2. Alaina
CHAPTER 2
ALAINA
The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and fresh bread wraps around me like a warm hug as I step into my bakery, Frosted and Filled , just before dawn. It’s my favorite time of day—before the world stirs, before the morning rush, when it’s just me, the hum of the ovens, and the promise of something new. The smells still fill my nose and my heart with a promise of happiness inside each pastry.
I flick on the lights, casting a golden glow over the cozy space. The front of the bakery is exactly how I always imagined it—warm, inviting, and just a little nostalgic. Large bay windows face the sleepy street, framed by sheer lace curtains that soften the early morning light. The Frosted and Filled sign hangs proudly above the entrance, the elegant script painted onto a wooden plank my grandfather carved himself. A framed picture of him and my grandmother over the main wall is my constant reminder of why I love this place. Every inch of it is wrapped in their love, from the way he supports me to every recipe she taught me and more.
Inside, rustic wooden tables with mismatched chairs fill the small seating area, their surfaces adorned with tiny vases of fresh flowers. A long glass display case stretches across the front counter, waiting to be filled with today’s offerings. The shelves behind it are lined with rows of glass jars filled with Iriski (Russian soft caramels), Belochka (chocolate with hazelnuts) , and baskets of assorted cookies. The scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the promise of something sweet.
I take a deep breath and step behind the counter, tying my apron around my waist. Out of habit, I go about my routine. The kitchen in the back comes alive in moments with the hum of the industrial mixer. I move on autopilot, setting up trays, checking timers, and rolling out fresh cinnamon rolls to be baked.
This bakery—my home away from home—has been my dream since I was a little girl, watching my grandmother knead dough with practiced hands, humming a Russian lullaby under her breath.
"One day, you’ll make something sweet that people will remember," she’d always say.
And now, here I am, keeping her memory alive, one cake at a time. My childhood wasn’t filled with traumas of abuse or neglect. Outside of the absence of my mother and father, I had a relatively normal upbringing under the care of my grandparents. Apparently, my mother and father left me behind with my grandparents who raised me while neither of my actual parents ever looked back. I don’t understand it. How can anyone leave their baby when they don’t even know them? I can’t imagine walking away from my family or my child. There was a time when it would bother me. Not anymore now. In fact, I find it to be a gift. They weren’t ready to be parents obviously and my life is better for their sacrifice. I’m simply thankful for my grandparents. The dedication they have given to see me thrive as a child and now an adult is something I’ll never be able to repay them for.
My grandparents immigrated from Russia before having my mother. She was born and raised in the Florida panhandle. It wasn’t until my grandmother got dementia that we left Florida. The facility grandpa found for her specialized in memory patients. She’s been gone seven years now and there isn’t a day I don’t miss her. Grandpa moved us to Freedom Falls to be closer to her. Watching her forget us, forget herself was hard and as much as I miss her, I know she’s in a better place.
Grandpa and I aren’t the same without her that is for certain though. While I am close with my grandfather, the bond I had with my grandmother isn’t one to be forgotten. The love they shared … it’s the kind a person dreams of. If a man ever looks at me with half the love in their gaze my grandpa has even talking about her memory, then I’ll be a lucky lady.
The front door chimes just as the sun begins its slow rise over town. I glance up from the Medovik cake I’m frosting, knowing exactly who it is before I even see him.
“Dedushka,” I call, smiling as my grandfather steps inside.
Konstantin Vasiliev is an imposing man, even at seventy-three. He carries himself with an old-world elegance, his sharp blue eyes always watchful, always knowing. But to me, he’s never been intimidating. He is warmth, protection, and quiet strength wrapped in a crisp button-up and slacks, his silver hair neatly combed back.
“My sweet Alaina,” he greets, his voice rich with the accent he’s never lost. “I smell honey.”
I laugh, waving my frosting spatula in the air. “You always do.” This is our routine as well and I cherish this weekly ritual.
He chuckles, taking a seat at the counter. “That is because you make the best Medovik cake outside of Moscow.” His eyes twinkle, but there’s something wistful in them. He always gets like this when I make my grandmother’s favorite cake.
I set a fresh slice in front of him, watching as he picks up the fork with reverence. “It’s still her recipe,” I say softly and fondly. This is the first recipe she ever taught me to make from beginning to end.
“And she would be proud,” he murmurs, taking his first bite. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the layers of thin cake that is almost like a cookie with a honey and sour cream frosting blend.
This is our tradition. Every week, my grandfather stops by for a slice of Medovik and a cup of black coffee. He’s been my biggest supporter, the one who believed in my dream enough to back me financially when I had nothing but a business plan and a passion for baking. Paying for grandma’s facility wiped out his savings. It wasn’t easy since I was still in high school when she had to go to the nursing home. He had to carry a mortgage, our utilities, keep me clothed and all my school stuff, while paying the monthly fee for her care. It killed him not to keep her at home, but when the dementia got to the point of her not eating and getting violent with us, decisions had to be made.
Sometimes I think it haunts him that he couldn’t keep her with us. There was a time I would lay awake worrying over her and hating the separation. Then I would see her and in the moments she was lucid, she said she was at peace with it. Even on the hard days she still gave my hand a squeeze like she did when I was little and she could somehow sense I was uncomfortable.
I feel the emotions building inside me thinking of her memories.
“How is business?” he asks, stirring his coffee.
“Steady,” I say, leaning on the counter. “I’ve got a wedding order next weekend and a baby shower cake for Sunday.”
He nods approvingly. “Good. And Kelly? Are you both still working too hard?”
I smirk. “Always.”
Before he can respond, the phone on the wall behind the counter rings, its sharp jingle breaking the early morning quiet. I wipe my hands on my apron before grabbing the receiver.
“Frosted and Filled, this is Ally. How can I help you?”
A woman’s voice, warm but rushed, filters through the line. “Hi, Ally! It’s Jessica Taylor. I know it’s last-minute, but I was wondering if you could do a birthday cake for my husband’s party this Saturday?”
I grab my order pad and pen, already flipping to the weekend’s schedule. “Let me check,” I say, scanning the orders. It’s a busy week, but I can squeeze in one more. Jessica is always down to the wire with her orders, but she uses me for every holiday, event, special dinner, and sometimes just because she wants something sweet. When she orders late like this, she tips extra. “I can do it. What were you thinking?”
She exhales in relief. “You’re a lifesaver! He’s turning fifty, and he loves your bourbon brown sugar pecan cake. Could you do a two-tier, maybe with a little gold detailing?”
“I can definitely do that,” I assure her, scribbling down the details. “How many servings?”
“About seventy-five.”
“Got it. I’ll have it ready for pickup any time after noon on Saturday.”
She sighs in relief, “Perfect. Thank you so much, Ally!”
“Anytime, Jess,” I say with a smile before hanging up.
I turn back to my grandfather, who’s watching me with a proud glint in his eye. “You work too much,” he says, but there’s no real reprimand in his tone.
I roll my eyes. “You sound like Kelly.”
As if on cue, the kitchen door swings open, and Kelly bustles in, already tying her apron around her waist.
“Morning, boss,” she says, grinning. Her dark curls are piled on top of her head, and her hazel eyes are bright despite the early hour.
“Morning,” I reply, watching as she takes in the scene. “You’re just in time. Dedushka is giving the Medovik his weekly approval.”
“Ah,” she teases, leaning against the counter. “The ultimate test.”
Konstantin chuckles, tapping his fork against the plate. “Perfection, as always.”
“Everyone loves your treats. What happened to the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach? What do you think, Stan?” Kelly shoots me a look as I fight back the same laugh every time these two are together. Only she calls him Stan and why she ever started that, I don’t know.”
“I think my dearest Alaina is too precious for any regular man. Although, I will say I’m not getting any younger, a chance to hold a great grand-baby before I join my Sasha again would do an old man’s heart good.
I smile at my grandfather, “some days, any man would do,” I joke with them both.
Kelly laughs, “And yet, you’re still single. And not for a lack of options.”
I groan. “Don’t start.”
My grandfather’s lips twitch, amused but saying nothing. He’s been dropping hints about my love life—or lack thereof—for months now. I can’t blame him. At twenty-five, I should probably be dating, but I’ve been too focused on the bakery, too comfortable in my quiet life here. In high school, my grandmother’s illness was a distraction. I kept my attention on school and her, I didn’t have a sweetheart or boyfriend even.
“Speaking of single,” Kelly continues, “you know the Kings have been stopping by more often, right?”
My brows furrow. “They have?”
“Oh, come on, Ally,” she huffs. “You’re telling me you haven’t noticed the leather-clad giants ordering pastries like it’s a regular coffee shop?”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe they just like my baking.”
Kelly scoffs. “Please. Big bad bikers do not randomly develop a love for lavender shortbread and honey cakes.”
My grandfather listens quietly, his expression unreadable. I know he’s aware of the Kings—everyone in town is. They’re respected, in this untouchable kind of way.
“They keep to themselves,” I say, brushing off Kelly’s insinuation.
“For now,” she singsongs. “It’s okay, you don’t want one, I’ll take him. Ya know take one for the team. Or two or three. I’ve read those reverse harem books. Maybe I can have my own reverse harem of bikers. Is that a thing?”
“One will be enough, young Kelly,” my grandfather tells her with a soft smile.
I shake my head, unwilling to entertain the idea of any Kings of Anarchy member having an interest in me or Kelly for that matter. I like my life the way it is—simple, quiet, and predictable.
But as I turn back to my Medovik cake, smoothing out the last layer of frosting, I can’t shake the feeling that something is about to change.
And I don’t know if I’m ready for it.