Riptide (Sweet and Sawyer #2)

Chapter 1

The Sugar & Salt Bakery smelled like heaven at six-thirty in the morning.

Cara Sweet—she'd almost stopped flinching at the fake name—pulled the final tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven and set them on the cooling rack.

Three weeks since she and her new friends had helped Gabe Sawyer save his brother, David, and she'd finally settled into something that felt dangerously close to normal.

Dangerous being the operative word.

She arranged the rolls in the display case, then stepped back to survey her morning's work. Sourdough loaves, blueberry muffins, chocolate croissants, and her increasingly popular cardamom buns. Not bad for a former con artist who'd burned toast six months ago.

The bell above the door chimed.

Cara's pulse jumped—old instincts dying hard—but it was just Pearl Henderson, Haven Cove's self-appointed town crier and her most reliable early customer.

"Morning, Cara!" Pearl bustled in, trailing the scent of hairspray and determination. "Are those cardamom buns fresh?"

"Just finished the glaze."

"I'll take four. Book club's at my house tonight." Pearl leaned conspiratorially across the counter. "Between you and me, I'm bribing them. Nobody's finishing Moby Dick, and I refuse to discuss a book alone."

Cara boxed the buns, smiling. This was what she'd been missing her whole life—mundane conversations about book clubs and pastries. No cons. No angles. No calculating what someone wanted so she could use it against them later.

Just... normal.

"That'll be eight forty-seven."

Pearl handed over a ten. "Keep the change. You're a godsend, you know that? Ever since Margaret died, we've missed having a real bakery in town."

The words settled warm in Cara's chest as Pearl swept out. Three weeks ago, she'd helped save David Sawyer’s life. And now, people actually looked forward to her pastries. Maybe she wasn't just Carly Reid, convicted con artist and federal fugitive.

Maybe she could actually be Cara Sweet, baker and part-time investigator.

The thought lasted exactly thirty seconds before the fear crept back in.

Because Gabriel Sawyer was Haven Cove's new Police Chief.

Former FBI Counterintelligence. Currently the man who stopped by her bakery every morning for coffee and made her heart do complicated things she absolutely couldn't afford. The man whose background check capabilities could destroy her life in approximately three minutes.

The man she was maybe, possibly, definitely falling for.

Which was a problem.

Several problems, actually. Starting with the federal fugitive thing and ending with the lying-about-her-entire-identity thing.

The bell chimed again.

Cara's hands stilled on the coffee pot.

Gabe filled the doorway, tall and solid in his new Haven Cove PD uniform, dark hair slightly disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it. Which meant he'd already dealt with something irritating this morning. Probably Harold Bianchi's chickens getting loose again.

"Morning." His voice carried that low warmth that did unfortunate things to her pulse. "Please tell me you have coffee ready."

"When have I not had coffee ready?"

"Fair point." He crossed to the counter, and she poured him a large black coffee before he could ask. Three weeks of this routine, and she'd memorized how he took it. Which was definitely not dangerous at all.

Their fingers brushed as she handed him the cup.

She pulled back too quickly.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. Former FBI agents noticed everything.

"Early morning?" she asked, aiming for casual.

"Harold's chickens."

"Called it."

"In your head or out loud?"

"In my head. I'm not that predictable."

His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You're really not."

The words hung between them, heavier than they should be. Because she wasn't predictable. She was a complete mystery to him. And that mystery was the only thing keeping her safe.

And keeping them apart.

"Cinnamon roll?" she offered, deflecting.

"Always."

She plated one, still warm, and slid it across the counter. He took a bite and made a sound of appreciation that should probably be illegal.

"I don't know how you do it." He shook his head. "Six months ago, you'd never baked professionally. Now you're the best baker in three counties."

Because she'd spent twenty-three months in federal prison with plenty of time to learn new skills. Because Dom Adler had sent her here with nothing but a fake identity and the desperate need to disappear. Because becoming Cara Sweet meant mastering everything Cara Sweet should know.

"YouTube videos," she said lightly. "Lots of trial and error."

"Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it." He checked his watch. "I've got a city council meeting at eight. Wish me luck."

"You'll be fine. Just remember—Bart Steadman gets loud, but he's harmless."

"I'm more worried about Marjorie Pritchard and her opinions on stop sign placement."

"Oh, you're doomed."

His laugh was warm and genuine, and for a moment, everything felt easy. Natural. Like they could actually have this—morning coffee, comfortable teasing, something building between them.

Then his radio crackled with dispatch traffic, and reality crashed back.

He was a cop. She was a fugitive.

This couldn't happen.

"I should go." He drained his coffee, setting the cup down with what looked like reluctance. "Thanks for this."

"Anytime."

He lingered at the door, hand on the frame, like he wanted to say something else.

She held her breath.

"Cara—"

The bell chimed as someone else entered, and the moment shattered.

Gabe nodded, professional mask sliding back into place, and left.

Cara released her breath slowly, then turned to her new customer with her best bakery-owner smile.

He left, and Cara released her breath slowly, then turned to her new customer with her best bakery-owner smile.

The woman was young—early thirties, maybe—and looked like she'd walked out of a lifestyle blog.

Perfectly highlighted blonde hair in beach waves, designer athleisure that probably cost more than Cara's entire wardrobe, and that carefully curated glow that said either exceptional skincare or excellent filters.

She held her phone up, angling it around the bakery like she was documenting everything for social media.

"Wow, this place is adorable." Her voice was bright, enthusiastic, with that particular cadence of someone who lived online. "Like, seriously, the vibes are immaculate. Very coastal grandma meets artisan bakery. I love it."

Something in Cara's gut twisted, a feeling she’d learned never to ignore, even if she couldn’t explain it.

The woman lowered her phone, smiled wide. Too wide. Like someone performing happiness rather than feeling it.

"Can I help you?" Cara kept her voice pleasant, but her con artist instincts were screaming. This woman didn't belong here. Wasn't local. Wasn't a normal tourist.

Was most definitely performing.

"For sure! I need, like, all your best stuff. What's good?" She pressed perfectly manicured hands against the display case, genuine delight crossing her face. "These cinnamon rolls look amazing. Are they locally sourced? Organic? I'm trying to be really intentional about what I consume, you know?"

"They're made fresh this morning. Local flour, butter from Oregon dairies. Grass-fed, of course."

"Perfect. I'll take two. And—oh, are those cardamom buns? So retro. I LOVE the aesthetic. I'll take three of those too." She pulled out her phone again, snapped photos of the display. "Do you mind if I post these? I have like sixty thousand followers who are obsessed with hidden gem bakeries."

"That's fine." Cara boxed the pastries, hands steady despite the warning bells.

The woman paid—designer wallet, American Express Black Card that she somehow made look casual—and accepted her bag with another brilliant smile.

"I'm Blaire, by the way. Blaire Mitchell." She extended her hand across the counter.

Cara shook it. The woman's grip was firm, confident. "Cara Sweet."

"Sweet! That's perfect for a bakery owner.

Is that your real name or like, a branding thing?

Because if it's branding, it's genius." Blaire laughed, bright and empty.

"I'm actually in town doing some research.

I'm a freelance journalist—well, content creator, really, but I do longer form pieces sometimes—and I'm working on this whole thing about generational businesses in small coastal towns.

You know, the whole vibe of legacy and community and keeping traditions alive. "

The explanation came out smooth, practiced, like she'd rehearsed it.

"That sounds interesting," Cara said carefully.

"Right? So authentic. So real." Blaire leaned against the counter, all casual friendliness.

"And this bakery is perfect for it. I did some preliminary research, and I saw that you inherited it?

From your great-aunt Margaret? That's such a beautiful story.

The grandniece keeping the family business alive. "

Cara froze. She'd never told anyone except lawyers and bankers the exact relationship. The documents said grandniece. Blaire shouldn't know that unless she'd been digging.

Deep.

Blaire's smile never wavered, but something flickered in her eyes. Something cold. "Margaret Sweet owned this place for, what, forty years? Super impressive. She must have been an amazing woman."

"She was." The lie tasted like ash.

"I'd love to interview you about her sometime.

Get the whole story, you know? What it was like inheriting this legacy, stepping into her shoes, carrying on her traditions.

" Blaire pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen.

"Can I get your number? We could grab coffee, chat about Margaret, really dive into the whole beautiful narrative of family and place. "

Every instinct Cara had screamed no.

"I'm pretty busy with the bakery. Maybe email instead?"

"Oh, totally, I get it. Small business life is crazy." Blaire pulled a business card from her designer bag, slid it across the counter. Minimalist design, just her name and a phone number. No company. No social media handles. Nothing that could be verified.

Red flag after red flag.

"But here's the thing." Blaire's voice dropped, lost all its bubbly enthusiasm.

The shift was jarring, like watching a mask slip.

"I actually knew Margaret. Not well, but my mom and Margaret were friends back in the day.

Portland area, early seventies. They lost touch, but Mom talked about her sometimes. "

Cara's blood turned to ice.

"That's nice," she managed.

"Yeah. Super nice." Blaire's smile was still bright, but her eyes were calculating. Sharp. "Funny thing, though. Mom always said Margaret never had kids. Neither did her only sister. So, like no next generation. She was really sad about it, actually."

The words landed like physical blows.

"But here you are." Blaire tilted her head, studying Cara like a specimen. "The grandniece nobody knew existed. Inheriting everything. Living the dream in this adorable coastal town."

Cara couldn't breathe. Dom Adler, Cara’s NYPD handler, and guardian angel…and Margaret Sweet’s real nephew and heir, had told her erasing Margaret’s lineage would be the best way to make Cara less traceable.

How wrong he had been.

Blaire picked up her pastry bag, smile back to full wattage. "Anyway, think about that interview! I'd love to hear all about how you and Margaret reconnected. Must be such a special story." She headed for the door, then paused, looked back. "Oh, and Cara? Love the name. Very convincing."

The bell chimed cheerfully as she left.

Cara stood frozen behind the counter, staring at the business card.

Blaire Mitchell.

The name felt as fake as Cara Sweet.

Less than a minute later, her phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Great meeting you! Let's chat soon. Let me check my schedule and I’ll tell you when. Don’t even think about ghosting me, or I start asking questions. Starting with that VERY handsome police chief. Former FBI, right? I bet he's great at background checks. –B

Cara stared at the text, her carefully constructed life crumbling around her.

Outside, Haven Cove looked exactly the same. Morning sun glinting off the ocean. Fishing boats heading out. Pearl Henderson probably already gossiping about book club at the post office.

But for Cara, everything had just changed.

The fear she'd been living with—the constant low-level terror that someone would discover the truth—had just walked into her bakery wearing designer athleisure and a perfect smile.

She should run. Pack a bag, drain her small savings, disappear again.

But three weeks ago, she'd helped save a man's life. She'd found a team. A purpose. Something that felt like family for the first time in her adult life.

And Gabe.

Gabe, who looked at her like she might be worth something. Who made her want things she couldn't have. Who made her want to be the person she was pretending to be.

She couldn't leave.

But she couldn't tell anyone either.

Because the moment she did, they'd ask questions. They'd want details. They'd investigate.

And her new team had a rule: Don't dig into each other's pasts.

If she broke that rule, what else would unravel?

Cara’s fingers shook so hard she could barely get the card into her pocket.

She'd built a life here on borrowed time and lies.

Now someone was calling in the debt.

Someone who looked like an Instagram influencer but moved like a predator.

Someone exactly like Cara used to be.