Sweet Deal (Spice Spice Baby #1)

Chapter 1

Willa

The bell above the door chimes as I push into Spice Spice Baby Bakery, and the rush of cinnamon-scented warmth hits me like a hug I didn’t know I needed.

February in Valentine, Montana, doesn’t mess around— it’s barely seven in the morning and my car thermometer read negative twelve when I left my cottage.

That’s quite nippily out… and nippy out. I pull my coat closer to me.

I’ve been coming here every morning for three months. Same time. Same order.

Same gorgeous baker.

I shake that thought away like snow from my coat sleeves. I’m not here for... that. I’m here for caffeine and something that resembles breakfast before my first patient at eight.

“Morning, Doc!” Mark Thomas, the head baker, calls from behind the counter. He’s got flour in his dark hair and a grin that says he’s been up since four A.M. and somehow loves it.

“Morning, Mark.” I manage a small smile as I unwind my scarf. The bakery is already bustling— a handful of early risers scattered at the small tables, and the display case is overflowing with fresh pastries that make my stomach growl traitorously.

But it’s not Mark I’m looking at.

It’s him.

Henry Hunter stands at the far end of the counter, plating one of his famous cinnamon rolls.

His flannel sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with flour and corded with muscle from years of kneading dough.

His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, and when he glances up, his eyes, so warm and brown and so kind, so impossibly kind, meet mine for just a second too long.

My breath catches.

His lips curve into the smallest smile, like he’s been waiting for me.

Stop it, Willa.

I drop my gaze to the floor, my cheeks heating despite the cold still clinging to my skin. This is pathetic. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman with a medical degree and I’m blushing because a baker smiled at me.

Correction. Because this baker smiled at me.

“Large coffee, black, and a blueberry muffin?” Henry’s voice is low and warm, like honey drizzled over gravel, and it does something to my insides that I refuse to name.

I nod, not trusting my voice yet. Three months and I still can’t form coherent sentences around him before caffeine.

He moves with practiced efficiency, filling a to-go cup with coffee from the carafe. Ee keeps one brewing dark and strong just the way I like it, though I’ve never asked him to.

He just... noticed.

Wally never noticed anything about me except when I did something wrong.

Don’t think about him. Not here. Not now.

I force myself to take a breath, to unclench my jaw. The bakery smells like cinnamon and vanilla and fresh bread, and I focus on that instead of the tightness in my chest that appears whenever I think about Seattle.

About my ex.

About the woman I was when I was with him.

Small. Scared. Nothing.

“Here you go.” Henry’s voice pulls me back, and I look up to find him holding out my coffee. Our fingers brush as I take it —just for a heartbeat, just the barest touch of skin on skin— and electricity shoots up my arm like I’ve been shocked.

His eye brows rise slightly, and I know he felt it too.

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.

“Blueberry muffin coming right up.” He turns away, and I notice the way his t-shirt pulls across his shoulders, the strength in his movements as he reaches for the muffin case.

I should look away. I should check my phone or study the chalkboard menu I’ve memorized or literally anything else.

But I just can’t.

Because watching Henry Hunter move through his bakery is like watching someone in their natural habitat. He’s comfortable here. Happy. There’s a lightness to him that I envy, a contentment that seems as foreign to me as the surface of Mars.

When did I last feel content?

Before Wally. Before I learned to make myself smaller to fit into someone else’s idea of who I should be.

“One blueberry muffin.” Henry sets the small paper bag on the counter, and this time when our hands brush, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His fingers linger, warm and rough with calluses, and his eyes search mine like he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking.

I should move. I should grab my breakfast and run before I do something stupid like believe that this… whatever this is… could be real.

But I’m frozen, caught in his gaze, in the warmth of his touch, in the way he’s looking at me like I’m not broken.

Like I’m whole.

“You okay?” he asks softly, and there’s genuine concern in his voice. Not pity. Not judgment. Just... care.

It’s been so long since someone looked at me with care that I almost don’t recognize it.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, the lie coming easily after years of practice.

Sure I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m not falling apart inside.

Right.

His brow furrows slightly, like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t push. He just nods and says, “You be safe out there. Roads are icy.”

“Always am.” I force a smile, grab my things, and head for the door before I can do something ridiculous like stand here all morning drinking him in like he’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning.

The cold air slaps me in the face the moment I step outside, and I suck in a breath that burns my lungs.

Get it together.

I can’t do this. I can’t develop feelings for the kind, handsome baker with the gentle eyes and the strong hands and the way he makes me feel safe just by existing in the same space.

I tried relationships. I tried love. And I learned that I can’t trust my own judgment. That the people who say they care are the ones who hurt you most.

Plainly put… I’m better off alone.

I unlock my car, a modest sedan I bought used when I moved here, and slide into the driver’s seat. The coffee warms my hands through the cup, and I take a sip, closing my eyes as the bitter heat floods my system.

Three months in Valentine and I’m still not settled. Still jumping at shadows. Still expecting Wally to appear around every corner with that disappointed look that made me feel like I was never quite enough.

You’re being dramatic. No one wants to watch you fail. I’m trying to help you.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge his voice from my memory. He’s not here. He’s in Seattle, probably moved on to some other woman to control and diminish.

I turn the key in the ignition.

Nothing.

I try again.

The engine makes a sad clicking sound, like it’s mocking me.

“No. No, no, no.” I pump the gas pedal —which probably does nothing in a modern car but makes me feel better— and turn the key again.

Click. Click. Click.

“You have got to be kidding me.” I let my head fall back against the seat, staring at the car’s ceiling like it might have answers.

Of course this is happening. Of course. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor and apparently decided that today, the day I’m already running on three hours of sleep after a nightmare about Wally showing up at my door, is the perfect day for my car to die in the parking lot of the one place where I’ve been secretly harboring a crush on the baker.

This is fine. Everything’s fine.

I grab my phone. I’ll call a tow truck. Or walk to work. It’s only two miles and I’m a doctor. I can handle a little frostbite.

A tap on my window makes me jump so hard I nearly drop my phone.

Henry is standing outside my car, his breath creating a frosty cloud in the cold air, holding a cinnamon roll wrapped in paper.

I roll down the window, and his concerned expression makes my stomach flip.

“Car trouble?” he asks, and even in the freezing morning air, his voice is warm.

“It won’t start.” I try to keep my voice steady, professional, like I’m not mortified that he’s witnessing my disaster of a morning.

“Pop the hood. Let me take a look,” he says with a motion of his head.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” He’s already moving toward the front of my car. “But I’m going to anyway.”

I pop the hood, my hands trembling slightly, and I hate that I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or from the anxiety that’s been my constant companion since I left Seattle.

He’s just being nice. This doesn’t mean anything. He’s probably just a nice guy who helps everyone.

But when I look out and see him bent over my engine with a smudge of flour on his nose, I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, he’s looking at my car the same way he looks at me.

Like I’m worth saving.