Chapter 14 Cooling Rack
COOLING RACK
Audrey
“Merry Christmas!”
The last customer leaves with a wave, and I flip Making Whoopie’s lock and turn the sign to Closed before humming my way back to the counter.
It’s three o’clock, which in Hideaway Harbor means scrubbing cocoa powder off marble and sweeping up sprinkles, the day’s chaos distilled into sugar confetti.
“That’s not going to work for my client.” Across the room, Jack is camped out at his corner table, dress shirt fastened with cufflinks, hair perfectly coiffed. “As per the contract, it states we have first right to…”
While my ovens cool, his world is just heating up—noon in Los Angeles is prime time for lunch meetings.
He’s on Zoom, earbuds in, nodding at a wall of Hollywood faces on his computer screen while I hum “Deck the Halls” and feel a delicious burn between my legs that has nothing to do with today’s baking.
Jack might call sex his new cardio, but this morning’s session had me flying through orders like I’d mainlined espresso.
I pause, cloth still in hand, as the thought sharpens.
Is it just sex—or sex with Jack? Because somehow, instead of dragging through the day, I’m buzzing.
Since he spent the night after the gingerbread competition, we’ve been together, save for him grabbing a bag from his hotel to save me from the embarrassment of having to ask Eileen for more coffee shop merch.
It’s only been one full workday since things changed between Jack and me, yet every task feels lighter, every batch quicker, even the paperwork less soul-sucking.
Like when he pops behind the counter between Zoom calls to steal a kiss or when he’s ringing up a long line of customers as I ice cakes.
Sharing the day with him makes the bakery feel less like a grind and more like a life.
Almost like the life I imagined when I decided to pull up stakes at the Ritz and come to Hideaway.
The phone rings.
Jack starts to rise, as if from habit, and I wave him down. “Finish your meeting. I’ve got it.”
His answering wink sends another slow burn through me.
With what I’m sure is a grin that screams sexually satisfied baker, I lift the receiver off the wall. “Making Whoopie, where every craving deserves a happy ending. Audrey speaking.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” My mother’s voice clicks sharp through the receiver.
“Oh, uh, hi, Mom.” From the corner of my eye, I see Jack’s head pop up from his laptop. “What’s going on?”
“I just wanted to say your cupcake tower looked great.” Her voice is surprisingly free of the anxious edge it usually carries when she’s talking about my business.
But I don’t have time to relish that because—“I’m sorry, Mom. My what tower?”
“Your Winter Wonderland cupcake tower,” she says. “The photo in the Bangor Daily. Very ambitious.”
I laugh, baffled, thinking back to the gingerbread contest and wondering if the paper used an old photo since my house was demolished before they could get one for the article. “I’ve never made a Winter Wonderland cupcake tower.” The thought slips out before I remember who I’m talking to.
“Well, that’s odd.” Paper rustles in the background. “Because it says Making Whoopie right here under the picture. White chocolate trees, sugared cranberries—lovely presentation.” A beat. “Oh.” There’s the anxious tone I know so well. “It says below to contact Margery for your baking inquiries.”
As the judgment in her silence stretches, I wind the phone cord around my hand and cross to the pile of unopened mail, flipping through bills until I find the newspaper, scattering pages until I land on the food section.
Making Whoopie Wins Blue Ribbon at Bangor Winter Sweets Showcase.
Only it isn’t my Making Whoopie. It’s the other bakery. Two bakers I don’t know—but one who I’m guessing is Margery—beaming behind a glittering tower of cupcakes crowned in spun-sugar snowflakes.
The floor tilts under me.
“That’s the other bakery.” My voice comes out strained. “The one using my name.”
Silence stretches, then Mom clears her throat. “Audrey, what does that mean for your bakery if someone else is winning awards in Maine under the same name?”
I have no good answer. “It means…” Spinning on my heel, I clutch the receiver. “It means I have to get back to closing up.” The words tumble fast. “Love you, Mom.”
I hang up before she can say more, palms sweaty against the receiver.
When I turn, leaning my back against the wall, I find Jack watching me, his laptop closed. He must’ve ended his call early.
“What happened?” His eyes flick to the paper spread across the counter. Picking it up, he skims the headline and swears under his breath.
“Unbelievable.” He shoves a hand through his hair.
“Not only are they still using your name after I proved prior use, but now they’re plastering it across the state paper?
” He looks at me, hard but not unkind. “Don’t worry, Audrey.
I’ll take care of it. They want to push?
Fine.” He slaps the paper back on the table.
“I’ll push harder.” He cradles my face in his hand, eyes drilling into mine.
“You don’t need to carry this.” He kisses my forehead like it’s settled, case closed.
“Okay.” I force a smile. “If you say so.”
On the outside, I’m sure I look calm, full of confidence in him and his ability to handle this.
On the inside? I’m unraveling. And whereas just five minutes ago, before my mother’s call and before the article in the paper, that unraveling felt freeing—like the tightly wound ball of anxiety and nerves that’s kept my business and me going these past two years finally wasn’t needed—
Now? Now the loose threads feel like nooses wrapping around my neck, choking back the happiness Jack seems to think I’ve earned.
“Sam.” Jack’s on his cell, his voice, sharper now than on his Hollywood call, echoing in the tiled kitchen. “I need your help with something.”
Leaving him to it, I pick up my towel once more, rewiping already clean counters and absentmindedly polishing circles into nothing.
Maybe Jack was wrong. Maybe I haven’t earned it. Maybe while I’ve been busy with him sneaking kisses behind the counter, I’ve been letting the one thing I built for myself slip away.
Jack
My balls will never be the same.
Not after—hopefully—surviving their first cold winter since dropping at the ripe age of twelve, late bloomer that I was.
That’s the errant thought that hits me just as the sharp salt-and-pine tang drifts up from the harbor as I turn off Hideaway’s Main Street toward the square, the cold air clouding in front of me.
Another day in Hideaway where shop windows glow with strands of lights, the whole street already dressed for December like it’s auditioning for a postcard.
Another day spent in Making Whoopie—only this one not as easygoing as yesterday’s.
Before Audrey’s phone call from her mother. Before the article in the paper.
Having volunteered to bring the Sweet as Honey Corny as Sin whoopie pies—cornbread cakes filled with honey cream cheese icing—that Audrey made for the Chowder House Rules restaurant for Clam Chowder and Cornbread Appreciation Day, I took a detour on the walk back to the bakery to clear my head.
Skippy found me two steps in, as if waiting for me like our walk was preplanned.
He trots a few paces ahead of me, nose buried in every snowbank like he’s on an FBI sweep. Calling it a walk is generous—I’m mostly following him around while he zigzags from lamppost to mailbox.
My mind’s not on him anyway. It’s not even really on my testicles, cold under the dress slacks I wore because my locally bought flannel-lined jeans are in the wash.
Audrey’s wash. And while my mind should be on the new client and their contract negotiations, along with the potential wave of income it would bring to my agency, it’s not.
Instead, my mind is back in the bakery. Back to yesterday afternoon, to Audrey’s expression when she was on the phone. Her voice, brittle, uncertain. “That’s the other bakery. The one using my name.”
I hate it. Hate that she thinks she’s slipping, hate that someone else is muddying what she built. Hate that it feels like my fault.
Maybe it is.
Since then I’ve already redrafted the cease and desist in my head multiple times before having a colleague in Maine send one out this morning.
The guy laughed when I mentioned Making Whoopie, but he agreed to put it on his letterhead, make it official.
Then I stopped by the Post Office to give Audrey an extra sense of security.
All of it should’ve felt like a win. Instead it feels like bailing water from a sinking boat with a thimble. Not when Audrey’s confidence is unraveling. Not when she’s looking at me like maybe I’m part of the problem.
“Afternoon, Lourd!”
I glance up as Mayor Locke barrels out of Town Hall, scarf trailing, cheeks red from the cold. He claps me on the back like we’ve been neighbors for years. His laugh echoes across the street, loud enough to make Skippy jump, tail dropping.
“Didn’t expect to see you still here.” The mayor’s grin widens.
“Hideaway Harbor must be working its magic.” He eyes me up and down, from the top of my windblown business cut to the tips of my Cole Haans.
“We locals—we need to be less judgmental. Because I’ll admit, not a single one of us would’ve bet a Hollywood man could settle in here.
We all thought you were too polished, too temporary.
” He steps back, gesturing at everything he just assessed.
“But look at you now—working cases for Bennett, helping out at the bakery”—he points to Skippy retaliating from his scare by marking Town Hall’s shrubbery as his own—“dog in tow. Guess that’ll teach us to keep our mouths shut, huh? ”
I force a laugh, keeping it light. “I’ve just answered a few legal questions and wiped down a counter or two.”
Skippy trots back to me, and without thinking, I dig into my pocket for the bakery scraps I’ve started keeping there.
The mayor chuckles like I’ve just proven his point. “Mm-hm. You keep telling yourself that.”
Feeling an odd need to clarify something even I’m not sure of, I add, “Besides, I’m not even licensed to work in Maine.”
“That’s easily taken care of.” He tips his head knowingly. “I know a lawyer in Portland. If you partnered with him, Maine allows you to practice here without taking the bar exam again.”
“Maine also allows you to apply for reciprocity if you’ve been practicing out of state long enough,” I state, more to myself than to him.
The mayor grins like I’ve just confessed something. “See? I knew you were already thinking about it.” With a wink and another clap on my back, he stomps off toward the diner.
Leaving me standing there, snow soaking into my shoes, the word echoing like a hammer blow.
Yes, I’ve looked into becoming legal in Maine. But in my head it was for Amanda. For business. Hollywood business.
But was it?
Pictures flash too easily in my mind—Audrey dusted in flour, me sitting at the tiny wood table in the corner. Daily chats with the locals. Seasons changing along with the flavors of her whoopie pies. Quintessential small-town life. Audrey’s dream come true.
Suddenly, my reminders of my own happy childhood feel less like warmth and more like fractures. Shortcomings.
I don’t know how to be that man.
My memories consist of my mom singing off-key carols while burning butter cookies. Of my dad pretending not to mind when the tree leaned sideways in the stand. It was chaotic, imperfect, real. But then it was gone. A car accident and a funeral and nothing steady ever again.
Now all I know is clients, contracts, the next deal. Not homes and holidays and permanence.
Skippy barks at a snowplow rumbling past, then lopes ahead again.
I shove my hands into my crumb-filled pockets and follow.
The cold stings my face, but it doesn’t clear my head the way I hoped.
Yet by the time we circle back toward the bakery, I’ve plastered my easy smile back in place.
The one I haven’t used since handing Audrey her dirty chai latte after making sure Skippy wasn’t limping.
The one I reserve for business. For noncommittal responses and vague offerings.
The door jingles as I open, Audrey looking up from sweeping the floor. “Have a good walk?”
Smile in place, I nod.
She nods back before getting to work, letting me know that on the outside I must look steady. Unchanged.
But on the inside, I’m anything but.