Chapter 6 Over-beaten
OVER-BEATEN
Audrey
Ihave a squatter problem.
From my spot near the cooling racks, I watch Jack Lourd—my bakery’s newest, most irritating cohabitant—rifle through my business files while I pipe cream into pies in the lull after the Sunday morning rush.
Three days after I hired Jack, and I’m already second-guessing myself. I’d been prepared to shell out my hard-earned money for legal services. I hadn’t been prepared to pay by surrendering my sanctuary to a stranger in the name of “reliable Wi-Fi.”
Jack, probably sensing me staring for the umpteenth time in the last ninety-six hours, glances up from his laptop. I promptly drop my gaze to the piping bag in my hands.
“Need something?” His voice is far too amused for my liking.
Feigning nonchalance, I shrug. “Just wondering if you happen to know about Maine’s squatter laws.”
I don’t need to turn my head to know he’s smiling. For someone who complained about small-town holiday charm before blindsiding its Christmas tree, he’s been awfully jovial lately.
It’s annoying.
“I’m not that well-versed in your state’s adverse possession laws, no.”
“I see.” Twisting the top of the bag, I push cream toward the fluted tip when movement in my peripheral makes me glance his way.
Elbows on the table, chin propped on his fists, he looks entirely too pleased with himself—like my bakery is his own personal corner office.
“Is that your way of implying I’m overstaying my welcome?”
I hum noncommittally and, piping bag ready, lean over my pastries.
“So you finally hired yourself an assistant?”
I jump, not having heard the bell over the door chime, sending a jaunty loop of cream across a row of pies.
Awesome.
“Oh—good morning, Mrs. Bradford.” I set down the piping bag and grab a towel. “Ah, no. He’s just, uh, using my Wi-Fi.” I wave toward Jack, who’s typing away like he’s negotiating a movie deal. “You know.” I wipe up my mess. “Important Hollywood stuff.”
The phone rings. Before I can move toward it, Jack rises from his seat and lifts the landline from its cradle. “Making Whoopie, where every craving has a happy ending.”
I shiver, suddenly reconsidering my playful marketing slogan.
Jack’s eyes meet mine, a lazy smile playing over his lips. “Jack speaking. How can I help you?”
I swallow.
“Hollywood stuff, hmm?” The gleam in Mrs. Bradford’s eyes is more “the knitting circle is going to love this” than I’d like.
My customer-service expression tightens. Tossing the towel in the laundry bag, I step to the counter. “Your usual Sunday order?”
She nods, eyes merry as the holiday.
At least the townspeople seem to be enjoying my squatter problem. At this point, I can’t tell whether the increased traffic is thanks to Making Whoopie’s recent celebrity endorsement or its new cashmere-loving, six-foot-something mascot with eyes the color of dark chocolate ganache.
Not that I was staring at his eyes. I just happened to be making dark chocolate ganache when he looked up. That’s all.
I hand Mrs. Bradford the dozen assorted pastries for her grandkids. “Hope the kids enjoy the new holiday flavors.”
“Oh, you know they will.” Her expression softens. “You’ve made me the coolest meemaw in town.”
A pang of jealousy knots my hands into fists. “I’m sure that has more to do with how much you love them.” I would’ve loved a grandmother like Mrs. Bradford.
A few more customers filter in, and I wonder if I’ll have to save the pastry piping for later.
“Can I help you?” Jack slides in beside me, the heat of him lingering along my arm like static electricity.
I tell myself the goosebumps are from the front door constantly opening and the subsequent winter air gusting through. I do not believe me.
As a proud, card-carrying Type-A control freak who color-codes her grocery list, letting someone else take over my bakery—even for five minutes—should make me break out in hives.
Instead, I get back to piping while my lawyer/cashier/squatter charms Mrs. Perrault into the last Stuff My Stockings whoopie pies and a half-dozen mini fruitcakes, leaning on my counter like it’s a velvet-roped Hollywood club instead of an innuendo-laden bakery.
A slip of paper from the order he just took is waiting on my prep counter—visible but neatly out of my way. An order I might not have had time to make if Jack hadn’t been manning the counter.
“What do you recommend, Mr. Lourd?” The elementary school principal arches her brows like she’s asking for more than a pastry suggestion.
I over-pipe a pie.
Readjusting the now half-empty bag, I try to tune out the counter flirting and finish the Morning After Mint whoopie pies—yet another order Jack took.
And while my mind might wander into unhelpful territory when it comes to my lawyer, I must admit that I’ve never been less stressed about work.
And with a possible lawsuit looming, that’s saying something.
The murmur of Jack’s voice, too low to make out, sends the woman into a fit of giggles.
Who would’ve thought that the man who grinched his way into Hideaway would start acting like one of Santa’s elves?
If Santa’s elves were six feet of broad shoulders, smug charm, and the kind of hands that make you wonder what else they’re good at besides kneading bread—which he did yesterday, helping me make dough.
It seems I’ve just replaced one problem with another.
Because while I usually fall asleep to the soundtrack of my never-ending to-do list, last night I was replaying the way Jack’s large, strong hands worked my dough.
And that made for a very different kind of restless night.
Jack
“Saw Skippy this morning.” The vet, Dr. Eli Bennett, grins as I ring him up. “Healthy as ever.”
“Yes.” I hand him his change. “If anything, he seems rather pleased with the extra attention and treats everyone is giving him since Saturday.”
“Don’t let that stop you from bringing him in.” Eli, as he asked me to call him, laughs good-naturedly. “My practice could always use more helicopter pet dads with black Amex cards.”
Shaking my head, I give in to laughing at myself.
“Yeah, I might’ve gone a little overboard on asking for the full work-up of tests for Skippy.
” Grabbing a couple of broken cake pieces, I toss them into a small bag before adding it to his order.
“For your patients. Tell them they’re Skippy-approved. ”
His grin spreads. “They’ll be thrilled.”
The bell over the door jingles as he leaves, marking the end of customers for the day—and there have been a lot of customers.
Every day since I started working out of Audrey’s kitchen has been busy, but the weekends are something else entirely.
The Winter Market opened yesterday, and a lot of out-of-towners drove in, all saying they had to stop by ‘the bakery Felix Jones and Amanda Willis raved about.’
They came, in addition to the locals who greeted me without surprise, having already been informed through the local grapevine that I’m working Making Whoopie’s counter. Greeted with large smiles, no less.
Apparently, in just a few days, I went from persona non grata to Hideaway’s non-celebrity guest star.
Between establishing Making Whoopie’s start of business date and calling in a few favors to some trademark lawyers, I’ve bagged orders, greeted customers, and even made change from the register without Audrey eyeing me every time my hand dipped into the cash drawer. Progress.
Through the doorway, I watch the reluctantly trusting baker scoop batter into cake molds, her motions quiet yet precise.
Baking Audrey is different from Order-Taking Audrey.
The perpetual tension between her brows is gone, her expression soft.
Her love of baking is visible in her almost-smile and the subtle flare in her wrists when she pipes a line of frosting or uses chopsticks to individually place sprinkles on top of a pastry.
Not that frazzled, snappish Audrey didn’t have her own appeal. But happy Audrey? She’s dangerous.
She licks a smear of frosting off the back of her hand without thinking, and my brain instantly queues an entire highlight reel of thoughts that definitely violate the attorney-client handbook.
She’s my client now. And seeing as I’m leaving after the holidays, it would be beyond dumb to mix business with pleasure. I don’t start things I have no intention of finishing.
I retreat to the table I’ve commandeered as an office—the one in the back corner and the most out of the way.
Sitting down, I glance over my latest research on the screen.
Whereas I should be answering the pile of unread messages from California—producers, clients, a studio head who doesn’t understand time zones—I’m instead combing through statutes on business names and registration requirements in Maine.
I’d forgotten how much I liked business law.
The puzzle pieces of legislation and precedent.
The satisfaction of things lining up neatly.
I gave it up to help Felix launch his career, thinking it would be a temporary detour.
Ten years later, the detour has become the road, and I’ve forgotten there was another route entirely.
Now here I am, in a snow-covered fishing town, enjoying the hell out of practicing the kind of law I walked away from.
I snap the laptop shut and lean against the doorway to the kitchen. “I think I left my scarf here the other day.”
Audrey doesn’t look up, still piping. “I brought it upstairs with me yesterday to get it out of the way.” She might as well have said ‘You’re in the way.’
I probably should wonder if something’s wrong with me, finding her faux grump attitude a turn-on.
She sighs heavily at my silence and puts down the piping bag. “I’ll go—” An oven timer goes off, Audrey’s eyes cutting to it then to me.
Holding up my hands, I take a step back. “You just bake.” I thumb over my shoulder at the door leading upstairs. “I’ll run up and get it.”
Grabbing her oven mitt with one hand, she shuts off the timer with the other. “I don’t know.” Hand on the oven handle, she pauses, biting her lip. “I don’t usually have people up there.”
I laugh, misreading her hesitation. “Promise I won’t judge any dirty dishes in the sink.”
That gets me an eye roll before she opens the oven door. “I never leave dirty dishes in the sink.” She wafts the hot air escaping the oven in front of her, her cheeks pinking in the heat, the fine tendrils around her face blowing from the convection fan. “Fine, go ahead.”
I blame the mix of cloves and nutmeg for the hard swallow I have to take.
Pulling out the tray, Audrey further dismisses me by turning to place what looks like gingerbread house pieces on a cooling rack. “Your scarf’s on a coat rack, to the right of the door when you enter.”
Nodding even though she can’t see me, I make my escape from the provoking smells.
On the stairs, as the scent of Audrey’s baked goods fade, a thrum of curiosity and anticipation hits me. While I may have scoffed at Making Whoopie’s holiday decor when I arrived in Hideaway, I’ve since come to enjoy it. Tasteful and homey, just like the goods Audrey bakes.
So I’m curious to what her own personal space looks like. I half expect garlands, twinkle lights, a tree covered in tiny whoopie pie ornaments— something even more festive than the bakery below since Audrey wouldn’t have had to worry about the décor getting in the way of her baking.
But when I open the door and find the scarf right where she said it would be—hanging neatly from a coat rack by the door—nothing else is as expected.
No tree. No garland. No lights. And definitely no mess.
I take two steps into a small living area on the left: denim loveseat, coffee table, TV. Behind that, a small kitchen as immaculate as the bakery’s at closing time—but without the cinnamon sugar scent.
The tiny island that doubles as a dining table is spotless, except for a stack of cookbooks with a legal pad tucked between them like a makeshift bookmark.
It’s the opposite of downstairs, where—in the front of the shop—every surface glows with holiday cheer and the air is sugar-scented. Audrey’s apartment is basic. Functional. Like she’s poured every ounce of herself into the bakery and left nothing for her own space.
Something about that… lands. I know exactly what it’s like to live entirely at work and leave the rest empty because you’re never really there.
Feeling as if I’ve seen something private, I start toward the door to grab my scarf when a framed photo catches my eye.
Audrey, hair short, in a chef’s coat, and a woman who looks like a slightly older, blond version of the younger Audrey next to her standing in front of the Ritz in New York.
I know the building. I’ve stayed there more than once.
And whereas the woman—probably her mother—is smiling widely into the camera, Audrey is smiling at the woman.
I pull the scarf from the hook, but the image sticks with me.