Chapter 5 Casting Call #2
I slide another gingerbread whoopie pie into a compostable box and hand it across the counter to a woman wearing a fur beret. It’s gorgeous, and I want to ask where she got it, but I’m too tired to do more than—Smile. Nod. Repeat.
My eyes flick to the stack of mail Lumi, the postmistress, hand-delivered through the crowd earlier in exchange for a Maple Me Moan. The corner of one envelope is slightly greasy from its proximity to the spiced-rum buttercream.
I’ve hardly managed to do any administrative work in days. I only took time to double-check that the heat, electricity, and phone bills were paid before shoving everything else aside like emotional baggage in an overhead bin.
Emotional baggage I drum up the courage to unpack when the beret lady—my last customer—leaves.
Maybe, finally, a moment.
I wipe my hands on my apron and glance around the empty front. No customers. No catastrophic messes. Just the soft purr of the convection ovens and the heady scent of all-spice and cinnamon.
Taking advantage of the reprieve, I duck past the counter, weaving between cooling racks and prep table toward the mountainous pile of mail.
On the way, I catch sight of the order sheet for tomorrow’s café au lait order and try to work out the time I’d need to complete it, plus the ingredients I need to double-check, along with everything for my usual daily pies—which I’ve recently had to double, thanks to Making Whoopie’s popularity.
Deep breath.
By the time I have the pile of mail in hand, my laptop open and have mentally reworked the math three times trying to figure it all out, I’m ready to make a deal with the devil himself for a reprieve and a cup of coffee.
Ding.
The bell over the door chimes. Soft yet forbidding.
Sighing, I drop the mail back on the prep table and head for the front, already preparing my face for round one thousand and ninety-seven of—Smile. Nod. Repeat.
Except this time, my smile falters and my Crocs come to a squeaky stop as I realize what I’ve somehow conjured in my exhaustion.
Jack Lourd—aka the devil—stands in the doorway, hell-hound Skippy at his side, holding two to-go coffee cups and looking way too attractive for someone with wind-swept hair, red-tipped ears, and a scarf that would make one look as if they had strong opinions about early bird specials and perfectly steeped chamomile.
Figures. Joke about selling your soul for caffeine, and the devil shows up holding a latte.
Jack raises one cup. “Dirty chai latte?”
My usual order—proof that if he’s not the devil himself, he’s at least in league with one.
I arch a brow, walk toward him, and enjoy the way his smile widens and then fades when I bend down toward Skippy.
“Hey there, buddy.” Reaching in my apron pocket, I offer him one of the broken pieces of pie I keep around just for him. “How you doing?”
In answer, Skippy swallows that palm-sized piece in one go and then circles to face the door, silently asking me to let him back out to complete his daily rounds.
Which I do.
Leaving the door open, I pluck the offered cup from a now-frowning Jack and salute him in thanks before pivoting on my heel, muttering, “Don’t let me stop you from your heroic dog-watching duties” before heading back to my pile of mail, having too many other things to do than trade passive-aggressive banter with a man who never asked how I was after taking me out with a diving tackle.
In the kitchen, I drop back into my desk chair, take a long drink of latte, and start sorting mail.
The door chimes closed.
A beat.
Then footsteps.
Huh.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him round the corner as I toss envelopes into piles—junk, Christmas card, Christmas card, junk, junk.
“So.” Jack comes to a stop beside one of the cooling racks. “How are you?”
Christmas card. “Busy.” Bill.
“That’s good.”
Is it, though? I pause, letter in hand, at the thought.
Of course, busy is good. It’s what I wanted. What I said I needed so that I could feel justified on focusing on the other reason I wanted to move to Hideaway.
Shaking my head, I tap awake my laptop and double-check that my November expenses are logged before setting up December’s log.
“Wait.” Jack rounds the prep table between us and leans over my shoulder. “You have Internet here?”
Damn it. “Yes. I have Internet.” I lean back, away from whatever delicious cologne he’s wearing. “We’re not that out in the sticks, Hollywood.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Tell that to The Haven’s Internet service provider.” Pushing off the table, he takes a few steps back.
I breathe in air untainted by Jack and let it out in a shaky laugh. “Yeah, well, they’re more remote—and I’m pretty sure against anything that would keep their guests from relaxing.” I grab the stack of remaining mail and begin sorting again.
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He leans against the wall next to one of my cooling trolleys, looking far more delicious than the whoopie pies next to him.
First my nose, now my eyes. I can’t trust my senses around this guy. Shifting in my chair so he isn’t in my direct line of sight, I focus on my piles—Christmas card, kitchen equipment catalogue, utilities bill.
“Hey, what flavor are these?”
“Experimental dozen.” I toss the growing pile of junk in the recycling bin before it topples over. “Twelve varieties I’m testing.”
Junk, The Almanac, Christmas card.
The growing pile of Christmas cards from people in town makes me feel generous. “Help yourself.” Plus, maybe if he’s got a pie in his mouth, he’ll stop talking. Or better, leave.
I hear the rustle of parchment paper, then silence, followed by a muffled hum of appreciation that I try not to find satisfying—or naughty.
An envelope catches my eye at the bottom of the unsorted stack.
Heavy bond paper. Too narrow to be a Christmas card. No return address. And it’s thick and official-looking in the I-mean-business kind of way.
Curious, I tear it open—and stop breathing.
CEASE AND DESIST
The edges of the paper blur slightly the longer I stare at the letter, my mind screaming the heading too loudly to comprehend anything written after.
Jack says something, his voice soft and tentative, but I can’t make it out.
I blink, hoping the rapid movement will allow me to focus, to read and comprehend.
It doesn’t.
“Audrey?” Jack’s voice is louder now, followed by his palm, heavy and warm, dropping on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” His touch and gentle shake finally jar me out of my mental spiral.
This time when I blink, I’m able to focus—on him. And whatever he sees in my expression darkens his own.
“I, uh…” Clearing my throat but still not trusting myself to speak, I hand him the letter.
His eyes scan the document before lifting his gaze to mine. “Cease and desist over the use of the name Making Whoopie.”
Hearing the words out loud makes me want to upchuck my chai.
“Did you register your business name with the state?”
I think back to those early weeks—permits, equipment quotes, tax ID forms. Did I register the name? I kind of thought I did… but now I can’t remember.
Before Maine, any legal advice or needs I had, I used my mother’s lawyer in the city. But when I came here, I was so focused on proving myself, proving that this was a good move, that I did everything myself. And I have done since.
And there was a lot. Much more business know-how than an expert baker realized.
Business loans, equipment, overhead, taxes, marketing, ad spend… so much so that I just can’t remember anything about registering Making Whoopie’s name.
The name that someone, somewhere else in Maine, is claiming they own and insisting I stop using—or else.
Jack’s hand gently squeezes my shoulder.
Warm. Steady. Real.
“Listen, I’m not licensed to practice law in Maine, but I know enough to say this is meant to scare you. It doesn’t mean you have to stop working—not until any real legal action is taken by the other party.”
He pauses, as if expecting a response.
I manage to nod.
“And I have a list of lawyers who can practice in Maine thanks to Amanda wanting to shoot a film here. I can call them.” He shrugs. “I mean, they’re entertainment lawyers, but they’ll know enough to get us pointed in the right direction to take care of this.”
Us? The word overrides the ‘Cease and Desist’ refrain looping in my mind.
Whatever he sees in my expression has his lips tilting upward. “I mean, I already spent the better part of the morning offering free legal advice to half the town on matters of lawn-gnome custody and reindeer-induced property damage. Why not add a commercial dispute to the list?”
My gut twists. This time it doesn’t have to do with the very real and worrying legal problem but with him lumping me together with every other small-town legal problem he’s been solving on the street corners.
Which is dumb. Because of course this is no big deal for a hotshot city lawyer like himself to deal with. It’s fine if I’m just another ridiculous Hideaway resident with a legal issue he can resolve to alleviate his boredom while he bides his time in aggressively decorated small-town America.
His condescending nonchalance is much better than the emotional jabs I’d take if I asked my mother for help.
Better the devil you kind of know.
Decision made, I shrug off his hand and offer my own. “You’re hired.”