own bakery.

Somewhere I have all the room I need to bake anything I could dream up. Like this dark chocolate tart with espresso whipped cream rosettes. And it’s all dairy-free.

My stomach rumbles with approval, and I’m half-tempted to make another one so I can try it. I don’t think Mrs. Shepley would appreciate me taking a bite out of her custom-ordered tart. She has big plans to bring it to bridge club tonight.

Sugarplum Bakery is my sanctuary, a place where the outside world melts away, creating space for me to be myself. To let my creativity take the reins without fear of critique from former bosses or noise complaints from roommates or sidelong looks from mothers.

My phone buzzes on the wooden butcher block at the end of the worktable, interrupting my pitch-perfect breakdown of the song’s bridge. I grapevine across the tiled floor, using the purple whisk like it’s a microphone and propping the dirty glass mixing bowl against my hip. Nothing hypes me up like a good song and a good bake.

I glance at the screen and frown. My good mood pops like an overfilled balloon.

Another message from my ex-boyfriend. Great .

I place the mixing bowl on the table and wipe my hand across my pink apron with a sigh.

Grant: You’ve made your point, Coraline. I’m growing tired of waiting.

Annoyance flares, quick and sharp. “Read the room, Grant.”

I know I’ll regret texting him back, but if I don’t, he’ll blow up my phone for the rest of the day. And I have plans to see my cousin’s baby tonight. The last thing I want to do is bring my cloud of negativity to that sweet baby girl.

I blow out a breath and roll out the tension in my neck.

Me: Move on, Grant. I already have.

His reply is instant.

Grant: Nice try, Coraline. We both know this is a desperate ploy in an attempt to make me suffer. I have. I’m suffering without you.

Frustration bubbles inside my stomach like acid. It’s been like this for weeks now. I tell him point blank that we’re over and he somehow still doesn’t get it. And he’s suffering ? Puh-lease. I cannot roll my eyes hard enough to convey my absolute annoyance.

Me: Were you suffering when that woman’s tongue was down your throat?

My thumb hovers over the send button before ultimately deleting it. I don’t even want to bring that up, because the truth is, ironically, I don’t even care that he cheated. I was going to end things that night anyway, so he did me a favor really. I wasn’t feeling Grant, and if I’m being truthful with myself, I hadn’t in a long time.

I switch over to my music app instead and scroll until I find the perfect song. Maybe this will help send the message. I click the share button and send him the song without anything else. Maybe he’ll listen to Taylor since he won’t listen to me. I swear he wasn’t this obtuse when we got together.

Or maybe he was, but I was reacting on instinct after seeing them together again so I convinced myself to overlook it.

Shaking my head, I blow out a breath that puffs my cheeks and drop the dishes in the sink. I’ll clean up after I take some photos of this stunning dessert. There’s a thump from somewhere, and I pause mid-lyric. When I don’t hear anything else, I chalk it up to the neighbors. These older buildings downtown were built close together.

I turn the volume up and grab my staging equipment. A lavender-colored swinging door separates the front of the bakery and the kitchen, and I back up, ass-first to push it open. I shout-sing along with Taylor, really throwing my convictions about never getting back together with my ex into it.

“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

I shriek, almost dropping my ring light and background props, spinning around so fast that I lose my balance. My left shoulder slams into the swinging door with a bone-jarring thud.

A man stands in the middle of my bakery.

A stranger with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. An open blue flannel with a black ribbed tank top underneath and a thick gold link chain around his neck. Thick silver rings cover half of his fingers, glinting in the morning sunlight streaming in through the front bay windows.

He combs back his greasy hair with one hand, standing where I used blue painter’s tape to map out the cafe tables and chairs. He’s probably about six feet tall, but his overwhelming presence seems to expand to the vintage bronze tin ceiling.

I press my hand to my chest in a paltry attempt to stop it from beating right out of my ribcage. Fear sprinkles on top of the shock like some kind of emotional sundae. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Strange because I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replies, leaning his big shoulder against the wall and propping one ankle over the other.

I don’t tear my gaze away from him as I edge toward the counter. It has the added bonus of putting more space between us. I set my staging things on the counter, trying to covertly look for something I can turn into a weapon. “How did you get in here? I’m not open to the public yet.”

He arches a bushy brown brow at me. “You’re always open for me, girlie.”

It’s the casual innuendo that pushes some of the fear away, washing it clean to leave room for my indignation to take root. My hand falls from my chest and lands on my hip without conscious thought. “Excuse me?”

He tongues the toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth and circles his finger in the air. “I own this.”

I shake my head, my brows folding toward one another. “No, I do.”

“Nah, girlie. You rent this space. From me.” He tsks.

My mouth drops open and my brain glitches, confusion overriding other emotions. But soon enough, it clears for dread to slink in like some kind of thief in the night. “Mr. Wright sold the building?”

“Nah, Uncle Joey kicked the bucket a few days ago. So I’m your new daddy now.”

I recoil, my gaze searching out the location of my favorite chef’s knife on instinct. I mean, if he was a strawberry, he should be scared shitless of my julienne skills. But outside of that, I’m not some kind of knife-wielding expert. I’m also not one to leave knives laying around, unless it’s for a prop. Goddamn type A personality trait is going to be the death of me one of these days.

But not today.

Because I’m wearing sensible shoes like my dad always taught me. Having two older brothers meant I was never the strongest or the biggest, so I had to be the quickest.

He clocks my movement easily, tsking loud enough I can hear it over Taylor singing. “Nah, I can see what you’re thinking. And I’m here to tell you, it won’t do you any good. So don’t even try.”

“Spoken like a true psychopath,” I mutter under my breath. Louder, I say, “Oh yeah? And what’s that?” I ignore his warning and take a step toward the glint of metal out of the corner of my eye. An icing spatula. I don’t reach for it, but it’s within reaching distance. An important distinction.

It’s not as sharp as a chef’s knife, but it is metal. And it’s pretty much my only option outside of using the ring light tripod like a bat. My sixth sense is going off like fireworks on the Fourth of July. There’s something off about him—about the whole situation.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” He trails off a little, and I hear the word without him uttering a sound. Today . “Why would I jeopardize my new favorite tenant?” He muses, arching a brow and dragging his hand over his beard. It’s dark brown with spots of gray, a little greasy-looking, and long enough to just touch his tee.

“You’re legally obligated to inform me of any ownership changes via email and letter.”

“Ah, so you’ve read your contract, good. That makes this part so much easier,” he says, casually strolling around the room. He glances at the empty walls and pauses to look at the lines and shapes of blue painter’s tape across the floor.

When he trails off, I know he’s fishing for something. I grit my teeth and ask, “What’s that?”

He whistles, and like trained dogs, two men stroll in the front door, which is definitely not locked anymore. Guess that explains how this guy walked in here.

“What’s your name?” I ask the first guy with the beard.

“I already told you: your new daddy.”

The two lapdogs guffaw as they stroll inside the bakery, their boots thumping against the wood floor. It reminds me of some kind of war drums from a movie I watched. The three of them look like a coordinated trio without really matching. It’s the air of thinly veiled violence that shimmers around them, bold and deep-red.

The guy in the skull tee shuffles forward a step, craning his neck around to inspect the room. “What do we got here, boss? Some kind of restaurant?”

“Aye, Ernie,” the ringleader with a beard says. “But that’s not the real prize.” He looks at me, the insinuation clear.

I don’t buckle underneath the weight of their collective gaze, no matter how much I want to turn away. I’ve withstood far worse than the unwelcome perusal of three strange men in my life.

“We’re done here. Get the fuck out of my bakery.” I’m proud of how calm I am in my delivery. If they think they struck the jackpot with some wilted and weeping flower, they’re sorely mistaken.

I'm not a fragile peony. I’m a goddamn willow tree.

“You tell her we own her now, boss? Because she didn’t seem to get the memo,” Ernie drawls, staring at me with entirely too much interest.

“Just getting there, Ern,” the boss says, pivoting to face me. “So here’s the deal, sweetcheeks. We’re your new landlords. And rent’s due.”

“Bullshit. I paid Mr. Wright for a year’s worth of rent four months ago. I’m paid up until next spring.”

The third guy shakes his head, his greasy hair not moving a single inch on his head. “New landlord, new rules, girlie.”

“Chad’s right. So you either pay up or I’m going to have to evict you. And I can’t guarantee my boys are gonna be real gentle with all this nice . . . equipment you have here.” The boss runs his gaze down my body as he says equipment , and it takes everything inside of me to stop the revulsion from shivering down my spine.

“How much?” I grit through a clenched jaw. The quicker I can get them out, the faster I can call a locksmith and change the locks. They must have a key, because I know I locked the front door this morning.

The boss finger-combs his beard. “Hm, let’s say two large. A month. With last month and next month’s due at the same time.”

My mouth drops open and I blurt, “Are you fucking kidding me?

“Nah, girlie, I assure you, the boss doesn’t joke about matters of the heart,” Chad says with a slimy grin.

I shift my weight on my feet. This is total bullshit. I’m getting a, what do they call it, a shakedown. I can’t believe I'm getting shook down by a couple of random men in the middle of downtown Avalon Falls. My mom is never going to let me hear the end of this. I side-eye them as doubt worms its way into me. How do I know they’re who they say they are? I need to call Mr. Wright.

“Now because I’m generous, I’ll give you two weeks to get the funds together. Ern and Chad’ll be back to collect,” the boss says, strolling toward the door. He pauses at the threshold, looking over his shoulder at me. “Oh and sweet cheeks? If you don’t have it, we’ll be collecting in other ways.”

He’s gone as easily and suddenly as he showed up, and I’m left alone in my bakery, wondering what the hell just happened. And more importantly, how am I going to come up with that money?