A Dash of Love: A Sweet Enemies-to-More Romantic Comedy (A Love's Sweet Recipe Romantic Comedy Book

Chapter 1

Emma

“The building on Birch Lane’s still for sale.” My best friend, Rhonda, barges into the bakery, her expression tense, and her arms laden with more bags than I can count. Another spat with Philip, no doubt. Every time she finds a new reason to call off the five-year relationship with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Rhonda goes shopping. Last year, she bought a car. The year before that, a condo on an island. It must be nice to have a wealthy stepfather who hands her money anytime she asks.

Me? I’m stuck working at the same bakery in Elmwood Falls, Maine, where I’ve been for the past two years, dreaming of having a shop. Don’t get me wrong. I love working here. The owner left me in charge so she could go on a world cruise with her new husband. As much as I love that she trusts me enough to run the place, I want something of my own.

Like the building on Birch Lane that Rhonda mentioned.

It’s the ideal setting to plant my baking roots. Sandwiched between The Book Nook and Pinecone Pizza Parlor, it has a brick exterior with ivy draping the walls and a red and cream striped awning stretching over the entrance.

Each time I walk by, it makes me feel like I’m home. Unfortunately, the price range is much too high for me to dream of affording it.

I’ve wanted this ever since I was a little girl and my grandmother taught me how to bake. It makes me feel close to her, even though she’s no longer here with me.

“Yes, I saw,” I say, swiping flour off my cheek with the heel of my hand. “I go by there every morning on the way here. Silly, right?”

“Nope.” Rhonda pops her ‘p’. “You should totally get it.”

“If only.” As I knead the dough, I nod toward the bags Rhonda’s holding, and ask, “No more Philip?”

She rolls her eyes, setting the load on the tiled floor with a soft thump.

I smile at her. “I know what you need.” I open the glass fixture and pull out a chocolate fudge cake I finished baking this morning. It’s a recipe passed down from my grandmother, and Rhonda’s a sucker for all kinds of fudge. I cut her a slice and set it in front of her.

“Have I told you that you’re my favorite human in the world?” Rhonda says, helping herself to the plastic silverware in a cream-colored jar on the counter.

“Not lately.” I resume my kneading. “So, want to talk about it?”

She groans. “He’s all up on my back about me wanting to go study art abroad.”

I raise a brow mid-knead. “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned anything to me about going to study art.”

“I didn’t? I’m sure I did. But, anyway, I want to go so badly, I can taste it.”

I’m fairly certain Rhonda has never mentioned it to me, but we talk every day about everything, so it’s likely it slipped through the cracks. I’m not surprised she wants to study art. Besides shopping, it’s her favorite pastime.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while now,” Rhonda continues, “and I’d love to study in Paris.”

“Wow. That’s great, Rhonda.” It’s certainly a better use of her time than spending all of her stepfather’s money on clothes she’s going to wear only once. But, of course, I don’t say that to her. “Maybe Philip will come around and be supportive.”

“I hope so,” Rhonda says. She jabs her fork into the cake and takes a big bite. “Hmm…Emma Nicole, this is to die for.” She swallows, gesturing with her fork at the delicacy. “Wait. This isn’t Mrs. Marlow’s usual dessert.”

“Nope. While the queen’s away, it’s time for Emma to play.” I smile at her as I dump the dough in a round baking pan and begin flattening it to make the crust. “It was Mrs. Fontaine’s idea. Yesterday during our class, she suggested I start making my pastries and desserts and sell them. See how others like them.”

“But Mrs. Marlow would never allow that.”

I look around the small, empty bakery, pride filling in my heart. “I don’t see her. Do you?”

Rhonda glances around like she’s confirming that Mrs. Marlow isn’t going to materialize from thin air. She’s owned Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery for ten years and has spent every day of those ten years, except for Sundays when the shop’s closed, working. It wasn’t until she remarried for the fifth time that she decided to take a break.

“You are a crafty one, my friend,” Rhonda acknowledges with a smirk.

I sigh. “Well, last night, when I was thinking about what Mrs. Fontaine said, I decided that if I can’t open the bakery of my dreams, then I need to find a way to sell my stuff. I’m hoping when Mrs. Marlow gets back, I’ll be able to persuade her. By then, most people will have tried my treats. It’ll help in the long run if I can get the town to back me.”

“That’s a brilliant plan. Take away delicious treats, Mrs. Marlow will have a riot on her hands. She’ll have no choice.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Speaking of you owning the bakery of your dreams, I’ve got an idea of how you can get the money.” Rhonda’s lips curve once again into a smile and I know she’s got something up her sleeve. And it’s usually something good. She rummages through her oversized handbag and pulls out a wrinkled paper, flattening it on the counter before passing it to me.

I read it as she taps her finger impatiently on the edge f the surface.

“Good, right?” she says.

According to the flyer, there’s going to be a bake-off sponsored by the Great American Broadcasting Network this July. I watch every year, but I’ve been so busy at the bakery in Mrs. Marlow’s absence that I haven’t paid any attention to where the GABN would take place this year. Excitement courses through me as I think about entering. The entrance fee is two hundred dollars. I mentally check my bank balance, praying for a miracle. Maybe if I sell a kidney and start a business renting out my dog’s cuteness for Instagram posts, I can make it work.

“This is amazing,” I say, feeling breathless. I’d really hate to lose the chance. And Rhonda’s right. The first prize would give me enough money, and then some, to buy that little building. If it’s still available by then, that is.

The bell above the door jingles, and I look up to see my first customer of the day.

“Good morning, Cheryl,” I say. “Your usual coffee?”

Cheryl yawns as she walks up to the counter. “Yes, I need caffeine, STAT. I’m pulling a double for Brenda, then my all-nighter, and I didn’t sleep last night.” She looks through the glass at the treats I already have available.

“Wow, that’s rough,” Rhonda says, shaking her head. “I’m definitely not envying you on that front.”

“And it’s days like today when I envy you.” Cheryl chuckles, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, I don’t see a wealthy person dropping in my path in the foreseeable future.”

As I brew the coffee, Rhonda and Cheryl chat, and when I turn back around, I see them hovering over the display case.

“These look so good.” Cheryl says.

“They’re my grandmother’s recipes,” I tell her. “I was going through her recipe books last night. Thought I might bring a little taste of Grandma Louise back to Elmwood Falls.” I smile at the memory of her. “She and I used to love baking together. They’re some of my favorite memories growing up.”

“She really was talented,” Cheryl says. “Your grandmother had the knack for baking. I remember when we were all in school. She’d always be handing out peach cobblers after we got out for the day.”

“Oh, I remember that,” Rhonda says, her eyes brightening. “She really ruined me for anyone else’s peach cobbler. Though I’m pretty sure Emma can make it just as good.”

Cheryl eyes the raspberry tart with curiosity. “Let me have one of those.”

I slide open the door on the counter and pick up a paper plate with a tart, then hand it to Cheryl. She takes a cautious bite, and her eyes immediately brighten. “Oh, my,” she says. “This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

“While Mrs. Marlow’s away, Emma’s making temporary changes,” Rhonda says as she finishes her cake. “We’re hoping Mrs. Marlow will let her keep at least some of her grandmother’s recipes here.”

“I’ll be hoping right along with you. A little change will do her a lot of good. Give me two dozen,” Cheryl says as she studies the other treats in the glass.

“I’m glad you like it,” I tell her as I box the last of the tarts. I’ll have to make some more.

“I’ve always known you to be a great cook, Emma, but I think these are amazing. Your grandmother taught you well.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

“When’s Mrs. Marlow coming back?”

“August, supposedly,” I tell Cheryl.

“Well, you have plenty of time to come up with a game plan. How much do I owe you?”

“Twelve fifty.”

Cheryl pays, then leaves, stopping just outside the door to open the box for another tart.

“Look at you,” Rhonda says with a smile. “You’ve got another fan.”

I laugh as I continue to make the Maple Pecan Butter Pie, a classic recipe from my grandmother’s side of the family. She taught me everything I knew about being a pastry chef. Her enthusiasm for the baking process was always contagious, and it stuck with me long after she died.

“So?” Rhonda stands to gather her bags, her smile lingering. “You going to enter the bake-off?” she asks.

“Oh, I don’t know. I can part with a hundred dollars, but—“

“But nothing,” Rhonda says. She digs through her handbag until she pulls out her wallet. “No way am I going to let you miss out on this opportunity.” She slaps two hundred dollar bills on the counter.

“You don’t have to—“

“I know I don’t. Emma, you’re an amazing pastry chef. Sure, you’re doing exceedingly well here with Mrs. Marlow. But don’t you see? She’s holding you back. You deserve to bake your treats at your store. So, take the money. You want to pay me back? All I ask is for a whole Chocolate Fudge Cake to call my own.”

“You got it.” I pause, smiling at her. “And, thanks.”

“What are friends for?” Rhonda asks with a wink. “I’ll see you later.”

Rhonda leaves as I put the money in my much smaller handbag, then resume making the pie. This time, I’m daydreaming of competing in the bake-off, winning, and buying the building that’s for sale.

The aroma of freshly baked goods envelops the bakery as the soft hum of the ovens blends with the chatter of customers. I’ve been busy most of the day because apparently, Cheryl had spread the word about my tarts. From five p.m. to an hour before closing, it’s been more busy than a fireworks store on the Fourth of July.

I’m excited, but also so very tired. My feet hurt, my hands have cramps from the constant kneading of dough. All I want is a nice hot bath with a good book.

“Hey, Ryan, how are you?” I say as my next customer walks up to the counter.

“Great,” Ryan says. “Loving the powdered wig, Em.”

Subconsciously, I raise a hand to my hair, feeling my cheeks redden. “It’s my new look. Thinking of starting a trend,” I reply with a grin. “What can I get you today?”

“Susie Q wants an apple fritter,” Ryan says. “My wife’s got a hankering.”

I quickly bag up the last of the fritters and hand it over. “One apple fritter, fresh from the fryer. No powdered wigs were harmed in the making.”

He chuckles, pays, and thanks me as he leaves, the door jingling behind him.

I obviously—definitely—need to throw in a shower with that bath.

But I still have an hour to go with customers coming in. Who knew Elmwood Falls had so many people with a serious sweet tooth?

“This pie is the best I’ve ever had.”

I blink at the speaker to see Mr. Bryant, the Elmwood Falls High School gym teacher, licking his fingers. “Where have you been all my life, Emma?”

“Not in the gym.” I wink.

We laugh at my joke despite it being the truth. Mr. Bryant was teaching gym when I went to school and I was famous for ditching. Usually because my grandmother came up with a new recipe and I was eager to try it with her.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to bake up some things for me? I’ll be having a dinner party in a few weeks. Nothing major, just a few old friends coming into town. I’m sure your baking will be a batch made in heaven.”

“I’d love to. Do you have anything in particular you’d like?”

He considers the question as his eyes skim the pastry glass. “Too hard to decide. Let me think on it, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Sounds good. Thanks Mr. Bryant,” I say. “I’ll see you later.”

“Count on it, Emma.”

The door jingles as he pushes it open and leaves. A few more local customers start conversations with me as they get ready to go. It’s one of my favorite things about living in a small town like Elmwood Falls. Everyone knows everyone else. It’s like one big family.

Finally, the last customer walks out five minutes before nine and I’m left alone. I let out the painful groan I’ve been biting back most of the day as I stumble to a seat, falling into it. The soles of my feet are absolutely killing me. Mrs. Marlow has always been steady with customers, but usually, there’s a lull. I feel blessed that so many people have come for my pastries today, even if my feet are swollen. I take off my left shoe and massage my foot, envisioning my hot bath—if I make it home, that is. I wince when I hit a tender spot. I just might be sleeping in Mrs. Marlow’s office.

The door jingles behind me, and a groan escapes before I can stop it. I turn to see who it is, then suddenly my breath catches. I jump from my chair, losing my balance when my tender feet hit the floor, and fall flat onto my bottom. My face flushes with embarrassment as the handsome man who entered rushes to my side.

“You all right there?” he asks.

I look into his eyes. Dark blue, almost mesmerizing. They remind me a lot of Paul Newman’s deep blue eyes.

“I-I…” I clear my throat and try again. “I’m fine.”

The handsome stranger helps me to my feet, and I’m suddenly aware I have only one shoe on. I awkwardly slip into into it, holding onto the table to keep my balance.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, still holding onto my elbow.

“Yes, I’m fine. Can I help you with something?” I look at the clock. “I’m about to close.”

He walks to the glass counter and looks at the leftovers in the bakery glass. “Looks like you’ve been wiped out today.”

“Yes, it’s been very busy.”

“I’ll take whatever you have left.” He turns to look at me, those mesmerizing eyes burning a hole in my skin. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” After washing my hands, I limp to the counter and grab the two brownie plates and five croissants remaining. They’re the only treats I baked from Mrs. Marlow’s recipes. The pastries are a favorite among the Elmwood Falls residents, but my treats were in high demand today. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it makes me feel like I’m walking on air. I glance down at my feet and sigh, if only I could walk on air.

After I bag them, he pays, then takes one of the brownies and bites into it. Chewing slowly, he gives me a nod, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Not bad,” he says.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say.

“It’s simple, but I guess it’s tough enough to mess up a brownie, isn’t it?” He winks at me as he walks away, leaving me with my mouth open.

I’m beside myself and at a loss for words. I’m also feeling insulted, but I guess that was his intention. The nerve of him.

As I’m stewing from the encounter with the stranger, I text my frustration to Rhonda, then I lock the doors and clean the bakery.

It’s well past eleven before I’m finally walking into my apartment. I hang my handbag on the hook by the door and fix myself a drink of ice water. My black dachshund, Frankie, trots into the kitchen, his little paws clicking against the tiles. He whines, then goes to sit by the door.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, leaning over to scratch his head. Despite my throbbing feet, I clip a leash on him and we leave the apartment so he can do his business.

I’m glad he doesn’t seem interested in sniffing every little thing tonight. After he finishes, he scurries to the building, dragging me behind him.

Back in my apartment, he trots to the kitchen, plopping down next to his empty food dish. I get his food from the pantry, feed him, then I go into the bathroom to run myself a bubble bath.

An hour and several chapters of my mystery novel later, I hear the chime of my cell phone announcing a text. Deciding I’m wrinkled enough, I get out of the bath, dress for bed, then get my cell phone from the kitchen table. It’s Rhonda responding to my text about the man in the bakery.

Of course, her question has to be: Is he married?

I roll my eyes. Who cares? The guy, as handsome as he is, is a complete jerk. I mean, who knocks someone’s brownies? And he hasn’t even tasted my pastries. He’s got some nerve. I send a rolling eye emoji back, then text Rhonda good night.

I plug my phone into the charger before going into my room and climbing into bed. I’m so tired, and I have to get up early again in the morning.