Chapter 3
June
The Sweet Spot feels alive with the kind of energy that makes every early morning worth it.
I've already been up for hours, fighting with the stubborn old oven and coaxing the dough through its final rise.
Now it's eight o'clock Saturday morning—prime time—and the bakery smells like heaven.
Brewed coffee and cinnamon swirl through the air, mingling with the yeasty warmth of fresh bread and the bright citrus spike of lemon scones cooling on the racks.
The bell rings for the fourth time in five minutes and I'm there, grinning at Mrs. Morrison as she cradles her usual cup, then greeting the next line of regulars by name.
This is my place. My rhythm. I know exactly where the spatula is without looking, could frost a cupcake blindfolded, and remember—yes, absolutely, Mr. Garfield wants an extra shot in his latte because he's got an art show today.
Small talk bubbles around the counter and I let myself move in sync with it, letting the routine buoy me.
My hands fly, boxing up a lemon scone for Mrs. Morrison, ribbon curling expertly in my fingers. I turn to pass it to her right as Mrs. Henderson sidles up to the register, eyes sharp and smile sharper. There's that look—gossip is about to bloom.
"So, dear," she begins, voice pitched just enough to carry, "I heard there was quite a commotion at the Lane house last weekend. Something about cupcakes?" She tilts her head, conspiratorially, and in the tiny hush that follows, half the bakery seems to lean closer.
My cheeks flare instantly. Why did I think frosting Adam Lane's chest was going to be a secret? I clear my throat, mentally scanning for something neutral. "I just brought a welcome gift to the new neighbors. That's all."
Mrs. Henderson waves her hand airily. "The very handsome new neighbor, I noticed. That Adam Lane is quite the sight, isn't he? Single father, firefighter, muscles for days—"
I nearly drop the scone I'm boxing. "I really didn't notice—" The lie burns fresh and bright in my mouth.
Mrs. Morrison pipes up, delight twinkling in her glasses. "Of course you noticed, dear. You'd have to be blind not to. And he's right next door! How convenient."
Laughter ripples through the shop, low and teasing.
I wish I could shrink behind the counter or crawl into the oven to hide, but the heat's already blooming in my face, too warm and too pink.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch two teenagers snapping a picture with their phones.
Great. I am officially the headline gossip of Willowbridge.
Inside, I'm replaying every humiliating detail.
Buttercream streaked across his forearm, those steady hands catching me.
The sharp, startled glance, the warmth that lingered after he said my name.
Not to mention the night after—his eyes, the returned cake stand, the brush of fingers, the near-smile, Emma's voice pulling him home.
God, I hate how vivid it is, how my heart flips over each moment like a new page.
I mumble some excuse about checking the oven and clatter toward the back, cheeks flaming. My hand's already in my apron pocket, fumbling for my phone. There's only one thing to do when you're about to die of embarrassment in full view of half the town.
I text Harper and Maya:
EMERGENCY. CUPCAKE INCIDENT FALLOUT. SEND HELP.
I hit send, breathing hard, already praying they bring an emergency dose of perspective before I have to face the crowd again.
I retreat to the storage room, my phone clutched tight, pulse still racing from the bakery's communal embarrassment. The screen lights up with a reply less than a minute after I hit send—
Harper:
ON MY WAY.
Maya:
Give me a minute, but I'm coming. You need backup. x
I laugh, shaky, then start prepping the corner table. My safe zone, deep in the bakery, tucked beside the window where sunlight pools across mismatched chairs and wobbly table legs, then flip the sign to "Back in 15 Minutes." I need my squad before Mrs. Henderson can return for round two.
Harper is the first through the door, a blur of sharp elbows and dark ponytail, eyes scanning the shop for threats. She drops her satchel and immediately starts in, "Did the cupcake incident escalate? Or has someone decided you and Adam are Willowbridge's next great love story already?"
Maya arrives right behind her, glowing with late pregnancy, the floral dress and messy bun making her look like she could float above the bakery floor.
She moves slower—one hand always pressed protectively against her bump—but her energy is radiant, her smile reassurance incarnate.
Her cheeks are flushed from the short walk, laughter trailing after her as she kicks off her flats and plops into the sunniest chair.
I give them pastries and decaf—pregnancy tax for both—and fall into my own seat. Harper sits opposite, arms crossed, already smirking. Maya props her elbows on the table, chin on her hands, eyes wide and expectant.
"Okay, spill," Maya demands. "Harper and I have only gotten bits of the Adam saga. The town group chat is on fire. Did you actually assault Harper’s brother with buttercream frosting, or is Mrs. Henderson exaggerating for dramatic effect?"
I groan and drop my forehead on the table. "I humiliated myself. Utterly. Completely. There was frosting everywhere and somehow I wound up plastered to Adam like an extra in a rom-com kitchen disaster."
Maya is practically bouncing in her seat. "Honestly, June, this is adorable! You, the queen of cake, turning to mush over a hot neighbor—this is exactly what happens in one of my favorite novels. The meet-cute of my dreams."
Harper snorts—she's trying not to laugh, which is more dangerous than her actually laughing. "Let me get this straight. You, the most coordinated baker I know, turned into an absolute klutz the second Adam walked outside. Did you actually get buttercream on his biceps?"
I groan louder, hands covering my face. "I don't even know how it happened!
He caught me and then I just—my brain short-circuited.
He's… he's so present and, I don't know, solid.
And then Emma showed up and everything got cuter and more complicated.
I could barely speak in full sentences. It was like watching myself unravel on a live broadcast."
Harper and Maya share one of those exchanges—silent, years-deep understanding, the kind that turns a single raised eyebrow or half-smile into a paragraph.
In the warm light, with croissants steaming and the town gossip swirling outside, I finally breathe.
These are my people. No judgment, just support.
"Look," Maya says, gentle and excited all at once, "if you're going to be the town headline, at least give us the details along the way. And June—don't beat yourself up. You survived frosting-gate. You'll survive Willowbridge's matchmaking committee, too."
I muster a shaky smile, already grateful tomorrow's Sunday and my day off. I need recovery time.
At least for now, I'm in the safest spot Willowbridge has to offer—three chairs, good friends, and a wall between me and Mrs. Henderson.
Maya leans forward across the table, her elbows crowding my fresh croissants, voice lowered like we're sharing state secrets. "Okay, but how did he react? Was he annoyed? Amused? Interested? We need the full Adam analysis here."
I want to laugh, but my mouth is dry. I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to remember every flash of Adam's face in those ridiculous, embarrassing moments that re-run in my brain like a blooper reel.
"Honestly? I… don't know. He was hard to read.
He didn't look mad. If anything, he almost smiled.
" I pause, feeling my cheeks flush. "And he said something about me needing to bake more than one cupcake for forgiveness, which…
I can't decide if it was joking, flirting, or just polite neighbor awkwardness. "
Harper slides her coffee closer, eyes sharp as flint. "He said what? Did he actually try to flirt with you, June?"
"I don't know!" I protest, embarrassment turning up a notch.
"He's got this way of looking at you like you're both the most interesting person he's met all week and also a puzzle that's a little too much to solve before breakfast. He's careful.
Reserved. And I was there smearing buttercream up his arm like a human tornado. "
Harper grins, wicked. "For what it's worth, he seemed flustered when I stopped by on Monday. Not in his usual smooth 'fireman Adam' mode. He was distracted, jumpy. I asked him about the new neighbor—about you—and he practically changed the subject."
Maya squeals softly, clutching her belly in excitement. "Oh June, you’ve made an impression alright."
The words send panic fluttering through me—a wild, dangerous sensation.
"No. No no no. He's your brother, Harper.
He's barely landed here with Emma. He's got a whole divorce to survive and heal from.
And I'm a mess. You see what happened with the cupcakes.
That's my life—a one-woman disaster every time I talk to someone handsome. "
Harper's expression softens, her teasing folding away into something protective and real. "June. Stop. You are the least disastrous person I know. You own your own bakery, you help anyone who asks, you've built this community from the ground up. Of course he'd be interested. Why wouldn't he?"
I blink hard, feeling something sharp and vulnerable open inside me.
"He always seems so…together. Even now, with everything going on, Adam's solid and absurdly well-constructed, and he's got Emma halfway settled already.
And I'm over here covered in flour and using recipe cards from my grandma because I can't let go of anything, not even my embarrassing childhood habits. "
Maya shakes her head, smiling. "Those are reasons someone should love you, June. Not reasons they wouldn't."