Chapter Ten
They didn’t have much of a chance to investigate the Worthingtons over the next week. They were too busy exhausting all their fundraising options.
When Aggie first suggested a bake sale to save the café, Cora had laughed so hard she almost choked on her coffee.
Then she’d cried when she’d realized Aggie was serious.
Faking her own death and fleeing to the countryside had crossed her mind more than once.
And then, as she stared at the sad parade of lopsided cupcakes and cookies with the density of cinder blocks spread across The Spoon’s front porch, she wondered if it was too late to hitch a ride out of town.
Her morning of stress-baking had produced nothing fit for human consumption.
She’d paged through website after website dedicated to easy cookie recipes and picked one that seemed foolproof.
It turned out that she was the fool. The café’s kitchen reeked of burnt peanut butter.
Thank goodness for Governor Sam’s iron stomach and nonexistent standards.
The massive Saint Bernard had hung out on the back porch all morning, devouring her creations like a five-star food critic.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d spent years predicting the next big food craze for million-dollar corporations and Michelin-starred chefs, yet there she was, struggling to figure out what might tempt Mrs. Henshaw from across the street.
“Listen up, team,” she said, injecting false bravado into her voice. “We’re not just selling baked goods. We’re selling hope.” She cleared her throat. “And hopefully not food poisoning,” she added under her breath.
Aggie snorted, adjusting her Kiss the Cook apron with the confidence of someone who knew her cookies would bring people to their knees. “Speak for yourself, honey. My snickerdoodles can make a grown man cry.”
Cora glanced at her tray of cookies. They might make grown men cry for entirely different reasons. After three failed attempts, she’d finally managed to produce a batch of oatmeal cookies that looked like oversized gravel chunks.
Jack materialized beside her, blocking out the afternoon sun with that effortlessly tousled, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair, and eyes that sparkled with a mix of amusement and mild horror. “You know, when I suggested oatmeal cookies, I didn’t mean it as a dare.”
She jabbed an elbow into his ribs, which were annoyingly firm under his worn black T-shirt, trying to ignore how solid and unyielding he felt. “They’re not that bad. They’re . . . rustic.”
“Rustic?” He scooped one up, testing its heft. “Pretty sure this qualifies as a lethal weapon in at least twelve states.”
She snatched back the cookie, shooting him a glare. “Fine. We’ll market them as—”
“Doorstops?” Winston suggested helpfully.
“Paperweights?” Bea offered.
“Ammunition?” Jack grinned, clearly enjoying himself.
She leveled a glare at her traitorous team. “I was going to say fitness cookies. For people craving a workout while they snack.”
Aggie patted her arm with a comforting smile. “Don’t you worry, sweet pea. We’ll stash them at the back. Way at the back.”
As townspeople trickled in, lured by the promise of sugar and small-town gossip, Cora plastered on her best please-buy-something-so-I-don’t-have-to-auction-off-my-organs smile.
“Step right up, folks!” she called out, channeling her inner carnival barker.
“Feast your eyes on these delectable delights. We’ve got cookies, pies, and .
. . artisanal cookies,” she said, trying to use her New York marketing lingo to gloss over the fact that her contribution looked like something you’d scrape off your shoe.
Jack leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. “Artisanal cookies? Is that what we’re calling potential manslaughter these days?”
She stomped on his foot without breaking her megawatt smile. “Keep it up, Harlow, and you’ll be my personal guinea pig for every culinary experiment from now on.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” he murmured, and the way his voice dipped sent a flutter through her stomach.
For a while, things went surprisingly well.
Bea charmed a group of elderly gentlemen, Winston debated macaron texture with the book club ladies as if his life depended on it, and Aggie?
She was everywhere, refilling plates, making change, and somehow managing to play matchmaker to two shy teenagers over a plate of chocolate chip brownies.
The bake sale was turning into a real success.
Then disaster struck.
Little Timmy Johnson, all of six years old and apparently possessing the jaw strength of a saltwater crocodile, bit into one of her so-called fitness cookies. The crunch echoed across the porch like a gunshot, followed by a wail so piercing it could have roused the dead.
Cora gasped, rushing over. “Oh, no. Timmy, are you okay? Please tell me you didn’t chip a tooth. We can barely afford sprinkles, let alone root canals.”
Timmy’s mother glared at Cora like she’d tried to feed her son uranium. “What on earth are these made of? Cement?”
Her brain had short-circuited. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find words. Luckily, Jack swooped in, smooth as butter—something she’d incidentally forgotten to add to the cookies.
“Ma’am, I apologize. These aren’t fit for human consumption,” he said, failing to hide his chuckle behind a cough. “They’re specially formulated for canine dental health. Right, Cora?”
She nodded so hard it was a wonder her head didn’t pop off. “Oh, absolutely. They’re quite popular with the dog community.”
Right on cue, Governor Sam lumbered up to the table, his big, droopy eyes locked on to the cookies, a stream of drool already pooling at his feet. She broke off a piece of cookie and tossed it his way. He snapped it up with the enthusiasm of a dog who’d just discovered bacon.
“See?” she said, smiling brightly. “Canine-approved!”
Timmy’s mother didn’t look convinced, but Bea’s offer of a complimentary pie seemed to smooth things over. As they walked away, Cora spun around to face Jack, torn between gratitude and indignation.
“Dog treats? Seriously?”
He shrugged. “Would you rather I tell her the truth? That they’re secretly weapons of mass destruction?”
She smacked his arm. “My baking isn’t that lethal, thank you very much.”
He softened, his voice dropping enough to make her heart race. “No, but it is memorable.”
Somehow, they managed to sell most of the baked goods.
Even her cookies. After a quick online search ensured the ingredients were safe for dogs, they rebranded them as all-natural dog treats and slapped a ridiculously high price tag on them.
Apparently, Sunrise’s dog owners were either extremely gullible or just desperate for indestructible chew toys.
By the time they’d packed up, the sun was setting. Cora leaned against the porch railing, exhausted but oddly content.
Jack came up beside her, bumping her shoulder with his. “For what it’s worth, I think Lolly would have loved today.”
She glanced at him, surprised. “Which part? The drama? The dental emergencies? The possible violation of the Geneva Convention via baked goods?”
He nodded, his expression warm. “All of it. Especially the part where you didn’t give up, even when everything went sideways. That’s pure Lolly.”
A lump formed in Cora’s throat at his words, a mix of feeling touched and terrified by how much they meant. “Thanks, Jack,” she said, her voice a little rougher than she intended.
“So . . . dinner?” he asked.
She blinked, surprised. “Sure. Where do you want to go?”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Your place. You’re cooking.”
She stared at him, waiting for the punchline. When none came, she burst out laughing. “You’ve clearly been huffing vanilla extract or something. Did you miss the part where I nearly killed a first grader today?”
“Nope. I’m going to teach you.”
“Teach me?” she echoed in alarm. “You do realize that’s like offering to teach a shark to crochet, right?”
He stepped closer, and suddenly she was very aware of how the fading sunlight caught the amber flecks in his brown eyes.
“Come on, Cora. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I think I left it in New York, along with my dignity and my job.”
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Consider it a challenge. Unless you’re scared?”
“Low blow, Harlow,” she said, but there was no heat in her words. “Fine. But when we end up ordering pizza, you’re paying.”
“Deal,” he said, holding out his hand.
She took it, trying to ignore the spark that shot up her arm at his touch.
“Though I have to warn you, I’m a great teacher. You might surprise yourself.”
“The only surprise will be if we get through this without the fire department,” she muttered.
As they headed toward the kitchen, she caught sight of Aggie, Bea, and Winston huddled together, watching them like a trio of Cheshire Cats. Aggie gave her a thumbs-up, Bea mimed fanning herself, and Winston raised an eyebrow so high it disappeared under his fedora.
Jack’s hand stayed in hers, warm and reassuring, as they walked. She stole a glance at his strong profile.
“You know,” she said softly, “for someone so smart, you’re making a pretty risky choice here. I might burn down the whole block.”
He turned to her, his smile softer now, but no less knee-weakening. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to spend more time with you.”
Oh. Oh.
She was in trouble. Deep, delicious, black T-shirt-covered trouble.