Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
MEYER
I am officially late.
On Monday mornings, the doors to the restaurant stay shuttered until eleven. Not only does this give the staff ample time to unload and put away the weekly food delivery, but it also creates a window for all the staff, not just those that work in the restaurant, to gather for meetings.
It’s not unheard of for me to bring baked treats to these meetings—usually from some new recipe I wanted to try out, or when I feel particularly stressed—so when I woke up at four and couldn’t get back to sleep, I decided this particular Monday called for blueberry muffins.
As I gathered the ingredients in the small kitchen of my cottage, moonlight bleeding in through the window above the sink, my eyes kept catching on the stack of papers sitting on the island.
The cause of my fitful rest is not something that would require a professional to deduce. The presence of those papers—the ones the lawyer had personally delivered the evening before, with another grating remark about how young I am—signify that my life is about to significantly change.
All that’s left is two signatures—mine and Jackson’s.
Driven to distraction by my worries, I didn’t notice that Fish had hopped up onto the counter. In typical Fish fashion, my cat couldn’t care less that he’s not allowed up there. In fact, I’m certain he does it for the attention. But when I didn’t scold him right away, he took to rubbing up against the big bag of flour that still sat open.
That was how I wound up cleaning the infernal white powder off of almost every surface in my kitchen.
By the time my mess was clean and the muffins were cooling, I was running late, though a punctual arrival was still salvageable. Until I saw myself in the bathroom mirror and realized the kitchen wasn’t the only thing affected by Fish’s troublemaking.
I jumped in the shower when it was still freezing cold, the cottage’s water heater not as quick to heat as it used to be. From there, things only got worse. When I lathered my hair, I got shampoo in my eye. Then I realized my legs needed to be shaved, and in the process, I nicked myself—not once, but twice.
And the cherry on top of my saga of bad luck: the shower mat decided to come loose as I was stepping out of the tub, causing me to perform a haphazard version of the splits while I caught myself on the shower curtain.
So not only am I officially late to work, but my hair is still damp, wetting my shirt, and my shin is starting to bruise from my near-slip, causing my fast walk across the gravel path to look more like a hobble.
As I near the entrance to the restaurant, I force a steadying breath.
My mom introduced me to baking when I was a kid. It had been a favourite pastime of hers, something she did with her own mother, and she wanted to share that with me. I’ve never been one to get caught up in the particulars of life, but the precision of baking has always fascinated me. One wrong move, one mismeasurement, and your whole recipe is ruined.
I once tried to bake a cake for Mom’s birthday. It was the first time I had endeavoured to make something on my own. Instead of arriving home from work to the sight of a perfectly iced birthday cake, she found me crying over the collapsed blob I had somehow created. Turns out, I had added too much of one ingredient and not enough of another.
Sometimes, I feel like that cake. Or, more accurately, I fear turning into that cake. As if I’ll make one wrong decision and my life will deflate around me like a recipe gone wrong.
Baking—the careful control I have over the measurements—grounds me. It also doesn’t hurt that everyone in town heaps on the praise whenever they get a taste of one of my desserts. Even the owner of the local bakery has joked that she’s glad I have the inn to keep me busy or else I’d run her out of business.
Even though this day has started out as a colossal disaster—and all too soon, I’ll be faced with Jackson yet again, who has aggravatingly stuck to his word and not left me alone the past few days—nothing will take the joy out of getting to share my muffins with my staff .
And honestly, I’m not above a little bribery.
During today’s staff meeting, Jackson and I are going to officially announce our new positions as co-owners of the inn. I’m certain everyone has already heard, but I don’t want to take that for granted. I trust my employees, and in return, I want them to trust me.
To say I’m a little worried about their reactions is an understatement. With my mother officially retiring, things have been a little up in the air, which is why I’ve tried to keep things around the inn from changing. I don’t want to scare them off.
Chatter greets me as I step into the restaurant, letting a small smile grace my lips. Then I ready myself to announce that I come bearing gifts when all of a sudden, I see?—
What the fuck?
Cookies. Giant cookies.
I’ve heard about the new shop that just opened in Calderville. Their claim to fame is giant cookies baked in a variety of flavours, including some that are filled inside. Pippa took Atticus there the other day after school and she said his eyes almost fell out of his head at the sight of the sweet treats.
The fact that a whole box of these cookies is being passed around to all the staff rankles me. It’s clear from his showboaty expression that Jackson was the one to bring them. Something a lot like inferiority slithers in my gut.
Who needs a stupid homemade muffin when you can have a stuffed cookie half the size of your face?
As everyone around me raves about the cookies, I silently ponder my next move. Do I barge in with my muffins anyway? Or do I dump them in the office and pretend they never existed? Neither option sounds appealing enough to get me to make my move.
Then Jackson turns from a conversation with Winona, spotting me immediately. He sidles up to me, and in his hands, a box half-full of those cookies stares back up at me.
“Want one?” he asks.
The offering, coupled with the amused tilt of his lips, is too much. Tears sting the backs of my eyes. No one is looking at me—no one but Jackson—so I turn abruptly on my heel, decision made for a hasty escape.
I truly thought my horrible morning couldn’t get any worse. I thought all my bad luck was spent. How foolish.
Maybe it’s childish, running off. They’re just cookies, Meyer, get it together . But I need to leave before I say something I’ll regret. Sharp, bitter words lace my tongue.
A hand catches my elbow as I reach the lip of the corridor. Shaking Jackson off, I make a beeline for the office. He’s still hot on my heels, so I don’t even bother attempting to close the door behind me.
Though I would love nothing more than to slam it in his face.
The tray of muffins clatters to the desk. My back to Jackson, I brace myself against the sturdy piece of furniture. I bite my lip, hard, as I blink furiously to will away the unwanted tears.
“Are you okay?”
He’s a lot closer than I want him to be. He hasn’t touched me again, but I can feel his presence hovering just over my shoulder. Watching. Analyzing.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine,” I say. With one final hard blink, I turn around. Jackson’s honey eyes roam over me. I ignore this, searching through the purse on my shoulder until I find the stack of papers. Those goddamn papers. I wish I could set them on fire. “Mr. Montaigne dropped these off last night.”
He doesn’t ask what they are. He knows. He knew . He knew about Cherie’s hand in all this. Maybe not always, but he certainly knew before me, and that leaves me feeling at a disadvantage. Yet again.
Jackson barely grasps the pages before I retract my hand, like he’s a live wire and I’m in danger of electrocution. I watch as he scribbles an initial here and there. Then my intake of breath is sharp when he signs the last page.
He offers me the pen, and fuck , it’s like he’s holding out that stupid box of cookies all over again.
What’s worse is that in his gaze is the absolute last thing I want to see. Understanding.
“We can wait,” he says. “We don’t have to do this right now.”
Well, he can try, but Jackson Vaughan doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t understand me at all.
I pluck the pen from his fingers. Quickly, so I don’t think on it too hard, I flip through the pages, initialing and signing. Then I drop the pen.
“There.” I shove the papers toward him.
“I’ll get them to the lawyer after the meeting.”
I nod stiffly. “Fine.”
His gaze is still probing. “Ready to head back?” he asks.
I nod again, making my way out the door. I hear Jackson follow me out, but I don’t slow my pace. When we enter the restaurant, all eyes turn to us.
“That cookie was bloody delicious,” Marsaili, one of the housekeepers, says. Her Scottish lilt has never fully gone away, even though she’s lived in Canada for over thirty years. “Between that and my breakfast, I’ve got no room left.”
“I hope you have a bit of room,” Jackson says, “or else I’ll have to keep all of Ms. Ellison’s muffins for myself.”
Turning to him, I find he’s holding the muffin tray I purposefully left on the desk.
Marsaili perks up. “Blueberry?” she asks me.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. I know it’s a fan favourite.”
“Give ‘er here, lad. Perhaps I’ll just have a wee taste.”
Her wee taste turns into her devouring the whole thing. Everyone else follows suit, and as I watch the baked goods quickly disappear, I’m reminded that I do have people in my corner.
Jackson passes the tray around and eventually takes his own.
His intention is clear, and begrudgingly, I appreciate him a little for it. Even feel a bit sorry for intending to bribe the staff. Then I remember that he did the same thing and the guilt melts away.
Well played, Vaughan .
When everyone seems to be satisfied, well on their way to a sugar high from the sweet treats, I settle into my place at the front of the room. Jackson stands beside me.
From the crowd, Pippa’s eyes find mine. She mouths, Everything okay?
I offer her a small nod. I had my moment of weakness, of breaking down, but now I’m here to do what I have to do. And that is surviving the next six months.
“Alright,” I say, and the group of employees grows quiet. “I have an announcement to make. I’m sure most of you have probably already heard, but I wanted to do this anyway.”
I take a deep breath as I let my gaze settle over my employees. Some of them are newer, but a lot of them, I grew up following around as they worked. They were loyal to my mother, and I hope they’ll remain loyal to me.
“I’d like to formally introduce you all to Jackson Vaughan, my…business partner,” I continue. “His grandmother, Cherie Cheval, was a silent partner when my mother ran Dog Days. Jackson has inherited her half of the business, and I have taken over my mother’s.”
My spine stiffens when I hear someone mutter under their breath, “And now we’re all doomed.”
Doomed .
I struggle to find words. I can feel Jackson looking at me, wondering why I stopped, but I can’t speak. He quickly takes a step forward, addressing the group in that smooth voice of his.
And I try to be present, to smile at the right moments, but all the while I keep wondering when my cake is going to deflate.