Chapter 21
THAT LITTLE BAKERY
MABEL
I’d rather be baking, but I also know I need to, how shall we say, mend some fences? To some, I’m still the girl who took off from Cozy Valley and hardly ever came back, and if I want these townspeople to come to my bakery, I need to say hi and let them know I’m sticking around.
Well, for a year at least, but that counts.
I’m running some errands in town today, and that gives me the perfect chance to spread the word about Afternoon Delight. The business—not what Corbin did to me a week ago in our business. I definitely need to put that incident out of my head. And I’m doing my best to quit daydreaming about it.
I swear I’m trying not to think about Corbin’s magical thigh.
After I stop by Reprise to pick up another set of adorably mismatched plates, I invite the owner to check us out when we open in around two weeks, handing her a fresh new card with a QR code on it for Afternoon Delight. “Would love to see you there, Zakiya,” I tell her.
I’ve gotten to know her a bit from my trips here to forage for dishes. Originally from Bahrain, she’s newish to Cozy Valley too, her makeup game is on point, and she has a wicked sweet tooth. In short, I adore her.
“You know I’ll be there. I like to see my goods represented,” she says, then wraps up some of the white plates with the yellow flowers on them.
An image of Mrs. Henderson’s mailbox flashes before my eyes.
She had a flowered mailbox that I ran over years ago, didn’t she?
Guilt creeps into me, but I shoo it away and focus on the moment, rather than another mishap.
“You will definitely be represented at Afternoon Delight. I’d be happy to put some of your business cards on the counter at the bakery or a card with a QR code,” I say, grateful to have hit it off with someone from the town.
“Yes. Let’s do a trade,” she says, grabbing a postcard for her shop with a scannable code on it. I take it as she adds, “And be sure to stop by the gym with some of those cards. I bet you can get some of the gym crowd right after they work out and feel virtuous enough to afford a cookie.”
I laugh. “Good plan.”
I pop into the gym next, where a young woman with shiny blonde hair stands at the counter, her workout top sloping down her shoulder, her head bent over her phone as she scrolls and scrolls.
She even scrolls as I wait for her to notice me.
Something must draw her attention away from the screen since she snaps her head up, then blinks twice. “Whoa. You’re, like, Dax’s ex.”
I cringe. Everywhere.
“That’s me,” I say, a little bitter.
And shit. That won’t sell my bakery to a town that’s tepid on me. I pour on the sweet. “I’m Mabel, and it’s good to meet you. I’d love to invite you to come to my bakery that’s opening in early December,” I say, then give her the name and date.
“Oh, I don’t eat sugar,” she says, then waves a dismissive hand. “But I love Romance Beach. I even sent that meme to a friend last week. I have got to get my act together too. Selfie? Because…you? Me? Same.”
Oh, wow. Oh, shit. This is not the notoriety I wanted. But it’s too late, since she’s already flown around the desk, wedged herself next to me, and is making a duck face at her phone.
“Thanks, babe,” she says, then returns to the desk to scroll again.
Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to have any luck here.
I leave in a funk, that familiar feeling of not being enough hitting me square in the solar plexus.
But as I sink into the front seat of my car, vaguely tempted to return to Afternoon Delight and hunker down with my good friends flour and sugar, I hear my grandmother’s voice asking If not now, when?
Dammit. She’s right. I can’t quit this mission.
That would be like leaving town all over again.
I soldier on, doing my damnedest to see myself as something other than the girl who’s too impulsive, too loud, too bold.
I can be the woman who gets things done.
The woman who follows recipes when she bakes. Well, most of the time.
I hit a few more shops before it’s time to return to the bakery, sit down with my laptop and market in other ways. I draft some social posts, schedule some mouth-watering pics of cupcakes and cookies, and organize more photos for next week. Then, I install some shelves.
As I work alone, I let myself daydream about the other day here, from the painting to the kissing to the reading, and all of that carries me into the night too.
“No, girl, no. You serve underhand,” Trevyn calls out from next to me on the pickleball court the next day.
I roll my eyes at my doubles partner and friend. “I know. I was just seeing if you were paying attention.”
That’s a lie.
I’m daydreaming. Totally daydreaming about the mural Corbin and I finished, the garage door that’s now installed, the windows inviting in streaming sunshine throughout the day as we get the little bakery ready.
I’m thinking about the sign that now hangs above the garage door, pretty in pink, with a cheeky little winking dot above the i in Delight.
I’m picturing the display cases fully installed and ready, right next to the shining fire pole, and the appliances, checked, polished, and tested.
And I’m daydreaming, too, of the way Corbin held my face when he kissed me, the tension in his jaw as he fought to resist, the desperate rasp in his voice as he gave in, and the words that play on repeat in my head.
I think about you all the time.
Trevyn clears his throat, pulling me from my wandering thoughts once more.
He steps closer to me on the court. He’s every bit as committed to pickleball fashion as I am in his tight white shorts and equally tight white shirt, which contrasts elegantly with his rich brown skin.
He points at me, drawing a circle in the air at my outfit, a patterned little white-and-pink number.
“We all know you look good, friend. But some of us like to look hot and win. Now, either focus on the game or tell us all in delicious detail why you’re zoning out. ”
“Because we’ve been betting that you got some D,” Skylar chimes in from the other side of the net, flicking her auburn hair for emphasis.
Remy—her pickleball partner—just nods sagely in agreement.
My jaw drops. “You all bet on that?”
“Of course we did,” Skylar says with a nonchalant shrug. “You just have that look about you.”
“My money’s on you wanting more,” Remy adds, giving me a thoughtful once-over as she heads toward center court with Skylar.
So much for the game. It’s gossip-over-the-net time.
We’re playing in Cozy Valley today. That will endear me to the town, right? People will see me embracing all the activities this town offers.
But for now, I focus on the immediate issue—their dick radar. “So, why do you think I got some D?” I ask, hungry for every detail of their assessments.
“Because you aren’t denying it,” Skylar says, tapping her racquet against the net.
“Spill,” Remy demands, adjusting her visor. Her bouncy chestnut hair is cinched tight in a ponytail above the strap.
I blow out a breath like I’m so annoyed they’ve wheedled it out of me, even though I’ve been dying to tell them. But this is the first time the four of us have been able to get together since that fateful afternoon. Fateful in more ways than one.
I stretch my arms above my head as if limbering up my muscles after the incident, even though it was days ago. “Well, let’s see. If memory serves, I’m pretty sure I spent the other day climbing my business partner’s leg until I came.”
I don’t mention that we found a stack of love letters afterward. Something about that still feels a little bit private. Well, the leg humping ought to feel private too, but the letters feel more private somehow.
Remy’s eyes pop. “Wait, did you do a full-on leg rub, a bump and grind, or a straddle and ride him into the sunset?”
Skylar whips her gaze to Remy. “That’s very specific. Do you cover styles of grinds on How We Met?”
That’s her podcast, which she started for fun, inviting viewers to share stories of how they met their love.
“No,” she says, faux offended. “But I’m still an expert in all these things.”
“Of course you are, hun,” Trevyn says.
“And there are many varieties of dry humping. It’s important to know which one it was.
” Remy counts on her fingers. “First, there’s the straddle and grind down.
I like to call it The High School Lap Dance.
Number two is when he lifts you up against the wall and you simulate wall sex.
That’s The Wallbanger. The third is when you rub up against him like a dog, AKA The Dirty Dog.
And number four, he sticks his leg out and offers it to you like a fucking filthy gentleman and you ride it.
” With a pop of her lipsticked mouth, she adds, “I like to call that The Filthy Gentleman.”
We all bow down to the expert among us.
“All hail the queen,” Skylar says.
Remy waves off the adulation. “Thank you, thank you. But your supplication is unnecessary. The truth is necessary.” She turns to me and, with a pointed look, asks, “Which one was it, our little horndog?”
A tingle rushes down my spine as I recall every stomach-swooping detail. Primly, I lift my chin. “He was a very filthy gentleman.”
Trevyn emits a low, appreciative whistle while Skylar squeals. Remy gives me an approving look.
“No wonder you can’t focus on pickleball,” Skylar says.
“Your head is replaying that whole move, isn’t it?” Remy asks with an arch of a brow.
“You’d all do the same,” I counter saucily before I remember to tamp down my enthusiasm. As I grab a ball from a bucket on the side of the court, I put on a serious face. “But the thing is, it’s not going to happen again. It just can’t.”
The mood shifts instantly.
“Because you’re business partners,” Skylar says with a sad smile.
“But not because your brother’s a protective caveman,” Remy clarifies. “Though he is.”
“A hot caveman,” Trevyn points out.