Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Missy
It had been a full week since opening day, and I was finally starting to breathe again, just a little.
The bakery no longer felt like a newborn teetering on wobbly legs; it felt like something alive and humming, something that pulsed beneath my feet every morning when I unlocked the front door.
Every day, it felt like there was more oil on the cogs of the machine. Things just ran… smoother.
The scent that hit me when I walked in every day—warm sugar, toasted butter, vanilla, and a hint of espresso—was enough to ground me, like Yes, this is happening. You built this.
Meredith was back from her son’s wedding.
Thankfully. The older woman practically glowed with motherly pride and showed photos to anyone who so much as glanced in her direction.
But the moment she tied on her apron, she transformed.
She moved through the kitchen like she was powered by invisible gears: kneading, mixing, portioning, sliding trays into ovens with the efficiency of someone who’d lived a hundred bakery lives before this one.
I’d thought that hiring only one full-time baker was a mistake.
Now? The two of us easily filled all the display cases and still had enough energy left to complain about our feet at closing time.
Plus, the woman had the touch with the machines.
It was as if they were afraid to act up around her.
And if they did, she had the skills to fix them.
“Well,” she’d joked that first day back, slapping dough onto a prep table, “looks like you didn’t burn the place down opening week. That’s a good sign.” Her humor made me smile each day. And every local in town seemed to know and respect her.
Brit Dillion, the college student I’d hired to handle the register and everything out front, did so like a pro.
She had this wide, bright smile that sucked customers in like a warm hug, and somehow she always looked wide awake, even at five-thirty in the morning, when I was still squinting at the menu board, hoping it might rearrange itself into actual words.
Her jet black hair was always half falling out of her long ponytail or bun, with strands floating around her face like she was in a constant state of motion.
And maybe she was. She had the kind of youthful energy that made me tired just watching her…
and also made me grateful that I’d hired her.
Brit’s younger sister, Ashley, came in after high school each day.
She would lug her backpack behind her like it personally offended her.
She didn’t talk much, but she worked hard at wiping tables, restocking pastries, ferrying dishes back to the sink.
She reminded me of myself at that age: determined, observant, pretending not to care when she actually cared very deeply.
I caught her taking photos of cookies more than once.
I didn’t ask what for. I hoped it was something sweet.
Then I noticed her posts on social media and instantly put her in charge of the shop’s marketing. The girl had talent. I even added a budget for her to purchase a new camera. She was still researching the best deal.
And then… there was Cade.
He showed up every morning without fail, usually before the Open sign even stopped swinging.
At first, I’d thought he was just being supportive.
Friendly. Neighborly. But after he’d claimed his usual seat by the coffee bar for the third day in a row, stretched out those long legs, and made himself comfortable like he’d signed a lease, I started to suspect he just liked being here.
Or, I secretly hoped, liked being around me.
Not that I was overthinking that or anything. After all, we’d grown up together. We were best friends.
He never came alone. Some mornings it was two of his construction guys, other mornings four or five of them, all tracking in the scent of fresh lumber and cold morning air. They filled the bakery with loud, happy noise, the kind that made the place feel lived-in. The kind Levi would’ve hated.
Cade’s laugh, especially, always did something strange inside my chest. It rumbled. It vibrated. It felt like the bakery warmed by a few extra degrees whenever he was in it.
I tried not to look at him too often. I failed.
But I didn’t want him to see what was slowly building inside me.
I suppose I was denying it myself. There was no way I was attracted to him.
It was just… friendship. That steady, strong, always-there kind of companionship that warmed you through and through. That’s what it had to be. Right?
Tourist season wasn’t even here yet, and the mornings already felt like organized chaos.
Locals filled the red-cushioned booths, travelers wandered in with windblown hair and sugar cravings, and more than once I caught people taking pictures of the chalkboard menu like it was something special.
I’d drawn it myself, with about a gallon of coffee and a YouTube tutorial, but seeing strangers admire it made something soft unfurl inside me.
I had even purchased a stand-up chalkboard for out on the sidewalk and created funny daily sayings that I found online or created with help of Ashley or Brit. Those girls were extremely helpful and funny. We frequently laughed too much during the slow times each day.
The special cake orders were piling up too.
Birthdays. Anniversaries. A retirement party.
A baby shower. And a wedding next month that had me waking up at weird hours, picturing collapsing tiers and leaning sugar flowers.
I’d only agreed because the bride-to-be had cried.
Real tears. I was defenseless against tears.
It was overwhelming. Wild. More than I’d dared hope for.
And every time I stepped into the front of the bakery and saw it all, every sparkly white table, every black-and-white tile, every steaming mug and sticky-fingered customer laughing with a mouth full of pastry, I felt that same quiet, steady thrum:
You did it. This is yours.
Even on the days I doubted I could keep up.
Especially on those days.
Today, the bakery finally quieted around three in the afternoon, after the lunch rush of people filling up on the homemade sandwiches I’d added to keep customers coming in all day.
I loved making sourdough bread, and I added fresh local meats and cheeses that I’d acquired thanks to Crystal Holley’s connections.
Soups were another of my specialties, so each day I offered a variety of lunch offerings. It was a huge hit.
Now, we were in that lull before the after-school sugar-seekers arrived.
Since it was quiet, I spent my time wiping down the display cases.
Meredith, who started prep every day at three in the morning, had left shortly before noon.
Today, Ashley had a school meeting and was off, and Brit was in the back doing dishes.
There were two customers sitting at the outdoor tables, finishing their sandwiches and soup in the early spring sunlight.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and my smile instantly fell when I saw who was calling me.
My mother’s perfectly schooled smile and ageless face, thanks to all the fillers and expensive plastic surgeries, stared back at me.
I considered letting it go to voicemail. But ignoring my mother only guaranteed twice the calls later… and lengthy, guilt-soaked text messages until I finally caved and called her back.
I braced myself and answered. “Good afternoon, Mother.” Formality was a requirement in our household. One simply didn’t call your parents Mom and Dad. They deserved better than those short terms of endearment.
Her voice came through sharp and already irritated. “Melissa Rosemary Sharpe, do you know how long I’ve been trying to reach you?”
Oh good. The full-name treatment. We were off to a great start.
“Sorry, it’s been a busy week.” I glanced around and desperately wished a customer would walk in so I’d have an excuse to hang up. No one did.
“Busy,” she repeated like I had said contagious or sticky. “Honestly, I don’t know how you expect to keep this up. Baking all day? On your feet? Covered in flour and who knows what? That’s not a career, sweetheart. It’s about time you realized that it’s a hobby and moved on.”
I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly. “Mom, it’s a business. A real one that is doing well.”
“For now,” she added quickly. There was a rustle and then a change of topic.
“I’m just concerned that you’re wasting your potential and your youthful years.
So many of your friends are already making quality matches.
Tia Williams just got engaged to Roland Timons, Jr. And Lenora and Michael Stephens are expecting their second child.
She’s a year younger than you are, dear. ”
Wasting. Right. My favorite word from her.
My mother sighed dramatically. “Everyone has been asking how you’re doing, who you’re seeing, or if you and Levi have reconciled and are engaged yet. I’ve had to explain, creatively, because it’s embarrassing to tell people you left a good man and job to… to make cupcakes.”
I flinched. Actual physical flinch. I wanted to remind her that she was currently in a messy divorce with my father, but I bit my tongue.
“Mom,” I said quietly, clenching my hands until my nails pressed into my palms, “Levi cheated on me.” I held back from saying You know how that feels. “Plus, I’m not just making cupcakes. I own a bakery. A successful one.”
“Oh, Melissa.” Neither of my parents had ever called me by my preferred nickname. It was beneath them. “People like us don’t own small bakeries. They own larger businesses, franchises, or they marry into wealth. They don’t throw away their future to… frost things.”
I let out a slow breath, staring out at the empty store. “I have customers lining up outside my door every morning.”