Frosted Fate (Spice Spice Baby #3)

Chapter 1

Dylan

The morning rush hits Spice Spice Baby like it always does: hard, fast, and smelling like cinnamon sugar dreams.

The bell above the door jingles every forty seconds.

The line spills halfway down the block, past the Corner Diner where half these customers probably ate breakfast an hour ago, past the bookshop with its hand-painted Read Between the Vines sign, all the way to the festival banners flapping in the spring wind.

Inside, the air hums with the scent of espresso, warm pastry, and a hundred different conversations happening at once.

I settle into my usual rhythm at the decorating station, piping red velvet rosettes on a custom anniversary cake.

My hands move automatically, I rotate the stand, apply pressure, release, repeat.

Behind me, Maddie hums at the small table we set up near the counter, and the guys yell over the coffee grinders like they're competing in an unofficial shouting championship.

In other words, it's a normal Wednesday in Valentine.

I pipe the next row, then lean back to check the symmetry. Perfect. The rosettes should look identical from every angle because details matter. Clean work matters. Predictable routines matter.

"Daddy, look." Maddie lifts a sheet of paper toward me with sticky fingers and an even stickier smile. She has managed to get sprinkles on her cheeks, which is impressive because we weren't using sprinkles this morning.

I set the piping bag aside and take the paper. She's drawn a cake with a hundred hearts floating above it. Her hearts never look the same, but she insists each one belongs to a different person in Valentine.

"This is the festival cake," she declares. "Because everyone's gonna fall in love when they see it."

I laugh and kiss the top of her head. "The festival cake is going to look a little different, bug."

"No," she says confidently. "Mine is better."

The kid is never short on opinions.

Evan appears at my elbow, grinning like he knows something I don't. "Dylan, the Festival coordinator's here."

I glance toward the entrance. Gina from the Heart-to-Heart Festival committee is weaving through the line, her clipboard clutched like a life raft, looking more frazzled than usual.

"Dylan," she calls, reaching the counter. "I’ve got good news and bad news."

I brace myself. Those words never lead anywhere comfortable.

"The original event stylist had a family emergency," she says, slightly breathless.

"So we hired someone new to help with the festival's branding and promotion.

She's very experienced; she has a big-city portfolio and has worked festivals in Seattle and Portland.

She should be here any minute to talk about filming content at the bakery. "

My eye twitches. "Content? Like videos?"

"Yes! Reels, behind-the-scenes shots, interviews, that kind of thing. We need social media exposure." Gina beams as if this is the best news she's delivered all week.

I picture a stranger wandering around my kitchen with a camera while I'm elbow-deep in frosting. Then I picture them aiming it at Maddie, and my stomach knots immediately.

"Just so we're clear," I say carefully, "no one films Maddie without my explicit permission."

Gina pats my arm like she's soothing a startled horse. "Of course, of course. This woman seems very professional, you'll like her."

"Great," I mutter.

Evan snorts behind me. "Dylan likes approximately three people."

"Four," I correct. "Maddie, my mom, and the two of you on good days."

"Generous," Evan says.

I return to my rosettes, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickle at the base of my neck. We don't need cameras in here. We don't need strangers disrupting the rhythm, and we certainly don't need attention.

What we need to do is finish this festival cake, keep the bakery running smoothly, and ensure Maddie has a stable, predictable environment where nothing unexpected crashes through the door and —

The bell rings, and I look up automatically, expecting another customer with a latte order. Instead, the entire bakery seems to take a collective breath.

The woman in the doorway is not what I expected. Not by a long shot.

Sunlight catches in her hair, making it look like spun honey and gold, the kind of color a photographer would spend hours trying to capture.

She wears a denim jacket over a fitted top, and her smile could reroute traffic.

She has a camera bag hanging from her shoulder, and she scans the room as if she's collecting a mood board in real-time; her eyes are bright, assessing, and warm all at once.

And she smells like citrus and something else that I can smell even from here. It’s something that hits the back of my throat in a way that feels dangerous.

Behind me, Evan makes a quiet sound. "Oh, Dylan's in trouble."

I ignore him because my brain has temporarily stopped processing language.

She walks toward the counter with easy confidence, and I watch every step as if my life depends on memorizing the rhythm. When she reaches me, she offers a bright, open smile that does something unfortunate to my pulse.

"Hi," she says. "I'm Piper. You must be the artist."

I blink. My brain needs a second to reboot.

"The artist," she repeats, nodding toward my cake. "This is incredible, the piping is gorgeous."

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I clear my throat and find my voice somewhere under the pile of incoherent thoughts. "Dylan. I'm Dylan Hayes."

"The Decorator," Evan supplies helpfully, leaning over my shoulder. "Don't let him downplay it; he's the best in Montana."

I shoot Evan a look that promises retribution later.

Piper's smile widens. "Well, Dylan the Decorator, I'm here to capture content for the Heart-to-Heart Festival. I’m looking for behind-the-scenes footage, interviews, and promotional material. The committee said you're creating the signature showpiece?"

"That's the plan," I manage.

"Perfect." She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder. "Before we start, I want to establish boundaries. I don't film anyone without their permission, I never post customers' faces without consent, and I always run footage by the people in it before it goes live."

Something in my chest loosens. I wasn't expecting that.

"No filming my daughter without my approval," I say, testing the boundary. "No shots of her face in any public posts, and I want to review anything that shows more than just my hands."

"Completely fair," she says without hesitation. "Your space, your rules."

I study her for a moment. She holds my gaze steadily, like she understands why I'm being careful and doesn't take it personally.

"All right," I say. "We can work with that."

Before I can say anything else, Maddie's voice carries across the room, loud and awed: "Daddy, look, a cupcake fairy."

I close my eyes briefly. Of course, when I open them, Piper is already crouching down to Maddie's level, completely unbothered by the flour smudge on my daughter's face or the sprinkles in her hair.

"Hi," Piper says warmly. "What's your name?"

"Maddie. Do you like sprinkles?"

Piper grins. "I love sprinkles, they're like tiny happiness bombs."

Maddie gasps as if Piper just spoke the secret language of the universe. "Daddy says they're messy."

"He's very responsible," Piper stage-whispers. "But messy is fun."

Maddie giggles, and the sound pulls at something in my chest I thought I'd locked away.

Piper straightens and catches me watching. Her eyes are bright, amused, and maybe a little knowing. "She's wonderful."

"She's a handful," I say, but my voice comes out softer than I intended.

"The best things usually are."

The way she says it, easy, genuine, like she means it, does something to the careful walls I've built around my life.

Evan clears his throat loudly. "Dylan, Mrs. Brown is here for her anniversary cake consult."

I tear my eyes away from Piper. "Right. Yeah."

I handle Mrs. Brown's order on autopilot, nodding in the right places, making notes I'll probably have to reread later because my brain keeps drifting back to the woman with the camera bag who's now talking to Maddie about favorite colors.

When I return, Piper is examining the festival cake sketch pinned to my workspace corkboard.

"This is beautiful," she says quietly, tracing the phoenix design with her eyes. "Resilience and renewal. That's the theme?"

"Something like that," I say. "The town's been through a lot with the wildfires. I wanted to acknowledge it without making it… heavy."

She nods slowly, and there's something in her expression, understanding, maybe, that makes me think she knows what it's like to carry weight you don't talk about.

"It's going to be incredible," she says. "And it's going to look amazing on camera."

"I do it for the cake," I tell her. "Not the camera."

"I know," she replies, meeting my eyes. "But it's nice when both things benefit."

The moment stretches between us, warm and charged and far more loaded than it should be. Then Maddie crashes into my legs, breaking the spell.

"Daddy! Evan says we're going to the Corner Diner for lunch! Can the cupcake fairy come with us?"

I look at Evan, who grins innocently. "What? It's Wednesday. We always go to the diner on Wednesday; it would be rude not to invite her."

Piper glances between us. "The Corner Diner?"

"Best patty melts in Montana," Evan says. "You should join us; you can get a feel for the town and meet some locals. It will be good for your content strategy."

He's not wrong; he's also absolutely setting me up, and he knows it.

I look at Piper, who's watching me with open curiosity and a small smile that suggests she knows exactly what's happening here.

"You don't have to," I say carefully.

"I'd like to," she replies. "If that's okay with you."

Maddie cheers and grabs Piper's hand like it's already decided.