Chapter 2
Oliver Billings loved the rhythm of the morning.
He knew some bakers hated the hours—getting up so early that most people wouldn’t even consider it morning, but a very, very late night—but getting up before dawn crept over the rise of the ocean had never bothered Oliver. He’d always been a morning person, anyway.
Then there was the little burst of joy he felt every single time he unlocked the door to his own bakery and cafe.
He’d started out baking cookies, cupcakes, and big special occasion cakes in his kitchen at home. But even though Indigo Bay was a small town, the residents had a sweet tooth, and soon he’d needed to expand out of his space and add some help.
He’d had his eye on this tiny, tucked-away empty corner property at the end of Main Street for ages, and he’d felt such a rush of achievement when he’d unlocked it with his own set of keys for the first time, almost five years ago.
At first he’d only sold pastries in the mornings, along with coffee, courtesy of Taylor, his bright red Italian espresso machine.
But when he’d started selling out of the muffins and doughnuts and hand pies—both sweet and savory—he’d expanded, adding in breakfast and lunch sandwiches, built on bread he baked fresh daily.
Long-term, Oliver had a dream of staying open for dinner. He’d need more staff—and some professional help with the menu—but that was far enough off that it was still just a fun idea he liked playing with in his evenings.
After turning the key in the lock of the back door, Oliver let it close behind him and hung the ring of jangling keys up next to the door, grabbing the apron from the hook next to them.
He tied it on and flicked on the lights, all the shiny stainless steel momentarily blinding in the sudden brightness.
Aaron, his assistant and intern, would be in soon to help Oliver with the morning’s bake, but for now, it was just him.
He flicked on his Bluetooth speaker, picked one of his favorite playlists and let the strains of the music get him moving.
First, dough, because it would need time to rise.
He made bread dough, pastry dough, and lastly, the pie dough for the many different variations of hand pies that were the bakery’s specialty.
There was a beautiful rhythm to this too, the mixing, followed by the kneading, followed by the rise in the warmest part of the bakery, already chasing away the chill of a spring morning.
By noon it would be warm here, even though it was only early March in South Carolina, but it was so early there was still a definite chill to the air.
Then, while the bread rose, Oliver moved onto muffins, which they baked fresh every morning. It was an unusual day where they didn’t sell out completely.
As the huge vat of dough swirled in the biggest mixer, Oliver prepped the ingredients.
They had the standards, of course: blueberry, chocolate, banana walnut.
They had others, too, that he really enjoyed experimenting with.
Chai spice pumpkin with a cream cheese drizzle that was to die for.
Apple cinnamon pecan. Coconut pineapple with an unexpected swirl of mango purée in the crusty top.
He also sold baked goods to the many bed-and-breakfasts in town, and they loved his muffins, so he made sure to make enough to fulfill his standing orders.
Once the dough was scooped out into the army of trays and he’d started rotating them through the big oven, Oliver wiped his floury hands on his apron and glanced at his watch.
Aaron should be here, to help prep the sweet dough and the various pastries they crafted out of it.
Cinnamon rolls full of butter and pecans, chai spice twists bursting with flavor and an unexpected hint of cayenne pepper, and finally the pain au chocolat that had gotten Aaron hired in the first place.
He was young, much younger than Oliver had wanted, but when Aaron had brought in some of the chocolate croissants he’d baked, Oliver had realized that age was just a number.
The pastries were that good, bursting with butter and chocolate that wasn’t really all that sweet, but addicting, all the same.
Aaron might be young, but he was unfailingly reliable. He’d been here at three thirty for the last three years. Oliver couldn’t remember one time he’d ever been late.
But he was late this morning.
Wiping his hands much more thoroughly, Oliver pulled his phone out of his back pocket and pulled up their last text convo, from a few nights ago, when Aaron had sent him a shrimp toast recipe that he thought they could adapt for the lunch crowd.
He sent a new message, asking Aaron where he was and adding that he better not have overslept.
It was Thursday, and they were always busier toward the weekend, when people felt like they needed an extra boost to get through the rest of the work week.
In a few hours, Marjorie would be in, to help make espresso and coffee and serve the handful of tables that Oliver had managed to squeeze into the tiny space.
If they ever did stay open for dinner, he’d have to figure out a way to expand.
Mrs. Casey, who owned the antiques and knickknacks store next door, was always making noise about retiring.
One more year, with this kind of success, Oliver told himself as he slipped his phone back into his pocket, and you can devote yourself to convincing her it’s time to retire and then you can rent her space and knock down that wall.
Five minutes went by and then ten, but Oliver’s phone didn’t vibrate.
He sighed and pulled the ingredients out for the cinnamon rolls, brick after brick of butter, and then began to mix the dough together, letting the wiggle of annoyance sift through him as he mentally rearranged his schedule for the morning.
He could always call in his mom. Joy was an incredible baker, and he’d learned so much from her, but he didn’t like to involve her, because this was his domain—and because she was already so busy, running the biggest bed-and-breakfast in town.
Plus, if she came, she’d harass him again about having a big party for the birthday he didn’t want to acknowledge.
It was bad enough that she’d enlisted Marjorie—whom he’d forbidden from mentioning it within his hearing.
No, he couldn’t call Joy. He’d just figure out how to manage on his own.
Oliver was done with the cinnamon rolls and had just moved onto the Chai Spice twists when the back door opened hard, nearly slamming open and then closed again. Oliver’s fingers moved quickly, dropping butter into the big vat as it mixed the dough.
“God, I’m so sorry,” Aaron said in a rush, and Oliver lifted his head.
Oliver didn’t have to look at his watch to know that Aaron was almost two hours late.
Today was seriously going to suck as a result.
He was way behind on prepping the rest of the morning’s bake, and he was afraid the bread might have been overproofed, because he didn’t have as deft or quick a hand as Aaron did with the pastries.
He used to, but Aaron had been solely in charge of them for nearly the last two years, and Oliver was out of practice.
“Where were you?” Oliver asked. His voice remained steady, because Aaron sounded so frantic.
There wasn’t a reason for both of them to freak out.
And he’d learned from watching his mother at the bed-and-breakfast his family had owned for the last two generations that you always caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Aaron was an exemplary employee. There was no need to come down on him like a ton of bricks. Not when he was clearly already stressed.
“Car wouldn’t start, and phone was dead. Guess I forgot to plug it in last night,” Aaron said, pulling on his own apron from the hook by the door.
“How’d you get here?”
“Caught a ride with a neighbor, once he was up for the day,” Aaron said.
“But I’m gonna need a ride back after the morning rush, to meet the tow truck.
If it’s not a problem.” He looked worried, like it might be.
Even though Aaron had worked for him for two years now, Oliver knew his management style still took the other guy by surprise.
But this way, he was guaranteed to always keep people.
Nobody was ever going to leave because he was an asshole.
No—they were going to stay because he was kind and gave them the kind of wiggle room they needed.
The kind of wiggle room he’d wanted, he’d needed, when he’d worked at some of the big restaurants in Charleston, before coming back home to open the bakery.
“No, of course not, not a problem at all,” Oliver said. It wasn’t a big deal for him to drive Aaron home and back again. Maybe some bosses would’ve been mad at the extra task on an already busy morning, but shit happened, and he wasn’t about to make Aaron’s life even tougher than it already was.
See? Oliver thought. Perfect, logical sense.
Between the two of them, they got the pastries and the muffins done and then moved onto the hand pies.
They made a big selection of sweet and savory ones.
Bacon cheddar, with a hint of chives.
Sausage and brie, with a dollop of cranberry to give just the right amount of sweetness.
Apple, peach, and cherry, of course, because people liked the idea that they were eating fruit for breakfast, even if it was coated in sugar and the dough drizzled in vanilla honey glaze.
But then there was the butter pecan flavor, which was basically a total excuse to eat something decadent first thing in the morning and not feel even the tiniest bit guilty about it.
Marjorie arrived, bustling in with a huge bunch of wildflowers she would divide up among the tiny glass vases at the dozen tiny tables crammed into the cafe proper.
“Where’s all my pastries?” Marjorie called out, and Oliver knew she was talking about the empty glass case that stretched almost the full length of the room.
“Up soon!” he called out. “Runnin’ a bit behind today.”
“That’s not like you.”