Chapter 2
DEVON
“Ow…”
With a hangover from hell and regret sitting heavily in my chest, I slide my keys into the lock of Just A Sweet Thing and open the door.
The usual comforting scents of cake, dough, and sweet icing unfortunately turn my stomach, and instead of opening the blinds, I bolt through the bakery to the back and make it to the toilet just in time.
After emptying my breakfast of black coffee and painkillers, I drown briefly in handfuls of water to shake off the sickly sweat that creeps over the back of my neck.
I drank far too much last night.
Not only that, but I also somehow let a drop-dead gorgeous man fuck me in the bathroom.
The entire night was like some kind of crazy dream, and I almost didn’t believe it was real until I woke up to my alarm screaming in my ear and my thighs sticky and achy.
I really did that.
I really drank myself silly, threw caution to the wind, and fucked the first man to touch me in six months.
I can’t decide if I’m more embarrassed by that or by how quickly I came on his cock.
Thinking of either one makes my stomach curl and my chest tighten with shame.
It’s not me.
It’s not who I am.
I’m not the kind of woman who sleeps with people so quickly, especially not in public restrooms.
But something about that flirtatious game of pretending we’re both someone else was the most exciting thing to me, and I got so caught up in being that woman in my fantasy that I briefly forgot who I really am.
I forgot how dangerous touch can be.
Forgot that every drink was a reward for surviving six months away from the monster who took five years from me.
Most importantly, I forgot to be on my guard and in that man’s presence, I was someone else. Someone fun and light with nothing wearing her down.
But that’s not me.
Not a hotshot fancy lawyer with more money than sense.
I’m just Devon Miller, a quiet accountant turned baker hiding from the world while trying to stop corporate overlords from swallowing up my family’s bakery.
Groaning softly, my pale face stares back at me from the mirror as I gently dab at the corners of my mouth.
I’m never drinking again.
I’m never going to the city again.
From now on, my butt is firmly planted on the outskirts where no one looks at each other twice.
Despite my resolve, the handsome face of my mystery man pops into my head while I swirl cold water around my mouth and spit it into the sink.
A stunning man like that going for a woman like me definitely feels like a dream.
If I compare us to the cakes sitting in the refrigerator waiting for me to put them on display, he’s the elegant, three-tier gateau covered in ice sugar stars and edible glitter.
I’m the dumpy cupcake at the end of the row, smushed into the corner of the tray because there wasn’t enough space yesterday while I was closing.
That cupcake gets set aside for our little bargain basket where all cakes and tarts that fail the aesthetic test get discounted.
Just like my life.
I’m halfway through setting up the displays when knuckles rap on the front door, making me jump in alarm.
Another cupcake escapes the tray when my arms jolt, and it splats on the blue-tiled floor, icing down.
“Shit,” I mutter as tension tightens my shoulders. “One sec!”
Jumping at loud noises is becoming an increasingly problematic issue for cupcake survivability.
Scraping the cupcake off the floor with a knife, I cover the stain with tissue to remind me to come back later then head to the door while cleaning yellow icing off my fingers.
“Can I help you?”
A cheery, smiling young face greets me when I open the door. “Devon?”
“That’s me.”
The young girl thrust her hand toward me. “I’m Faith. I’m here for the interview?”
Her gaze flicks down to my hands and then back up to my face. “Am I too early?”
Interview?
Shit!
It bursts from the back of my mind, and I hide my grimace behind my smile.
“The interview! Of course, no, you’re right on time. I’m sorry, I had a cupcake mishap and completely lost track of time.”
Stepping back from the door, I usher Faith inside and glance at the clock.
It’s almost nine? How long was I moping in the bathroom?
“Oh, wow.” Faith’s grin widens. “I’ve been in here so many times as a customer, but never this early!”
She gazes around with wide, fascinated eyes while I dart around her, opening the blinds and fighting to get the last of the icing off my fingertips.
“You’re interviewing for the assistant position?”
“Yup!” Faith clutches her bag to her waist as she faces me with her wide smile. “It’s just a seasonal position, right?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Thanksgiving and Christmas are just around the corner and we’re always rushed off our feet. This year is looking to be tough, so all the help we can get is welcome.”
“I bet everyone loves ordering from award winners at Christmas time.”
She approaches ‘Steve’, the elegant three-tier gateau, and gasps. “This looks amazing! Was this you?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, you won’t be making anything that intricate.”
“Oh.” Faith’s disappointment is evident in the slope of her shoulders. “It looks so cool, though.”
“And takes years of training.” Fighting to keep my tone light as my body itches at having a stranger lean so close to me while she peers over the counter, I step back and motion for her to follow.
“Let me give you the tour while I set up, and we can talk.”
“Okay!”
By the time I’ve set up the front shop displays and dusted the windowsills and counters in cinnamon to add to the warm Thanksgiving vibe, Faith’s told me all about growing up with her father and three dogs and how she’s planning on heading to Europe in the New Year, taking a gap year in her studies.
Her bakery skills are lacking, but I can make it work.
“I was worried I was just going to be a glorified receptionist,” Faith groans softly. “But I’ll really be back here?”
Her eyes drift between me and the various silver and black bakery machines that take up most of the kitchen.
“From time to time. A lot of baking is done by hand, but we have these machines to help with the larger batches when it comes to dough for pastries, jams and icing, that sort of thing.”
“Wow.” Faith stands on her tiptoes and peers into one of the gigantic silver bowls. “This place is so small, I can’t imagine your needing all the cakes this could make.”
“What’s sold in the front is small, yes, but we also run a catering business out of here. A lot of the events or parties we’re asked to bake for feed hundreds of guests, so this is where the magic happens.”
“That’s so exciting! Have you ever baked for anyone famous?”
Her eyes glint at me in the low light, eager for any exciting tidbit of information I can give her.
“Maybe once you sign the NDA, I’ll tell you.”
She stops next to the rows of cooling racks and gapes at me. “I’d have to sign an NDA? But it’s just cakes!”
Keeping my offense to a minimum, I smile gently at her and show her the walk-in fridges, spending ten minutes demonstrating the safety locks to ensure she never gets trapped inside.
Each time Faith steps close to me, I have to step back before my skeleton jumps out of my skin.
“Has anyone ever been stuck in here?” Faith asks after the tour.
“No one here, but it’s common enough that there are security measures built in, so you have to be careful.”
“Wow. What a way to go.”
“Indeed.” The thought of being locked up in the freezer is enough to make my throat close, so I step away and direct her attention toward the decorating station. “This is where you’d be spending your time. Between here and the front of the store.”
“You know, you could ask some of those celebrities you bake for to make sure those Silver Canopy people don’t close this place.”
I pause, my fingers hovering over the design catalogue. “Silver Canopy isn’t closing us down.”
“Really?” Her brow pinches together as she leans against the table beside me. “My dad said they’ve bought up everyone else in this block.”
“They have.”
“So you guys are next, right?”
“Faith, do you think I’d be hiring help if I thought we were going to be shut down any time soon?”
Faith purses her lips and drums her fingers against her elbow.
“I suppose not. It’s just that my dad says Silver Canopy offers so much money that no one ever wants to turn them down, and then this entire block will be demolished and turned into luxury apartments.
It would suck to lose my first job so fast.”
She snorts while she laughs but trails off when I don’t laugh with her.
“You don’t have the job yet,” I say firmly, although given the lazy, weed-soaked guy I interviewed a few days ago, she’s the best candidate.
“And you don’t need to worry. We have no intention of ever selling this place.
Like you said, we’re award-winning and we’ve been here for so long that we’re part of the block. ”
“Yeah, of course!” Faith agrees heartily. “No one wants to see this place go. Where would I get my cherry strudels! Speaking of, can you show me how to make those?”
“Maybe. I just need a few more details from you first.”
The interview delves into Faith’s past experiences, but aside from school and a few summer clubs, she lacks any major work experience, which means it’ll be up to me to train her in etiquette.
As the interview draws to an end, we return to the front of the store just as my mother, Lindsey, arrives.
She’s laden down by paper bags, so I dart forward to catch some as she stumbles inside.
“Devon?” She peers around one of the bags. “Oh, there you are, dear. I noticed the placard wasn’t outside and I was worried.”
“I was just interviewing Faith,” I explain while setting the bags down on the counter. “Faith, this is my mother, Lindsey. She’s the one who carries the legacy of all these awards.”
“Really?” Faith gapes at my mother and takes one of the paper bags from her. “That’s amazing!”
“Oh, you.” Mom laughs and moves around the corner. “It was Devon who persuaded me to even enter a competition. I was so convinced I could never compete with my mother. And she was the one who saved the tarts when the roux started to spoil. The win was all hers.”
I roll my eyes and duck away from the conversation to store the perishables Mom brought.
There’s enough ice cream to feed more than a few children’s parties, but she does tend to over purchase.
Since I came back, I’ve yet to get an answer on what happened to our regular delivery company.
By the time I finish unpacking, Faith is gone.
“She seems sweet,” Mom says from the floor behind the cash register. She’s cleaning up the icing stain I forgot about.
“Sweet, sure. Very young. Inexperienced.”
“Remind you of anyone?” Mom stands and balls up the tissues. “Do you like her?”
I glance at the door and Faith flits through my mind. “I think she applied for the wrong reasons, but she’s the best I’ve seen so far. She also mentioned Silver Canopy.”
Mom’s face falls immediately. “What I would give to never hear that name again.”
“I know. I’m sorry, but she’s right. I heard yesterday that Mr. Bishop finally sold the hardware store on the corner. We’re the only ones left on the block.”
“Are you trying to persuade me to sell?” Mom snaps, tossing the paper into the trash.
“Not at all!” I follow her through to the kitchen. “But you have to see how a lack of foot traffic will affect us. I don’t want to sell at all, believe me. But I think we really need to come up with some decent marketing ideas.”
“Devon.” She pulls her apron from behind the door and slips it over her head, then she approaches me while tying the string behind her back.
“We’re going to be okay. I know you came back here looking to fix yours—”
“I’m not looking to fix,” I interrupt quickly before this dissolves into a conversation I’d rather avoid. “I’m just looking to help.”
“I know, sweetie. And it’s just like you to try.”
She reaches for my shoulder and touches me very gently, smiling until I pull away. “I’m just saying that you need to take time and focus on yourself. What you went through is—”
“Customers!”
I’m saved by the tell-tale ding of the door and dart away from her before she can fully drown me in motherly affection.
She means well and I don’t hold it against her, but I can’t face it yet.
I ran for a reason, and until I can think about that reason without feeling like a black hole is opening in my chest, I don’t want to deal with it.
To distract myself from that and my raging hangover, I throw myself into work.
We’re as busy as I expect and then some because Halloween is next week and nothing sells better than spiderweb cupcakes, pumpkin pie, and our orange and cinnamon tarts.
Being surrounded by the sweet scents of baking, the overwhelming stink of icing sugar and butter, and the heat from the ovens ends up turning my stomach again, not long after lunch, so I duck away on break and hide in the coat closet for a moment of respite.
Searching through my bag, my heart sinks when I can’t find the painkillers I’m sure I packed.
Did I forget them?
As I rummage, I remember seeing them on the kitchen counter at home and I think I forgot to grab them. Shit.
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Do you have painkillers? I forgot to grab mine.”
She glances up from her icing design and squints at me over her gold-rimmed glasses, then she nods.
“In my bag, back pocket, I think. Or the small one inside the big one.”
“Thank you!” I duck back into the coat room and rummage through her bag, but as I search for painkillers, something else catches my eye.
A red stamp of URGENT over the corner of an envelope.
I’d ignore it, but the logo of the family lawyer on the corner causes my heart to jump.
I shouldn’t look.
But why is the lawyer sending urgent letters?
Everything with the bakery should be in order, shouldn’t it?
Against my better judgment, I unfurl the letter and my world screeches to a halt as I skim it.
The letter, dated two weeks ago, is written in thick, black letters warning of severe legal repercussions because we’re behind on rent for the bakery.
Four months behind.