24. Neesha
NEESHA
B y ten thirty, I’m a wreck. I’ve changed my apron twice, rearranged the display case three times, and scrubbed the counter in the cafe until it’s gleaming.
“Stop fidgeting,” Emmy says, straightening a stack of books. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”
“Why didn’t you warn me about this? Why didn’t anyone?” I ask, wiping down the already spotless sink. “I would’ve made five kinds of cupcakes.” I stop and tilt my head, reconsidering. “No, seven. Definitely seven.”
Emmy gives me a pointed look. “ This is why. Because you would have overthought it and probably made yourself sick baking all night and then backed out at the last minute. Besides, your cupcakes speak for themselves. You have no reason to worry.”
The bell over the door jingles, and we both look up at the same time. It’s just Mary-Ellen, bustling into the shop, her eyes darting around the room. “Is she here yet?”
“Is who here?” I shoot Emmy a look. “Please don’t tell me the book club knows about this food critic.”
Emmy ducks behind a bookshelf, avoiding me. Mary-Ellen scuttles over, her innocent expression not convincing in the slightest. “I may have mentioned it to a few people this morning. You know, everyone at town hall, the diner, and the post office.”
“Great,” I mutter. “ No pressure at all .”
The bell jingles again, and this time it’s Lucian.
Relief rushes over me. Because if there’s anyone I want here, it’s him.
My heart does its usual somersault at the sight of him, which is annoying, given our current complicated situation.
I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet about what he said last night.
But I’m certainly not going to now with Mary-Ellen around.
“Hey,” he says gently, his eyes gauging my reaction.
“Hey,” I reply.
Emmy and Mary-Ellen exchange knowing glances.
“I forgot, I need to clean up the back room!” Emmy says suddenly as she hurries toward the storage room.
“I’ll be over here…looking for a mystery book.” Mary-Ellen beelines toward the wrong side of the store and I don’t bother correcting her, since I know she’ll be eavesdropping anyway.
Lucian strides over, stopping on the other side of the counter. “How are you?”
“As terrified as one can be when they find out a food critic is coming to taste their cupcakes,” I admit. “Thanks to Mimi.”
He doesn’t look surprised, just pleased. “You’re ready for this.”
I frown. “Wait. You knew too?”
“She texted me this morning. You know Mimi Roberts—town matchmaker and secret agent extraordinaire.”
Before I can ask more questions, the bell jingles again, and a stream of townspeople enter.
Asher and Mabel burst through first, carrying what appears to be a “TEAM NEESHA” banner made from a large sheet and a Sharpie pen. “We’re here for the cupcake party!” Asher announces to the entire store.
“It’s not a party,” Lucian says under his breath.
Behind Asher comes Clément, wearing an actual beret, with Marcy in tow. “Bonjour! I am here to provide ze ambiance! Sorry I couldn’t find an accordion.”
“What is he talking about?” I whisper to Lucian.
“I specifically told him no accordion,” he mutters under his breath.
Weston enters with Fiona, who’s carrying balloons and flowers. “We thought we should decorate before the food critic shows up,” Fiona says, beaming.
“Surprise!” Bailey squeals with Carson, both of them carrying homemade signs with my name on them. “I figure if the hockey guys get signs, then why not our favorite baker?” Bailey explains.
Carson tips his hat. “Don’t worry, darlin’, we kept it real classy. No line dancing. Yet.”
“ Yet ?” I repeat.
Cade enters with Clara, who immediately starts filming the crowd on her phone. “This is going to be amazing for our social media,” she announces. “Very authentic, small-town vibes.”
Mrs. Nelson has somehow managed to gather what looks like the book club and the historical society in the span of two hours. They spread out across the store, chatting with all the players and their girlfriends.
The final blow comes when Jamie enters with Ashlyn, who’s carrying what appears to be an official envelope from the mayor’s office.
“My father sends his regards,” Ashlyn announces when she arrives, then pulls out the letter from the envelope. “And this is the official declaration of Neesha Gilmore Appreciation Day!”
“That’s not a real thing,” I say, shaking my head.
“It is now!” Jamie says.
“This is actually real?” I whisper, then look around at everyone. “Thank you, but I don’t understand. I just make cupcakes!”
“You don’t just make cupcakes, Neesha,” Ashlyn says. “You’re part of every celebration in town because your cupcakes are there. That’s why we wanted to celebrate you. ”
I turn to Lucian, who is looking proudly at me. “I may have underestimated their enthusiasm,” he admits. “Apparently ‘subtle support’ translates to ‘full-scale emergency intervention.’”
In the midst of the chaos, I don’t even hear the bell on the door or notice the woman who enters until it’s too late.
Tall, stylishly dressed, with angular glasses and an air of confidence, the food critic stands in the doorway, taking in what can only be described as the world’s most chaotic cupcake party—and she’s walked right into the middle of it.
“I’m looking for Neesha Gilmore,” she announces, approaching the counter with a warm smile, despite the chaos.
“That’s me,” I say, wiping my suddenly damp palms on my apron.
“Vivian Johns.” She extends her hand. “Food and culture correspondent for Northwest Food Magazine .”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, shaking her hand. “Can I offer you a coffee? A cupcake?”
“Both, please,” she says. “I’ve heard quite a bit about your baking.”
“Really? I hope I can live up to the praise.” I throw a quick glance at Lucian, who mouths, “You’ve got this,” before retreating to a table in the corner with the other guys. Remarkably, everyone in the room gives us space.
As I prepare Vivian’s coffee, she studies the display case. “Tell me about your specialties,” she says.
My mind scrambles for an answer as I focus on making the best cup of coffee of my life. At least this time my espresso machine doesn’t die.
“Seasonal flavors are my focus,” I explain. “Right now, I’m featuring maple pecan with caramel, using local maple syrup from the Sweet Memories Maple Company”—I peek over at Bailey, whose family owns the business—“and pumpkin spice with cream-cheese frosting. ”
“Hmm.” She takes notes on her phone. “And your background?”
“Self-taught, mostly,” I admit. “My mother was an excellent baker. I learned from her, then expanded through what I like to call ‘Pinterest experimentation’ and my job as cafe manager here. Turns out, stress-baking at two a.m. is very therapeutic—and actually profitable.”
“No formal training?” She looks up, and I already know what she’s thinking: I’m an amateur, not someone who should be featured in a food magazine. My eyes slide over to Lucian for help and he gives me an encouraging nod.
“No.” I hesitate. “I went to a community college, not culinary school.”
“That’s okay,” she interrupts. “I find classically trained bakers are often too bound by rules.”
I blink, surprised by the assessment. “I…I do like to experiment. They don’t always turn out, but that’s the risk you take. I test all my recipes in the shop. And I only sell what gets two thumbs up from the townsfolk.”
“I can see that,” she says, looking at the crowd behind her.
She picks up the maple-pecan cupcake I’ve placed before her, then takes a bite, closing her eyes briefly.
Her lips curve into a slight smile. “This is exceptional. The balance of sweet and salty, the moistness of the cake, the frosting that complements—it shows real understanding of flavor composition.”
Relief washes over me. “Thank you.”
She makes occasional notes in her phone as she continues trying both desserts. “I’ve tried cupcakes all over Seattle and the Pacific Northwest.”
“Oh yeah?” My heart skips a beat at the mention of Seattle, and whether I could compete in the market there. I know my cupcakes are good, but are they good enough to rival bakers trained by the best?
“Most of them are perfectly adequate,” she continues. “A few are genuinely good. But very few have the X-factor. You create a great cupcake all around. And that comes through clearly with every bite.”
“That means so much,” I say, floored that she would offer such kind words, given the fact that I’ve never had any real training.
She finishes the cupcake and reaches for her coffee. “Tell me, what are your plans? Surely you don’t intend to remain hidden in the back of a bookstore forever?”
“Actually, I’ve been considering opening a bakery in Seattle.”
“Ah, going the commercial route.” She nods. “Good location, high tourist traffic. But a lot of competition. I really wouldn’t advise you to start there.” It’s blunt, but right now, she knows more about surviving this industry than I do.
“Oh,” I say, deflated. “May I ask why?”
“Because those kinds of areas are saturated with good bakeries. It’s an over-served market and ridiculously expensive. Without a strong financial backing, it’s going to be next to impossible to make it beyond the first year.”
My stomach sinks. “So you’re saying…totally unrealistic?”
“Not forever—just starting out. You need to find the people who want specialty cupcakes without having to travel to Seattle. Shipping cupcakes from Maple Falls could be a very good option for you. Or even a food truck that gives you the ability to sell regionally. This town is adorable, and with the new hockey team, you’re going to get more traffic. You could even set up near the arena.”
I’d never thought of that. “But hockey and cupcakes don’t really go together, do they?”
She tilts her head. “Says who? Think about the marketing possibilities. You have icing in the sport and on the cupcake. Seems like a perfect match.”