Friends Don’t Kiss (Emerald Creek #4)

1. Kiara

one

Kiara

“W hy are you so nervous?”

Willow watches as I pipe the final swirl of white chocolate ganache onto my grandmother’s birthday cake. She turns the plate so I can finish, then steps back, phone in hand, snapping photos while I arrange petal-shaped curls around the white chocolate roses. Grams will appreciate the extra touch.

I take a slow breath, trying to ease the tightness in my stomach. “I’m not nervous.” Just bracing myself for the family reunion.

“Uh-huh.” Willow tilts her head. “You’re biting the inside of your cheeks, and your place is serial-killer-level clean.”

I grunt.

“It’s super weird to see the Fearless Leader of the Bitch Brigade rattled,” she says.

Willow and I became friends not long after I moved to Emerald Creek a few years ago. She works at the bakery that hired me, so we’re constantly crossing paths—during shifts, at Lazy’s, the town bar, or at one of the girls’ nights out someone inevitably organizes. I’m the part-time pastry chef, and whenever I’m on the schedule, she gets bumped from the register to help me bake macarons and chocolate soufflés.

But today, she came to my place to help me bake for the family reunion. We’ve been at it since morning and through lunch, yet there’s not a fleck of flour on the floor, no stray utensils, not a dish soaking in the sink. The couch is pristine, books aligned, throw pillows fluffed, candles angled just right on the white coffee table.

My private space is the only thing I can control today, and I’m hanging onto that with desperation.

“I like my place under control. It’s more comfy that way.” Even I can hear the sarcasm in my tone.

Willow sees through my lie. “I’m sorry it has to be that way with your folks,” she says softly as she ties a ribbon around the boxes of petits fours we made together.

I shrug. “Eh, family. You know how it is.”

She gives a small chuckle. We both come from homes that are broken in different ways and understand there’s no fixing these things—just learning how to live with them, distance ourselves from them if we can, and build lives for ourselves that don’t feel like a constant struggle.

The cake is done. I step back to admire it, satisfaction settling in my chest. It’s everything I wanted for my grams’ birthday. Everything she’d want. The seven-layer torte is cloaked in snow-white fondant, an elaborate arrangement of royal-icing roses artfully spilling down its sides, the most intricate piping I’ve ever done circling its base.

“Grams is going to love it,” I say as much for myself as for Willow.

“It’s gorgeous,” Willow whispers, awe in her voice. “Let’s take pictures and post it on socials. It looks like a wedding cake.” She pulls out her phone again. “And wait ’til she tastes it.”

The layers of dacquoise—maple, vanilla cream, and hazelnut crunch—are interspersed with dark chocolate ganache and fresh raspberries, all this on a base of Italian meringue. Just the thought of how my creation will bring her the joy she deserves is enough to chase away my family reunion-induced anxiety, at least for now.

“I was gonna say you outdid yourself, but that wouldn’t be fair. Everything you make is above and beyond,” Willow says as she turns the phone around the cake to capture the variations in the decor.

“Thanks.” The word comes out quieter than I intend, my thoughts drifting to the one thing that keeps me going now: establishing myself as a legit pastry chef. I’m almost there. Almost. But true success keeps eluding me.

I still don’t have my own shop. I still haven’t made a name for myself. No matter how hard I push, how many hours I put into my craft, I can’t seem to break through.

Glancing at this cake again, I can’t figure it out. What bride wouldn’t want something this beautiful, something that tastes as exquisite as it looks?

“How ’bout you make more of these,” Willow says, switching to pictures. “Different designs, different flavors, so you have more to show?”

I thought about that. About the flavor combos, too. “M-hm. Orange blossom, pistachio, and Meyer lemon. Pear, white chocolate, and chai. Mint, dark chocolate, and walnut.” I grab my notebook and write these ideas down, before something else takes over my brain and I forget. “I could make those next week. Pretend I’m swamped with orders. Fake-it-’til-you-make-it type of thing,” I mumble.

That means spending hours baking cakes no one ordered with supplies I can barely afford. I could eat them. Wouldn’t hurt to put on a few pounds.

“Tell me when, and I’ll come help. Hey, we should post on it on socials, saying we’re prepping tastings for next season’s brides?”

Wow. Why didn’t I think about that? “That’s brilliant!” I’m moved by the dimples forming on her cheeks, by the way her deep brown eyes are dancing with true happiness. Willow doesn’t have an easy life, yet she finds happiness in the smallest things. I need to be more like her.

“Okay, let’s put this baby away for now. Open the fridge for me?” she says, snapping me out of my thoughts.

Once the cake is cooling, I make us some coffee and we both plop on the kitchen chairs. For the first time today, I let myself relax.

“What did you call me earlier?” I ask.

She shrugs like she has no clue what I’m talking about.

“The fearful bitch?” I nudge her.

She laughs so hard she almost chokes on her coffee. “The Fearless Leader of the Bitch Brigade,” she finally manages to say.

That gets me laughing too.

“After, you know…” she adds.

“Yeah-yeah-yeah.” Last summer, when our friend Grace nearly lost her spa, we rallied the troops. The name Bitch Brigade came organically to me. Being called their fearless leader is a stretch, but it’s still nice. “Thanks for today. I owe you one.”

“It’s nothing.” She takes a long sip of her coffee, her eyes on me. “You’ll have your own place one day, I promise. The world is gonna find out what a great pastry chef you are, and you’ll have more work than you can handle.” She smiles deviously. “Then I’ll guilt-trip you into paying me an insane salary with benefits. I’ll remind you how I saved your sorry ass more than once.”

I tip my coffee mug toward her. “Fair enough. In that case, I need one more thing before you go. If you have time,” I add.

“It’s Saturday. Chris gave me the day off to help you, and I don’t have a life.” She shrugs. “What do you need?”

“Help me figure out an outfit.”

Willow squeaks with excitement, downs her coffee, and dashes to my bedroom.

I finish my coffee to the sound of the closet door opening and closing and Willow humming to herself, then rinse our mugs and join her.

Any sense of order and control I thought I had is completely obliterated. Half my wardrobe is piled up on my bed, tops on one side and bottoms on the other. “What you got for me?” I say, faking enthusiasm as I stretch my mouth into a smile.

Willow doesn’t catch onto my near state of despair. “How about this?” She thrusts a pair of black skinny jeans and a bright green tube top my way.

“Yeah, nope.”

“Oh.” She blinks, seeming surprised. “More conventional?” She offers a pair of gray slacks and the white blouse I only wear when I have a meeting at the bank.

I scratch my head. Willow isn’t making it easier, but at least I’m not doing this alone.

She tilts her head. “With your body type, you can wear whatever you want.” She flings the clothes on the bed and finds an empty spot to sit on. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?” she asks with a kindness that is worrisome.

“Just my grams’ birthday party. Eighty years old.”

“Yup. We just spent all day baking for her, ’member? Try again.” She nudges me with her elbow in an attempt to perk me up.

“Alright. Fine .” I lean against the closet door, cross my arms, and try to gather my feelings into something that makes sense. “I haven’t seen my mom and my sister in a long time.”

Willow’s facial expression shifts. “Oh. And… are we happy about seeing them?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Well… They still think I’m a loser who tore the family apart.”

After my falling out with them, we went two, maybe three years without speaking. Then Grams forced us to patch things up, and I thought all the ugliness was behind us. That we were a family again.

I was wrong.

Whenever we see each other now, it seems their only purpose is to remind me of how inadequate I am. Of how unlike them I am. Of how I don’t belong. Mom calls and texts me, acting like a normal yet distant mother might, but her efforts don’t fool me. There’s something broken beyond repair in our relationship.

I’ve learned to shove my feelings down the pit of my stomach, where no one can see them and they can hurt only me. I’ve learned to toughen up. I’ve learned to accept that I don’t have a family, that it was ripped from me when I was a teenager. That any so-called family reunion is just another reminder that I fucked up in a major way that will never be forgiven. That no matter how much Mom pretends otherwise, I will never really be back in the fold.

Willow knows the gist of it, but not the details. I’ve also learned to pretend that I don’t care about these things. It’s called adapting, and I like to think I’ve become pretty adept at that survival skill.

She stands and wraps me in a quick hug. “Fuck them!” she whispers.

“Maybe the blouse but with black pants,” I say.

She shakes her head. “You’d look like a server.” Turning to the pile of clothes, she asks, “Do you want to give them a big fat Eff You or do you want to try and blend in?”

Both.

Since the events that got me banned from the family, I’ve come a long way. I moved out of my car and into a legit apartment. I made friends that feel more like family than the one I was born into. And I’ve become a pastry chef—at least, in my mind I am.

But today isn’t about me. It’s about making Grams happy. Removing any point of friction between us would be the first step. “Blend in,” I concede.

“Okay, so traditional, bordering on uppity,” Willow says as she extracts a plaid skirt I didn’t even remember owning, and pairs it with a black sweater that might be cashmere.

Ditching my yoga pants, I slip into the skirt. “How d’you figure that?”

She shrugs. “The stuff you had when you got here wasn’t exactly homeless gear. You had designer jeans and brand-name handbags.”

I look at her in surprise as I zip up the skirt, which hangs a little loose on my hips. I always viewed myself as the broke, messed-up black sheep. Did Willow see me as a bougie runaway?

“You were cool though,” she says, handing me the sweater.

She totally saw me as a bougie runaway . Which, to be fair, I kind of was.

“Tuck it in, she instructs. Her eyes widen as I do. “Oh wow—that looks great on you.”

I turn to examine my reflection in the mirror. “I look like a sixth-grader entering boarding school.”

“No you don’t.” Willow says, tossing a pair of fishnet stockings in my direction. “Where are your booties? The ones with the mile-high spike heels and the gold buckle?”

Once I’m all decked to Willow’s instructions and standing six inches taller, I bite my lip. I look like a K-drama heroine. “I think that’ll work. Thanks!”

Willow gives an exaggerated sigh. “You look hot, Boss. You forgot the feeling. Tits out!”

“What tits?” I smirk.

She pinches my left boob. “Shoulders back, chin high, ass out. You remember how to walk in those?”

I nod. “Like riding a bike.” I lean over to give her a hug. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“That’s me.” She smirks. “Now go kick ass and have fun with your grams.”

“I will,” I lie.

After the door shuts on her, I turn to the mess on my bed and smile. Then, as I start hanging and folding my clothes, I belt out Bejeweled at full volume.

The last step is to style my short blonde hair in its usual spiky, edgy look, which has the distinct advantage of adding another half inch or so to my height. Perfect. Just to be on the safe side, I give it one more spritz of hairspray.

Good.

I go back to the kitchen, take the cake out of the fridge, and check my list.

Cake.

Petits fours .

Candles.

Shit . Candles. Where did I put them? There’s a strike through the word, so I must have packed them, but now I can’t remember where. And just because I checked them off the list doesn’t mean I actually did what I was supposed to do with them.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

I look around. Eighty candles. Can’t really misplace eighty fucking candles. Did I even buy them? Yeah, yeah, I did. I remember buying them. I remember deciding they would ruin the aesthetic of the cake—so seventy-nine would go on the petits fours and only one on the cake itself.

Petits fours ! Yes. There they are. And inside one of the pastry boxes—candles.

Found them! Crisis averted.

I exhale and let my shoulders drop. I can relax now.

Then my phone dings, and the name on the display makes me think the relaxing might not happen after all.

Mother

Are you still bringing someone?

Fuck. I forgot about that.

No, Mother, I’m not bringing anyone. Who the fuck would I bring?

That’s the plan.

Is that a yes or a no?

Does it really matter? Of course not.

It’s 90% yes. He had a last-minute thing at work and is trying to get out of it.

What’s his name again?

Ugh. I better not answer that, because I’m guaranteed to forget what I told her and then I won’t be able to keep my story straight when I’m interrogated—at this point, it’s fair to say that I will be.

I exit the chat.

Sighing, I glance out the window, my tension easing incrementally as I let my gaze wander past the small apartment complex where I live—Sunrise Farms—down toward Emerald Creek. The village sits nestled in a bend of the river, huddled around a green. The golden numbers on the church clock gleam in the setting sun, its white steeple sharp against the winter sky. Thick snow blankets the roofs, and plumes of smoke billow softly from chimneys—maybe from Ms. Angela’s bed-and-breakfast, or my friends Chris and Alex’s Victorian house-slash-bakery.

I could say I made my home in Emerald Creek, and it’d be true.

But it’s more than that.

Emerald Creek took me in when I was at my lowest and built me up. This place and the people that live here are my true family.

Taking a deep breath, I count to three. It’s only one evening. And it’s for Grams.

My gaze drops to the small parking lot below, and I grimace. There are many advantages to living at Sunrise Farms. Lockers for skis, snowboards, and bikes. Management clears the access for us.

But the downside? No covered parking. And winters in Northern Vermont can last six months.

Luckily, my first friend in Emerald Creek—and incidentally responsible for me moving here in the first place—Colton, the town mechanic, installed a remote starter for my Corolla.

Which isn’t working this morning. I stab the fucker again. Open my window, bracing against the cold.

Nope.

Great. I’ll tell Colton—eventually. Not now for sure, or even this weekend. Knowing him, he’d want to fix it immediately. And since he also lives at Sunrise Farms, it would literally be a right now situation. He already does so much for me, no way am I asking him for anything on a weekend.

The falling snow already added a fresh layer on my car, even though I cleared it before Willow got here. I shove my heeled booties in my bag, swap them for my snow boots, and haul my cakes and pastries outside. After securing all the boxes so they don’t slide around in my trunk, I climb into the driver’s seat and recheck my list.

One cake

Petits fours 9 boxes

Candles 1 box

All good.

I turn the ignition.

Click. Nothing.

“Fuck.”

Turn. Click. Click. Nothing.

“Come on, you little shit.”

Turn. Click.

Fuck me.

I glance around the parking lot. Good. Colton’s truck is here. He’s home. I guess I’m asking for his help. Again. This really needs to stop.

Yo Colton

Colt

Wassup

Can you jump-start my car

Now?

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Now?

Duh .

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Is that a yes?

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