Knead Love (Spice Spice Baby #6)

Chapter 1

Chloe

The never-ending snowflakes of the winter season hit my windshield like tiny frozen warnings.

I flick on the wipers, watching them smear across the glass in lazy arcs as I follow the winding road into Valentine, Montana.

The town appears gradually through the flurries— a scatter of brick storefronts, strings of white lights already hung for the holiday, and a massive wooden sign declaring, “Welcome to Valentine: Where Love is Always in Season.”

I snort. “Of course it is.”

My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I don’t need to look to know it’s probably my mother, texting for the third time today to ask if I’ve “really thought this through.” As if moving back to my hometown for a temporary nanny position is some kind of reckless life decision instead of exactly what it is: practical.

Strategic.

A way to stay afloat while I wait for my real life to start.

Real life? What does that really mean anyway?

The teaching position at Sunnyside Elementary isn’t available yet. Won’t be available until Mrs. Henderson retires at the end of the school year. I have six months to wait, and turning down a decent-paying nanny gig with room and board included would’ve been stupid.

Even if it means coming back to Valentine.

Even if it means living in someone else’s house, taking care of someone else’s children, putting my own life on pause.

Again.

I turn onto Main Street, my beat-up Honda Civic protesting the cold with a concerning rattle.

The town looks exactly like I remember. It’s quaint bordering on precious, the kind of place that shows up in Hallmark movies and small-town romance novels.

Heart-shaped benches on every corner. Cheesy, but effectively reiterating the town’s focus.

A fountain in the town square with actual cherubs.

Okay, I forgot about that. The local coffee shop called “Cupid’s Brew. ”

And now that I’ve been gone for a few years, I see it’s all a bit much.

Yes, I grew up here, spent eighteen years suffocating under Valentine’s well-meaning charm before escaping to college in Missoula. I built a life there. Made great friends. Started my teaching career as a substitute, working my way toward something permanent, something that was mine.

And then the funding cuts came, and the permanent positions dried up, and suddenly, I was twenty-seven years old with a teaching degree and no prospects, moving back in with my parents like some kind of failure.

Except I’m not moving back with my parents.

I made damn sure of that.

The Westerland house is on Sweethearts Lane —because of course it is— a tree-lined street on the north side of town. I slow as the house numbers climb, my stomach doing an uncomfortable flip that I refuse to acknowledge as nervousness.

It’s just a job.

A temporary job at that.

I’ve done harder things than taking care of two four-year-olds for six months.

The house appears on my left: a two-story craftsman with dark blue siding and white trim, a wide front porch, and flower boxes under every window that are currently empty except for a dusting of snow. It looks warm and lived-in. The kind of house that belongs in a children’s storybook.

I pull into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, I just sit there, watching the snow collect on my hood while doubt creeps up my spine like the crawl of frost on the inside of breezy windows in winter.

This is insane. I don’t know these people.

Don’t know anything about Jonah Westerland except what the ad said: Single father seeking live-in nanny for twin girls, age four.

Must be patient, reliable, and comfortable with very early mornings. Baker’s hours.

I looked him up, obviously. Found his bakery —Spice Spice Baby— owned and ran by several men from around the area.

There were a few photos from the Valentine Tribune, although it should be labeled “tabloid” with the amount of gossip included inside.

All issues showed him at various town events, always with two identical little girls clinging to his legs.

Dark hair, serious eyes, the kind of face that doesn’t smile much for cameras.

He seemed... fine. Normal. Not a serial killer, which is really all I’m looking for in an employer.

My phone buzzes again.

This time I look.

Mom: Please tell me you’re not doing this because of Derek.

My jaw tightens. I shove the phone into my coat pocket without answering and grab my duffel bag from the passenger seat.

Derek has nothing to do with this. The fact that my ex-boyfriend got engaged to someone else three months after our breakup is completely irrelevant.

The fact that he did it while I was still sleeping on my best friend’s couch, filling out job applications, is just coincidence… and a stab to the heart.

I’m not running away from my life.

I’m regrouping. Strategizing. Surviving. Not surrendering to the sadness.

The cold hits me the moment I step out of the car, sharp and bitter, cutting through my jacket like it isn’t even there. I grab my suitcase from the trunk and haul it up the porch steps, my breath coming out in fuzzy white puffs.

The front door has a wreath made of cinnamon sticks and dried oranges. It smells like Christmas and something else— vanilla, maybe, or a ton of butter. Something warm and sweet that makes my empty stomach growl.

When was the last time I ate?

I ring the doorbell.

Silence.

I wait, shifting my weight from foot to foot, my fingers already going numb. Ring again.

More silence.

“Great,” I mutter. I pull out my phone to check the time —4:47 PM, exactly when we agreed— and I’m about to call the number from the ad when I hear it.

A crash from inside the house. Then a child’s voice, high and panicked: “Daddy, Mia spilled the flour!”

Another voice, equally panicked: “Ava pushed me!”

“I did not!”

Then a man’s voice, low and strained: “Girls, please, I just need to —hold on—”

Another crash.

My finger hovers over the doorbell, but something stops me. Some instinct, or maybe just the memory of what chaos with small children actually sounds like.

I try the doorknob.

It turns.

The scene inside the Westerland house is not what I expected.

The entryway opens directly into a living room that might have been cozy once but is currently drowning in what appears to be the aftermath of a flour explosion.

Two identical little girls —both covered head to toe in white powder— stand in the middle of the room, pointing at each other accusingly.

A man kneels between them, flour in his dark hair, on his shirt, dusting his forearms like he’s been rolling in it.

He looks up when the door opens, and I get my first real look at Jonah Westerland.

Tired. That’s my first thought. He looks absolutely exhausted, dark circles under darker eyes, the kind of weariness that goes bone deep.

But there’s something else there too— something careful and controlled in the way he holds himself, like he’s carrying something heavy and can’t afford to drop it.

“I’m so sorry,” he says immediately, pushing to his feet. “I meant to —we were just— “ He gestures helplessly at the destruction around them. “You must be Chloe.”

“I must be,” I agree, setting down my suitcase.

One of the twins, I can’t tell them apart yet, tugs on Jonah’s flour-covered shirt. “Daddy, is she the new nanny? The one who’s gonna live with us?”

“Yes, Ava, she is, but we talked about this, remember? We need to make a good impression—”

“Mia started it,” Ava announces, pointing at her sister.

“Did not!” Mia shoots back.

I close the door behind me, shutting out the cold.

“Hi,” I say, directing my words at the twins. “Yes, I’m Chloe. And I don’t know about you, but where I come from, the person who makes the mess has to help clean it up.”

Both girls stop mid-argument, staring at me with identical expressions of surprise.

Jonah stares too, something shifting in his face, relief, maybe, or just gratitude that someone else is willing to be the adult in the room.

“So,” I continue, shrugging out of my jacket and hanging it on the coat rack by the door, “which one of you wants to show me where you keep the vacuum?”