The Icing on the Cake (Love in Maple Falls #7)

1. Neesha

NEESHA

“ A re you absolutely sure you can handle the bookstore cafe alone today?” Emmy asks over the phone, her voice laced with guilt. “I feel terrible about missing work for another wedding appointment.”

“Well, I haven’t thought about slashing my ex’s tires this week, so I’m calling that progress,” I reply, turning onto Walnut Street. “I think I can manage a few coffee orders.”

“Better than last week, when you wanted to put confetti in his car vents so he’d get sprayed with pink sparkles. I just want to make sure you’ll be okay if Brittany comes into the store.”

“I’ll be fine. Brittany can have Nate if she wants him.” Discovering that Nate Simpson, my ex-boyfriend and Ice Breakers hockey star, had been cheating on me wasn’t just heartbreaking. It was humiliating.

“Besides, something feels different today. I can smell something new in the air.”

“Are you sure it’s not just the composting leaves?” Emmy asks skeptically.

I grin to myself. “Possibly, or just my delusional dreams camouflaged as pumpkin spice. Either way, I’ll be totally fine this morning while you finish your wedding preparations. ”

She and Dawson have been in Seattle for the past week, shopping for their wedding while he practices with his hockey team, the Seattle Wolves.

“I’ll be there in an hour or two. You’ll call me if anything bad happens, right?” she presses, a trace of worry in her tone.

No way.

“Of course,” I reassure her. Unless the bookshop burns down, Emmy won’t be hearing from me. Because if I can’t handle things on my own in Maple Falls, how will I open a bakery in Seattle where I don’t know a soul?

“Okay, good,” Emmy exhales in relief.

“Now enjoy one last morning off. And forget Falling for Books, for once.”

I hang up, feeling more positive than I have in months.

Fall is one of our busiest seasons at the bookshop cafe, which means if I can get enough tips, I’ll be even closer to opening my own bakery in a place that doesn’t hold memories of Mom—somewhere I won’t feel her ghost when I walk through the door of a shop, or remember the sound of her laughter echoing off the walls.

But when I turn onto Main Street, my stomach drops at the line of people waiting outside the bookstore.

Five customers cluster by the locked door, checking their watches and peering through the windows.

Usually, I have plenty of time to prep the coffee before anyone shows up in the morning, but a line waiting before we even open… what is happening ?

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and remind myself that every customer represents a few more dollars toward my Seattle bakery fund. Even if I’m still stuck in a small town running a cafe that’s not mine.

“Good morning, everyone,” I call out, fumbling my keys. “Coffee will be ready in just a few minutes.”

Mrs. Nelson looks at her watch, then up at me with disapproval. “I have a meeting this morning, Neesha. And I’m running it. I can’t be late. ”

Mrs. Nelson is a retired English teacher who loves punctuality and proper grammar like other people love puppies and true crime podcasts.

I unlock the door and let customers file in before I weave through the bookshelves toward the back.

Falling for Books is the kind of cozy bookstore you can get lost in for hours—old, hardwood floors, books stuffed into every nook, and comfy reading chairs tucked into quiet corners.

In the very back of the store, wedged between the cozy mystery section and the kids’ corner, is my little domain: the Falling for Books Cafe.

It’s not actually mine—Emmy owns the bookstore and I just run the cafe section for her.

But she lets me keep all the tips, and I bought an espresso machine so I could take it with me when I eventually move to Seattle.

It’s the perfect arrangement: I build my baking skills and save money, while she gets fresh coffee and cupcakes to draw customers into the bookstore.

Though the truth is that baking isn’t just about business—it’s become my therapy, the only way I can still connect with Mom after losing her so suddenly.

Baking was something we did together every weekend—she’d teach me her secret techniques as we discussed our day.

And now it’s the only thing keeping me sane while I save every penny to get out of here and open my own bakery.

I flip the switch on the espresso machine, already mentally calculating how many lattes I need to make to keep everyone happy. The light flickers once, there’s a grinding sound, then nothing. The display plunges to black.

“Noooo,” I whisper.

Panic pulses in my stomach—the same helpless feeling I had when they took Mom back to the hospital with complications following a routine surgery.

Of course this machine would die on my busiest day of the year—the first day we offer our Maple Falls Pumpkin Spice Latte. Every lost sale is money I can’t afford to throw away.

“Neesha,” Mrs. Nelson calls. “We have a town emergency on our hands, and I’m meeting with the historical society to discuss how we can raise funds.”

“Coffee’s coming right up,” I say with a smile that feels as tight as my shoulders. I give the machine a thwack on the side. My charm bracelet, Mom’s last gift to me before her surgery, jangles against my wrist as the tiny cupcake charm catches the light.

The espresso machine doesn’t even blink this time. Instead, it just sits there, useless. The bell on the door jingles as customer number six strolls in. I don’t bother looking over as I brew the drip coffeemaker, but when I whirl around, the sight of a stranger yanks me to a stop.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark-blond hair tousled perfectly like he just rolled out of bed, but in that annoyingly attractive way that would take me forty-five minutes and three different hair products to achieve.

He wears a worn, flannel shirt that hugs his frame like it was custom-made for him.

The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing a tiny tattoo on an arm that looks like it could chop firewood before breakfast. His ice-blue eyes scan the bookshop before they finally land on me, and suddenly my brain crashes like my laptop when I have twenty-three tabs open while trying to download a new program.

He’s definitely not from around here. I’d remember a face like that. So what’s a guy like him doing in a town like this?

“Did you hear me, Neesha?” Mrs. Nelson repeats, pulling my attention back to her.

“What?” I blink once.

“Did you hear about the emergency town hall meeting last night?” She shoots me an impatient look.

I was too busy baking to attend the meeting, but I knew I’d hear the gossip in the cafe this morning.

“The town is in an uproar,” she continues, not waiting for my answer. “Apparently, there’s a man claiming he owns some land around Maple Falls, including the land under the hockey arena parking lot, and part of downtown, including Falling for Books. ”

I glance at Mary-Ellen, the town’s most notorious gossip, as she nods in agreement.

“I heard it’s some rich outsider named Alexander MacDonald who claims to be a long-lost heir to one of the early settlers in our town.

” She loves gossip almost as much as her homemade pumpkin pie.

“Says he’s going to bulldoze whatever’s on his land and develop it so he can make more money.

It’s what these developers always do—come in, destroy what makes a place special, then leave. ”

So that’s why Maple Falls is in full pitchfork mode this morning, spreading the town villain’s origin story.

“He won’t get far if we band together and stop him,” Mrs. Nelson huffs. “Maybe we can get a few hockey players to help us, since it’s threatening their arena.”

The stranger’s mouth quirks. He’s eavesdropping—and clearly entertained by our small-town drama.

Mrs. Nelson watches me with a frown. “How much longer until the coffee is ready?”

I paste on a weary smile. “I’ll have your latte ready just as soon as the machine starts working.”

I unplug it and try again. No hiss. No drip. Just dead silence.

This is bad. Six customers, one semi-functional brain, and zero espresso. There’s about to be an in-store riot over more than Alexander MacDonald, but this time, their pitchforks will be pointed at me.

I whirl around and channel every ounce of customer service enthusiasm I possess. “Okay, the espresso machine is being uncooperative. Free, brewed coffee and your choice of a cupcake—on the house!”

I hand out cups and consolation cupcakes, even though those treats represent hours of work and ingredients I paid for. At least no one’s mad at me now for keeping them from their caffeine addiction.

The bell jingles again, and in walks the last person I want to see this morning: Brittany Beeson, the girl who ran off with my hockey-player ex-boyfriend before I could break up with him .

Of course she’d stop in today, just as Emmy predicted. Because that’s how my life has been going lately—if the other shoe’s going to drop, it smacks me directly on my head.

“Where’s my drink?” Brittany demands, marching straight past the line of waiting customers to the counter. She waves her phone at me. “I ordered on the app twenty minutes ago. It should be ready.”

Brittany’s one of those customers who thinks mobile ordering means instant gratification.

She knows I’m the only one working in the cafe.

Looking at her perfect face reminds me why some people have a talent for making you feel invisible—like you’re not worth noticing, even when you’re standing right in front of them.

“Be there in a minute,” I say, whipping together her maple café au lait with regular coffee, maple syrup, and oat milk. My hands knock over an empty cup—from stress with the broken machine or barely controlled irritation, I’m not sure.

When I finally finish her drink, she takes a sip and crinkles her nose in disgust.

“This is not what I ordered.” She holds her drink away like it’s a disgrace to coffee.