Chapter 15 Proofing
PROOFING
Audrey
The scent of fried clams and chowder fogs up my little apartment like a New England perfume. Cartons from Chowder House Rules litter my tiny kitchen table, steam curling in the air until the windows haze.
“Pretty nice of the restaurant to send this over for free.” Jack spears a clam fritter with his fork before I’ve even opened the napkins.
I roll my eyes, unstacking the cartons. “If it was free, I wouldn’t have taken it.
” I put the plasticware they packed with the food in a drawer and pull out my silverware, feeling the need to be a bit fancier with Jack here.
“Small businesses need to support small businesses.” I grab two bowls from a cabinet for the chowder.
“This was a barter.” I gesture to the brown paper bags covering my small island.
“I made cornbread whoopie pies for Clam Chowder and Cornbread Appreciation Day, and they made me chowder.”
“Small-town economics. Carbs for carbs.” Jack helps pour the chowder from the carton into the bowls. “I like this system.” His grin is crooked, easy, the kind of grin that feels dangerous because it makes my insides go gooey. “Kind of like the scarf I got for settling the garden gnome dispute.”
I glance at the scarf hanging on my coat rack. The same scarf that’s been there every night this past week and stayed there until morning. While Jack hasn’t given up his hotel room, he also hasn’t been there in some time.
“Yeah, I figured you’d be a fan of the barter system.” I point my spoon at him. “Seeing as I’m paying your lawyer fees in whoopie.”
Jack grin makes the heat off my chowder seem frigid. “Both the treat and the activity.”
Avoiding his eyes for fear of combusting, I dig into my food like someone who worked a twelve-hour day—because I am. I’ve been waking up earlier than usual, leaving Jack behind in bed as I creep downstairs, trying to make up for the moments during the day when he distracts me.
Oddly, even with the extra hour, I don’t seem to be getting any more done.
Finishing his chowder, Jack wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back. Casual. Too casual. “Got word from my Maine contact today.”
My stomach tightens.
His expression is as nonchalant as his tone. “The cease and desist went out by certified mail.”
The words hang between us, meant to be good news. He watches me, almost too invested in my reaction.
I nod, forcing a smile. “That’s great.” Last week when we discussed this over the very same meal, it was. Then I’d felt lighter, like someone had finally pulled a sack of flour off my chest. Tonight? Not so much.
His answering frown tells me I’m not as cunning as I’d like. “I’m handling this, Audrey. I promise.” He reaches over, squeezing my hand. “In fact, I also—”
I lean across the table and kiss him. Quick, decisive, chowder-flavored. “I know. And thank you.” My smile this time, lips still tingling from his, comes easier.
Frown gone, Jack kisses back, warm and sure, until he stops to lick my chin.
“Jack!” I push at his shoulder, laughing even as I wipe the salvia from his tongue off my face with the back of my hand.
“What? I was just cleaning up your chowder drool.” His grin is wicked, his eyes lit with that infuriating Hollywood sparkle that makes him look like he could sell sin in a snowstorm. “Waste not want not.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Skippy.” I wad up a napkin and throw it at him. “And I don’t have chowder drool.”
He dodges, catches me around the waist, and suddenly I’m in his lap, a bowl balanced precariously on the edge of the table as he recaptures my lips.
I laugh into his mouth, the sound softening as his hands slide under my sweater. The heat between us is always there, always a little shocking in how fast it flares.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see it—the tree.
The one we decorated together. Our lopsided Pine & Dandy special, standing proudly in my living room with Larry the Lobster dangling crookedly from a branch. Multi-colored lights blink, white lights glimmer warm and steady, the whole tree casting a bipolar festive glow in my apartment.
The sight squeezes something in me. I remember how he tangled the lights instantly, how I teased him for his terrible ornament placement, how we laughed until my sides hurt. And then… our first kiss under its glow.
I still feel wary. The bakery name fight isn’t over, my mother’s voice still rattles in my head, and Jack is still Jack—Hollywood, contracts, big shiny world.
But the tree is here. And so is he. That’s enough.
For now.
Jack’s mouth trails along my jaw, his breath hot against my skin. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
“You taste like chowder,” he murmurs against my throat. “But I should probably work off all that cream and cornbread.”
I grin up at the ceiling. “A late-night cardio session?”
He chuckles, low and dangerous, before lifting me in his arms.
I murmur a word of thanks to Jack’s celebrity trainer as he takes a step toward the bedroom. I grab his wrist—not to stop him but to redirect him. “Couch.”
His grin is pure male satisfaction. I roll my eyes, but my pulse is racing as we half-collapse onto the tiny sofa, laughter muffled under the weight of kissing. His hands are everywhere—gentle, greedy, grounding.
I moan into his mouth, the sound shocking me with how much I want him, how much I need this reminder that not everything is fragile.
We continue working out with the tree lights glowing and pulsing next to us, holding my doubts at bay for one more night.
Jack
“Hand check.” Amanda, her head poking in the door with a red and green hat looks like a festive meerkat, eyes me standing behind Making Whoopie’s counter next to Audrey.
The two of us roll our eyes in tandem, raising our hands like we’re under arrest.
“Oh.” She pouts. “That’s disappointing.”
“What is it that you want, Amanda?” I drop the arm closest to Audrey around her shoulders. “You’re letting out all of Audrey’s heat.”
She steps inside, the door ringing shut beside her. “Be at Love at First Sip in five. It’s Peppermint Mocha Appreciation Day.” She points at Audrey before swinging her finger at me. “Put on your merry faces.”
Audrey, face red from either the ovens or embarrassment, goes back to finishing off a tray of mini whoopie pies by sandwiching dark brown cakes around pale-pink swirls of icing.
Flour dusts her cheekbone like highlighter.
“You go. Represent Making Whoopie.” She claps her hands clean.
“And don’t come back without my dirty chai. Extra dirty.”
“Define extra.” I lift my hand she just escaped, my index finger brushing the white powder off her face.
Her eyelashes flutter. “If it’s not morally questionable, it’s not dirty enough.”
Amanda snorts, breaking the moment. “I like her.”
“I’m aware.” I pull back, disappointed in the interruption. Since the phone call with her mother, Audrey’s been…distant. Here. But not.
I haven’t brought up the other bakery since telling her that I had her cease and desist letter sent out, but I can tell the situation is like a bruise she keeps bumping, so I’ve let it rest.
Audrey points to the tray of thirty-six perfectly identical mini whoopie pies, glossy tops catching the light. The filling smells like peppermint and something darker, richer—chocolate? Espresso?
“Pairing special.” She tucks parchment under the edges. “Tell Lucy and Eileen it’s for sampling with the mochas.”
I think back to the phone orders I took since officially helping out this past week in the shop. “When did they order this?”
“They didn’t.” Audrey shrugs, her eyes cutting to the side. “But it’s a party. And parties need snacks.”
Amanda, having come around the counter, reaches for one. I smack her hand away, feeling oddly protective of Audrey’s generosity. “Those are for customers.”
“But I am a customer.” Amanda pouts, dramatically shaking out her hand. “By the way, what are they called?”
Audrey’s lips twitch. “Kiss My Mocha.”
Amanda holds up her hand. “Nice.”
Looking embarrassed but still smiling, Audrey high-fives her.
Amanda turns her raised palm to me. “Eh?”
Leaving her hanging, I turn to Audrey. “Why don’t you bring the pies over?” The owners of Chowder House Rules also asked after Audrey when I delivered their surprise whoopie pies yesterday. “I’m sure Lucy and Eileen would want to thank you.”
“That’s okay. They won’t even notice if I’m not there. Besides”—she points to the timer set on the counter—“the new batch for Little Italy is about to come out.”
Knowing Audrey is never going to see how much she’s appreciated in this town if she doesn’t make time for it, I pick up a potholder. “I could take those out for you while you go next door.”
The look Audrey gives me tells me that while the faith she has in my customer service has grown in leaps and bounds, that hard-fought trust has not translated to baking tasks.
She grabs a spatula and points at the door. “Go, Hollywood. Mingle. Be festive.”
I drop the potholder.
“I’m festive.” Amanda, still pretend pouting, can’t hide the glee in her eyes from seeing me get my marching orders.
Audrey smoothers a smile before kissing me. Quick. Warm. Mint on her tongue, sugar on mine.
It’s the first time she’s ever initiated affection in public, and it makes me forget how sentences work.
Turning back to the oven, but not before I see her cheeks darken, she adds, “Whoever brings me back a chai gets to be the first to taste test my new whoopie pie flavor.”
Amanda grabs the tray of mini pies out from under me, hitching the tray on her forearms before sliding around the counter and quick-walking to the door. “Come on, Jack!”
Shaking my head, I follow, taking the tray from her and casting a last look at Audrey, who’s already sliding the next sheet into the oven before stepping out into the crisp afternoon.