Chapter 7
June
My phone won't stop buzzing.
It's too early on a Monday morning, and I've been awake for exactly three minutes. Notifications keep rolling in—Instagram, email, text messages—a relentless digital avalanche that has my heart racing before I've even gotten out of bed.
I grab my phone, squinting at the screen in the pre-dawn darkness.
Ten thousand new Instagram followers. Overnight.
"What the hell?" I sit up, fully awake now, scrolling through hundreds of comments, tags, shares. My inbox is exploding—catering requests, interview requests, people asking about shipping and custom orders.
Then I see it. The post that started it all.
@FoodieFindsByMia—a food blogger with half a million followers—posted a photo of my lavender honey cupcakes yesterday afternoon. The image is gorgeous: golden afternoon light, the purple-tinted frosting looking almost ethereal, my bakery's rustic interior soft-focused behind it.
The caption reads:
Hidden gem alert! The Sweet Spot in Willowbridge has the BEST lavender honey cupcakes I've ever tasted. Owner June is a genius. Worth the detour! #HiddenGems #BakeryGoals #SupportSmallBusiness
Fifty thousand likes. Thousands of comments. People tagging friends, saving the post, asking for directions.
My hands are shaking.
This is incredible. This is terrifying. This is everything I've ever dreamed of—and everything I'm completely unprepared for.
I'm a one-woman operation. I bake everything myself, and Riley, my right hand, is away. How am I supposed to handle this?
I fly out of bed and make it to the bakery by 4:30 a.m. The phone starts ringing an hour before I even open. I'm trying to calculate how much extra inventory I can possibly produce while scribbling notes on the back of a receipt because I can't find paper fast enough.
Pre-orders. A woman asking if I do wedding cakes for three hundred people.
"I—yes? Maybe? Can I call you back?"
By the time I unlock The Sweet Spot's front door at seven, there's a line stretching down the sidewalk. Actual strangers, phones out, Mia's post pulled up, pointing at my cupcakes through the window like they're window-shopping at a museum.
I've never experienced anything like this.
The morning becomes a blur of smiling faces, ringing registers, and hands moving faster than my brain can keep up. By nine a.m., I'm out of lavender honey cupcakes. Then the lemon bars. Then the chocolate croissants.
"I'm so sorry," I tell a disappointed couple from three towns over. "I'll have more tomorrow—"
"June!" Maya bustles through the door, slightly out of breath. "I saw the post! This is incredible!"
"This is madness," I correct—but I'm smiling. Sort of. In a manic, overwhelmed, am-I-having-a-panic-attack kind of way.
Maya takes one look at my face and ties on an apron. "Put me to work."
"You're heavily pregnant—"
"And you're drowning. What do you need?"
I could cry with relief. Instead, I point her toward the packaging station and dive back into the kitchen.
During a brief lull—if you can call five customers in line a lull—I grab my phone and text Adam:
Remember how I said I was a disaster? Today is proving it. Send help. Or coffee. Or a clone.
His response comes thirty seconds later:
On my way. With coffee.
Just like that, the chaos feels a little more manageable.
I barely have time to register Adam's reply before the next wave hits.
I'm rolling out dough, nervous energy fizzing in my veins, flour in my hair, sweat beading at the back of my neck.
The front bell rings so often I nearly tune it out—customers lining up for pastries I can't make fast enough, phones flashing with Mia's post. I keep losing track of what I'm supposed to be baking next.
I wish I had that clone. No—three clones.
The bell rings again at ten a.m., and Maya calls from the front, "Incoming Lane reinforcement!"
I glance up. Adam steps inside, somehow unfazed despite the madness swirling around him. He's carrying two large coffees in one hand, a bag of breakfast sandwiches in the other—my hero in jeans and a faded fire department hoodie.
"Morning, genius." He grins, and I nearly laugh at the callback to the viral post—except my throat is too tight and my brain is doing backflips.
He sets the coffee and sandwiches on the counter, then brushes a bit of flour from my cheek like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You're a mess."
I want to argue, but the impulse to cry is a little too strong. "I can't keep up," I admit, voice small.
Adam glances around—a bakery full of strangers, a line still snaking out the door, Maya boxing pastries while texting with one hand and answering the phone with the other.
He rolls up his sleeves. "Put me to work."
"You don't have to—"
"June." His voice is gentle but firm. The firefighter voice. "I'm off today and Emma's at school. Let me help."
I hesitate. I'm so used to managing alone that the idea of surrendering control makes my chest flutter. But I'm desperate. I nod toward the register. "Can you ring people up? Take orders and payments. Speak slowly and don't panic if the receipt printer jams."
Adam's smile is steady, reassuring. "I've survived fires and a two-year-old with chicken pox. Your register holds no power over me."
It turns out, he's good at this. He chats with tourists about Willowbridge, flirts mildly with the elderly ladies—who absolutely eat it up—and somehow makes even the grumpy teenagers smile.
He handles a misplaced order without missing a beat, settles a minor dispute over cupcake flavors, and recommends the best coffee blend to a nervous mom like he's been doing it for years.
Maya catches my eye and gives me a thumbs up. "He's got them wrapped, June."
Flour-dusted and heart hammering, I fall into a rhythm—me baking, Maya packing, Adam running point out front. The frenzy narrows into something almost manageable. Almost fun. For a stretch of time, I stop thinking about the pressure and just work.
By noon, we're almost out of pastries, but the crowd has thinned and things have steadied.
Adam slips into the kitchen and hands me an ice-cold water. "You okay?"
I wipe a streak of chocolate from my jaw. "I don't know. This is amazing—but I can't sustain it alone."
His hand settles at my lower back, warm and grounding. "You're not alone. You have Maya. Harper. Me."
The easy, certain way he includes himself makes something soft bloom in my chest. I think about tonight—our date—and my nerves ease just a little.
"We still on for tonight?" His voice drops low despite the noise just feet away.
"If I survive today—yes." I lean into his warmth for half a second longer than I should.
He squeezes my shoulder. "You'll survive. You're the strongest person I know."
His faith steadies me. He heads back to the front, and for the first time all morning, I actually believe it.
***
By four p.m., I flip the sign to "Closed" and lock the door behind the last customer.
Every shelf bare. Every display case empty. The Sweet Spot is completely sold out—something I've never experienced in my life. Exhilarating and exhausting in equal measure.
Maya went home an hour ago—I insisted, despite her protests. Adam left earlier to pick Emma up from school, but not before pressing a kiss to my temple and reminding me, "Eight o'clock. Don't overthink it."
Too late. I'm already overthinking.
I check my phone. Less than four hours to get ready for our date. I'm covered in flour, buttercream, and what might be raspberry filling. I haven't eaten since Adam's breakfast sandwich this morning. My hair is a disaster, and I'm running on fumes and leftover adrenaline.
I text him:
Still want to go out? I'm a disaster and smell like buttercream.
His response is immediate:
You always smell like buttercream. I love it. I'll pick you up at 8.
My chest does that fluttery thing again. Damn him for being perfect.
I barely had the energy to get home, let alone transform myself into someone date-worthy. I'm seriously considering canceling—or at least suggesting takeout and sweatpants—when my front door bursts open at 6:30.
"Emergency date prep intervention!" Harper announces, marching in like she owns the place. Maya shuffles in behind her, looking far too energetic for someone who spent the better part of her day on swollen ankles.
"How did you—"
"Adam texted me." Harper is already steering me toward the bathroom. "Said you might need reinforcements. Now shower. We'll handle everything else."
"I can dress myself—"
"Can you though?" She arches an eyebrow. "Left to your own devices, you'll overthink it and change seventeen times. Shower. Now."
She's not wrong.
I surrender, letting the hot water wash away the flour and panic.
When I emerge twenty minutes later—towel wrapped, hair damp, skin pink from scrubbing—my bedroom has been transformed into what looks like a styling studio.
Dresses laid out across the bed, makeup scattered over the dresser, Harper and Maya locked in debate over "approachable cute" versus "knock-him-dead stunning. "
"What's that?" I point to a lacy bra and panty set sitting on top of my dresser. One I've definitely never seen before.
Maya grins. "A gift. You're welcome."
My face heats. "I'm not sleeping with him tonight!"
"No one said you were." Harper's voice is gentle but firm. "Pretty underwear isn't about him—it's about you. Feeling confident. Sexy. Like you can handle anything."
Maya nods. "Exactly. Whether or not anyone sees it tonight—or ever—doesn't matter. This is for you."
I soften, looking at the delicate lace. It really is beautiful. "That's... actually really sweet."
"Plus," Harper adds, "if things do progress someday, you'll be glad you have options. But zero pressure. Tonight is whatever you want it to be."
"Thank you," I say quietly. And I mean it. They're not pushing. They're just here—supporting me, making sure I feel ready for whatever comes next.
Once I'm dressed, they move on to the main event.