Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE WEDDING

“Reese,” I hear a voice call out from the back of the bakery. “The walk-in cooler is down again. Do you want me to call the repair man?”

“Of course it is,” I mumble quietly, even though no one can hear me. I’m halfway through restocking the front display case, my hand frozen in the air over a delightful strawberry cupcake. The cooler has been on the fritz for months, adding to the list of items that need repaired, or worse, replaced. My previously lighthearted mood instantly turns dark. I swear I spend more time on hold with contractors than I do actually baking.

It’s been nearly two years since I first laid eyes on my little space on Main Street. It still has charm—the quaint scalloped awning, the oversized picture window, the vintage limestone facade—and all the same problems. I often wonder how Mr. and Mrs. Romano, the sweet old couple who leased the space before me, managed to keep things afloat for nearly two decades. They still drop in from time to time, and we’ve become friends. Somerville is a small community, and I was met with some resistance when they relinquished the space to me and I began to transform it into what it is now. But eventually I won everyone over with my irresistible cupcakes and, the staple of the South, beignets.

I glance at the photo hanging behind the register—a younger me, flour-dusted and grinning, baking alongside Grandma Mae in her cozy kitchen. It’s my morning ritual to press my fingers to my lips and then gently touch the frame. “Morning, Grandma Mae,” I whisper, a soft smile playing on my lips.

She taught me everything I know about baking, and the small inheritance she left me allowed me to open up this bakery in the first place. I pour my heart into every creation, hoping that her legacy will live on through my shop. On days like today—when another piece of equipment fails me—her memory is about the only thing that keeps me going.

Wedding cakes, in particular, require an unparalleled level of precision and attention to detail. Every sugar flower must be expertly crafted, and every swipe of frosting a perfect shade of ivory. With anxious brides and their mothers scrutinizing every move, the pressure to deliver flawless results is immense. One tiny mistake could tarnish my reputation and send the entire business crumbling down.

Over the last two years since I opened the shop, I’ve been taking some of our profits, which were fairly slim in the beginning, and reinvesting them back into the building. The HVAC was something that needed a complete replacement.

Tucker has offered to help, of course. More times than I can count, he’s gently suggested that he could cover the cost of the new system, that it would be a small thing for him to do. And every time, I’ve politely but firmly declined. It’s not about pride, exactly. It’s more about proving to myself that I can do this, that I have what it takes to build something lasting and real, without relying on someone else to swoop in and save the day.

I know he means well. He’s seen firsthand how hard I’ve worked, how much of myself I’ve poured into this little shop. But accepting his help feels like admitting defeat, like conceding that maybe I’m not cut out for this after all. And that’s a thought I just can’t bear.

“No.” I brush a bit of hair back over my ear. “I’ll call them, Bernie. Thanks for letting me know.”

Bernie emerges from the back of the bakery. She’s a few years younger than me, with a work ethic that rivals my own. She’s got these expressive brown eyes that always seem to be laughing at some private joke, and a mop of dark brown hair that she usually keeps tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail.

Right now, she’s wearing a slight frown on her face. I know her well enough to know she has some not-so-great news.

“I hate to add to your plate, but we just got a last-minute cookie order for a baby shower. They need five dozen decorated sugar cookies by tomorrow afternoon.”

My shoulders sag, the burden of yet another task settling heavily upon me.

“Tomorrow?” I ask, my mind already churning with the logistics of fitting this order into our already packed schedule. “That’s cutting it a bit close, isn’t it?”

Bernie nods, her expression sympathetic. “I know, but when I tried to explain the tight schedule, she said she would pay a rush fee. She sounded desperate.”

“Alright,” I say, my resolve hardening. “Prep the cookies, and I’ll come back and finish them up after we close up the shop.”

Bernie frowns, concern etching lines into her forehead. “Reese, I’m sorry. I know you’re burning the candle at both ends.”

I wave off her concern, forcing a smile that feels brittle around the edges. “I’m fine, Bernie. Really. This is just a busy season, that’s all. Once we get through the gala and the wedding, things will settle down.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know they ring hollow. The truth is, I can’t remember the last time I felt truly rested, truly at peace. It’s like I’m always running, always chasing after the next big order or the next glowing review, never quite able to catch my breath. It doesn’t help that my fiancé is a workaholic as well. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever have time to even start a family.

Bernie straightens. “I’ll get started right away.”

Thank goodness for Bernie, I think as she heads back to the kitchen. When I first hired her, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’ve always been a bit of a lone wolf, preferring to handle things on my own rather than relying on others. But Bernie has a way of growing on you, of making herself indispensable before you even realize what’s happening.

Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without her.

With a sigh, I weave my way back to the glorified broom closet I call an office, tucked away in the far corner of the shop. I’ve managed to cram a tiny desk, a filing cabinet, and a couple of shelves into the small room, creating a space Bernie has generously described as “cozy.”

Just as I’m reaching for the phone to call the repairman, the familiar chime of the front doorbell echoes through the shop. I hesitate for a moment, my hand hovering over the receiver. Part of me is hoping it’s just the UPS driver making a routine delivery. With our regular orders, the gala, and the wedding consuming every waking moment, I’m not sure I have the capacity to take on even one more order this week. Especially now with the baby shower cookies.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and make my way to the front of the shop. But as soon as I lay eyes on the person gracing the threshold, my heart plummets—it’s literally the last person I want to see.