Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
TWICE BAKED LOVE
I ’m going on a date with Owen Baker. Standing in front of my mirror, my hair pulled into a flirty high ponytail, the thought plays on repeat inside me.
How many times had I daydreamed about Captain Wentworth whisking me into his arms and carrying me off from one of my bad dates?
No doubt several of my readers fantasized about the cinnamon roll small-town baker doing the same.
Only Owen Baker isn’t who I am fantasizing about.
“Bad Georgia,” I mutter to myself. Tonight, my focus should be on my book boyfriends.
Instead of my typical Wednesday night curled up with a book and Wentworth, I’m off for the first of my Just Write dates.
Over the next six days, I’ll go on a date with each book boyfriend.
Between each date, we’ll interact only as a group.
Jackson believes the strategy keeps this whole thing fair, not tipping the “contest” to any one man’s favor.
Despite what my brother teases, this isn’t a contest; this is our lives.
Smoothing down my dress’s skirt, I suck in one last breath and take in my reflection in the mirror.
I am the picture of the female main character in a small-town romance.
The sapphire blue fabric hugs my breasts and flows out in an A-line silhouette.
Ballet flats in the same color as my dress and tiny teacup-shaped dangle earrings top off my outfit.
With a swipe of glossy pink lipstick, I smack my lips and offer a “guess this is happening” smile.
“Time to go on a date with a fictional man.” I chuckle as the knock rattles my front door.
Slipping my lipstick into my purse, I grab it and head to the door.
Jackson insisted that each man pick me up rather than meeting me at the location.
He thinks it adds to the romance. All I’m thinking about is where are we going, and how we’re going to get there.
None of my book boyfriends have real licenses, identification cards, or anything that ties them to this world.
No job. No family. Nothing in this reality, outside of a connection to me and a hope of a possible future.
“Hi!” Opening the door, I infuse as much pep into my greeting as possible.
“Hi,” Owen says, his eyes skim down my body and back up to my face. “You look lovely.”
I should swoon. Flames should arc through me from the heat of his attention on me. Nothing.
“Thanks!” I force my smile just a little bigger, channeling Hope’s cheerleading persona from high school.
“You’re…welcome?” One blond brow arching, Owen offers an unsure grin.
Maybe not so much pep. It’s freaking him out. I clear my throat. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” He nods, holding out his arm for me to take.
One of the benefits of the neighborhood I live in is that it’s a short ten-minute walk to Old Tustin.
Shops, cafes, restaurants, and even an improv theatre fill the mix of Spanish, Victorian, and Mid-Century buildings that make up downtown.
The conversation, mostly about my workday and the homemade chicken pot pie he’d made for Jackson and my other suitors to have for dinner, flows easily between us.
Owen is sweet. With artic-blue eyes, short-cropped blond hair, and a warm, open smile contrasted against a strong jawline, he’s the stereotypical rom-com lead.
But the moment he rests his palm on my lower back to guide me toward our destination, my body has no reaction.
No butterflies. No hitched breath. None of the cliches I write about in my books are present.
We stop in front of a white brick building, a decadent aroma drifting from inside. The Secret Ingredient is embossed in gold script at the center of a large picture window. Inside, several couples stand chatting at one of the six mini kitchen islands throughout the space.
“A cooking class?” I guffaw.
His mouth flexes into a lopsided grin. “It’s a baking class, actually. Biscuits to be exact. It’s not an original date idea for a baker, but I thought you’d enjoy actually baking with me, instead of just writing about it.”
“I thought Lars was the snarky one,” I tease.
“Between him and Jackson, I think their Jedi Master-level snark is rubbing off on me.”
“We’re baking biscuits?” My gaze jumps between him and the ingredients visible through the window.
“Gluten free,” he adds, seeming to track what I was checking. “The whole class. I double checked before I made the reservation.”
“Very sweet.”
His thoughtfulness should wobble my knees. My brain communicates this, but my heart and vagina aren’t listening.
Grabbing our aprons, we wash our hands and claim our assigned kitchen counter. Five other pairs; three couples, and two sets of besties, make up the class. The instructor guides us through the art of baking biscuits. It’s part baking class and part sage life lessons.
“Sometimes we make mistakes in the recipe that can be fixed with other ingredients, saving what we’ve made.
Sometimes those mistakes require improvisation to find a new path forward, creating something not expected, but just as good,” the instructor says, sprinkling GF flour onto the counter in front of him to roll out his dough.
“Sometimes, we can’t fix an error and must start again.
The beauty of that is we learn, so we don’t make that same mistake. Just like in life.”
Nodding, I soak in his words while shaping the dough.
The tacky, pliable coolness in my palms allows me to shape it into a ball.
It’s not a perfect ball, not like the one Owen molds in his hands.
Of course, his would be perfect. The nimble and automatic ways his hands work as we prepare our biscuits demonstrate that he’s a man who knows what he’s doing.
A man who knows the destination and how to get there, even if, at this moment, it’s just to ensure the perfect biscuit.
With a long sigh, I crush my doughball to start again.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect, Georgia.” Warmth radiates from Owen’s expression.
“I know—” I frown, rolling the dough in my palms. “But it does have to be right.”
“Right is rarely perfect.” He sprinkles flour on a rolling pin and begins to roll out his dough, his mouth quirked into a teasing grin.
“Like Selena and you.” I smile.
Owen and Selena’s romance is one of second chances.
In many ways, their story leans into the stereotypical small-town romance cliches.
The high school valedictorian turned big city businesswoman returns home to run into the boy she still pines for.
With eyes only for his former high school girlfriend, Owen never noticed the type-A personality president of the debate team, Selena—at least not in that way.
Not until she slipped in a mud puddle in front of his bakery after returning for her brother’s wedding.
“Yeah.” He wipes flour off his hands before grabbing a biscuit cutter, the spark of wistfulness glinting in his eyes. “Not at first. I believe she threatened to sue me for the slickness of the sidewalk in front of my bakery.”
A scoff pops out of me. “It was such a silly meet-cute. She could have just taken that conference call on her phone from her brother’s florist shop rather than run to her car in her heels in the middle of a downpour to take it.”
“Nah.” Amusement teases at the corners of his mouth.
“It was perfect. Selena all focused, making a mistake, and then blaming someone else… Only to apologize ten minutes later. She’s quick to frazzle, but even quicker to apologize for it.
It was part of her journey. To not just learn that she makes mistakes, but to forgive herself for them. ”
“Huh.” I cock my head to the right. “Most people think her story arc is about her embracing her softer side. At least, that’s what reviewers think.”
“They’re wrong. The softness comes with it, but Selena carried so much responsibility for managing her fragile mother, who broke down after her dad’s death and, even for her siblings, who had their own reactions.
Your book is about forgiveness. Not just Selena’s forgiveness of her mother for the emotional abandonment, but for herself. ”
Realization revs up my pulse. “You read your book.”
“Jackson has copies on his bookshelf. I read mine and I’m halfway through Lord James’s now.”
After Owen found the copies of their stories on my bookshelf at my apartment, I took them back from him.
It’s not a secret. All three know that they have endings already written.
They just don’t know the details. Not about Owen showing up in front of Selena’s office building just as she walks out, her things in a box after quitting her job.
His big romantic gesture mere minutes after she’d decided to go back to Sugarville.
It may be cruel to keep their endings from them – at least the details – but my reasoning at the time seemed sound. What if I can’t get them back to their stories? What if I do, and somehow knowing their ending messes it up?
“Do you think it’s a good idea to read them?”
“Who knows?” He shrugs. “What I do know is you’re talented. You tell a good story.”
“But it’s not just a story.” A knot tightens in my stomach with the knowledge that these aren’t just stories, but lives; Owen, Lars, and Lord James’ lives, with three very real hearts that love three women.
“Not just stories,” he breathes.
“I’m sorry I took you from her. From your happy ending.” Emotions make my words come out in a shaky, almost gargled quality.
“I’m not.”
My questioning stare snaps to his.
“I love Selena. That will never change, but I don’t know if I’m meant to be part of her story or a portion of it.” His declaration is as soft as it is certain.
“What does that mean?”