Chapter 1
Present day
“Fucking flu,” Karl muttered as he carved up the turkey breast he’d roasted for that day’s sandwiches. “What kind of shitty-ass
flu spreads in early September?”
His doctor had done the test to confirm it. Influenza goddamn A.
Even with the antiviral meds, it’d kicked his butt for an entire week, and he’d been forced to close Grounds and Grains for
the first time ever during normal business hours. He’d still paid his staff but brought in zero income, so it was a major
hit to his bottom line. And he might be feeling way better now, but he had a crap ton of catching up to do.
This Friday was going to blow.
Bez—who was currently out front, slinging coffees and lattes and patiently telling customers to hold their goddamn horses
until lunchtime for food, only with less swearing—had been nagging him to get an assistant baker for years, and she was right.
He could afford one, and an assistant baker would’ve filled in for him. Would allow him to take more time off even when he
was feeling fine. But that would mean the presence of someone else in the back room with him for hours at a time, so nope.
In general, owning his own business was a hassle. But it did mean he could be a misanthropic asshole in blessed fucking solitude,
and that made up for a lot.
The cowbell attached to the entrance door jingled again, and the identity of the new arrival became clear immediately.
“Where is everyone? Why aren’t there pastries?” a high, quavering voice demanded to know. “Why was the shop closed all week?”
Sylvia Plude. Eighty if she was a damn day, her ebony-skinned face wrinkled like crumpled parchment. Still the only reporter
for their town’s tiny-ass weekly newspaper, the Harlot’s Herald. Relentless in search of a good story. And now a true crime fan, due to Athena—Matthew’s pain-in-the-ass wife; also Karl’s
former employee and current friend—who’d recommended the grisly books to Sylvia. Which meant Sylvia had become even more suspicious of any oddities she noticed and even more of a snoop. Which was saying something.
With a glance, he checked the swinging door to the front. Cracked open two inches at most. No way to see him back there. No
risk of her cornering and haranguing him instead of his employee.
Bet Bez was wishing she hadn’t sent Charlotte off on a break only five minutes ago. By the time Charlotte returned from her
morning walk, Sylvia would’ve been grilling Bez for almost a half hour. And since the week’s story deadline was closing in,
the older woman wouldn’t relent until she had something to report about for tomorrow’s paper.
A better man would rescue his morning clerk.
A real shame for Bez that Karl was her boss instead.
Silently whistling, he wrapped up the last sandwich in waxed paper, labeled it with a sell-by date and stored it alongside the others in the refrigerator, put his cutting board in the sink, removed his gloves, and washed his hands as he listened to Sylvia interrogating his employee at top volume—woman needed a hearing aid, not that she’d ever admit it—over the sounds of soft jazz.
“—sick, but he’s feeling better now,” Bez was explaining. “We’ll be back to normal hours next week. And in just an hour or
so, we’ll have some of our usual lunchtime—”
“If he was feeling better, he’d be here,” Sylvia declared. “And if he were here, there would be pastries. And muffins. And
some of those little cookies with autumn leaves piped on them, which I’d intended to bring to bingo on Sunday, but I can’t,
because he’s not here, which means he’s not better.”
“But he is, Sylvia. In fact, right now—”
Karl paused. She’d better fucking not.
As if she’d sensed his glare through the wall, Bez cut herself off. Her sigh was audible. “Would you like your usual?”
Every week, right before Sylvia’s deadline, she ordered—
“A large hazelnut latte.” The sound of drumming fingers against glass. “Soy milk this time, Bez. My youngest grandson’s riding
my ass about my cholesterol again.”
And that was why he put up with Sylvia’s nosiness, even on the rare occasions when she caught him out in the open. There was
no pretense to the elderly woman. No surface politeness masking something entirely different. Her bluntness was kinda refreshing.
The familiar sounds of a latte-to-be drifted to his ears, and he began working on the dough for Sylvia’s leaf cookies, because
he was a sap.
Another jangle of the cowbell. “Hey, Bez! Hi, Sylvia!”
Athena. Fuck. His. Life.
He liked her, yeah, but the woman was chatty as hell, irritatingly interesting, and a major distraction during her frequent visits. Between her and Sylvia, he wasn’t leaving this kitchen for anything. Not even if it started raining dollar bills outside. He had work to do, goddammit.
Thank Christ the rest of his equally chatty, way-too-big family was driving across the continent and visiting fifteen billion
national parks. Dealing with their nightly calls was a damn hassle, but at least they hadn’t been able to descend on him for
nursing purposes.
They’d invited him on the trip, obviously. He’d told them he couldn’t spare that much time away from the bakery. Wasn’t retired,
like his parents. Couldn’t work remotely, like his siblings. The honest truth. But his family also couldn’t have paid him
enough to ride in their cramped fucking rental RV for two entire goddamn months, much less wear the custom-designed “Dean
Clan Trip of a Lifetime!” tee with the huge smiley face on it.
His youngest sister, Emily, swore they hadn’t put it there to taunt him, but he knew better. His family was a bunch of smartasses,
through and through.
Shaking his head, he bent back over the cookie dough.
After a couple minutes of conversation with his clerk about random shit, Athena got to the point. “What’s going on, Bez? The
bakery’s been closed for days, and Karl hasn’t answered my texts all week. And yeah, Special K is a crusty, homicidal hermit,
so his unresponsiveness isn’t exactly an unprecedented occurrence, but the shop being closed is. Is he okay?”
Torn between irritation and reluctant warmth, Karl shook his head.
He hated that nickname. Had made the mistake of telling her so. Now he couldn’t escape it. Even the other women in that bizarro
Nasty Wenches book club had started calling him Special K, despite his most fulminating glares in response.
Still, he should’ve checked his texts. It was sweet of her to check on him, and she might be a major pain in his ass, but she was a good friend too and a good partner for Matthew. Karl hadn’t heard that solemn bastard laugh so much in . . . ever. Never seen him so loose and happy.
“Well, if you really want to know . . .” Bez’s voice turned low and conspiratorial, and Karl cranked down the music a notch
to hear more clearly. If she gave away his presence in the back room—“Karl’s archenemy finally caught up with him, Athena.”
Fine. She could spout all the bullshit she wanted, as long as she let him do his job undisturbed. Not like Athena would believe
her anyway. That too-serious tone was a dead giveaway that Bez was joking.
Athena fake-gasped. “Was he camping?”
As if he’d ever go camping. A bear might shit in the woods, but Karl? Nope.
“You know it,” Bez confirmed.
“So he was attacked in the desolate, unsanitary wilderness before he had a chance to strike his fatal blow against his nemesis?”
Silence. Karl imagined his clerk nodding in fake solemnity, her teal-tipped ponytail bouncing.
“Heavens to Betsy. Such tragedy,” Athena said after a few moments, her words hushed and heavy with exaggerated horror. “Are
you certain there’s no way to save him?”
“It’s too late.” Bez heaved a dramatic sigh. “I hate to tell you this, but . . . he’s already part of this afternoon’s featured
daily muffin. The lumps aren’t just dried cherries this time. They’re dried cherries and Karl.”
Athena paused. “Are you saying today’s muffin flavor is Special K . . . with red berries?”
At that, the two women began snickering. Glass clicked against the marble counter out front.
“Hey, Sylvia, your—” The bell jangled, and Bez cut herself off. “Where is that woman going without her latte?”
Athena sounded unconcerned. “Maybe she saw someone she wanted to talk to. I’m sure she’ll be back. Anyway, in all seriousness,
Bez, is Karl all right?”
“He’s been sick with the flu, but he’s doing better. He’s even been working in the back this morning, although he, uh . . .”
Bez thought for a moment. “He must have stepped out just before you arrived.”
“Sure he did.” Athena raised her voice to a shout. “I know you’re back there, Special K! If you don’t want to talk to me,
fine, but answer Matthew’s texts! He’s worried about you! And fair warning: Once you’re back to a hundred percent, there’ll
be no escaping me and my Endless Chatter of Doom!”
His lips twitched.
“Hag,” he called in the direction of the door.
“Curmudgeon!”
Another jangle of the bell and she was gone too, leaving him to his thoughts. Thank Christ. As he cranked on the industrial
stand mixer to cream the butter and sugar, he considered the audiobook he’d begun playing before the shop opened that day.
A new release by Sadie Brazen: My Kangaroo, My Kidnapper: A Dark Shifter Romance. Which was an inexplicable title, since the main woman in the story, Riley, had gotten kidnapped in the sunshine in fucking
Australia, so how dark could it be?
Molly had been in rare form, though, before he’d reluctantly switched over to jazz that morning. Breathless and convincingly terrified—with just the slightest hint of horny—as the kickboxer-kangaroo asshole shoved Riley in his pouch and hopped off.
Molly’s Australian accent was spot-on too. No surprise there. But was that marsupial motherfucker meant to be the hero? Because . . .
no. Hell, no. Didn’t matter what special features the prick’s prick had. Dude was into abduction.
That Sadie Brazen had a wild goddamn imagination.