Chapter 4
On my firstofficial day at work, I stood outside Doughy Desires—the place that was about to become my new happy place, or so I hoped—at four in the morning and stifled a yawn.
Geez, bakers got up early.
“All right, Kenzi, you’ve got this,” I muttered, adjusting my graphic tee with a ‘Team Darcy’ logo, paired with my favorite cropped jeans and high-top sneakers.
Yet I hesitated. A nagging feeling of unease tugged at the edge of my confidence. If I was being honest with myself, I’d never professionally baked a day in my life. Sure, I’d baked brownies and cookies from a box, and as long as I didn’t accidentally poison anyone or burn the place down, everything would be peachy.
Pushing open the door, I stepped into the bakery, inhaling the irresistible aroma of cinnamon-spiced air. Someone must’ve gotten here earlier than me. I yawned and silently prayed that my new job included a crash course in coffee IV drips.
My hands fumbled as I shrugged off my jacket and it hit the floor like a discarded napkin. “Smooth, real smooth.”
Grasping my jacket, I hung it up. Maybe I was more nervous than I thought. I crossed the room, going behind the counter, and into the kitchen.
I took a deep breath, blowing it out. This was it, my first day as a fake-it-till-you-make-it baker. I plastered on a smile, hoping my expression radiated confidence rather than fear.
“Morning, everyone!” I announced, stepping into the large kitchen.
Two people looked up from different counters while working on intricate pastry designs. The yellow light from the overhead lamps glinted off shiny stainless steel countertops and appliances.
“Hi, I’m Jordan Hayes, junior baker.” The twenty-year-old halted the electric mixer mid-whir and shot me a grin. Standing lean and tall, his reddish-brown hair contrasted with his pale, freckled skin. Smudges of chocolate adorned his casual tee and apron, like badges of culinary honor. “You must be Kenzi, the new assistant baker.”
“Yep, that’s me. I think...”
To my left, a massive industrial food processor churned butter with a rhythmic hum, while trays of cookies, scones, and doughnuts lined the cooling shelves along one wall. To my right, an enormous oven radiated heat, its glass doors revealing muffins turning a nice golden brown.
Jordan clapped a flour-covered hand on my shoulder. “This is our senior baker, Lucia Garcia.”
He gestured toward a Hispanic woman, old enough to be my mother, wearing a floral apron over her green, ankle-length dress. She offered me a taut smile, more defensive than welcoming.
“Nice to meet you, Lucia.” I extended a hand to Lucia, who looked at it as if it were a questionable pastry.
“Likewise,” she replied curtly, not bothering to shake my hand. “Be prepared to work hard. We don’t tolerate slackers here, young lady.”
I lowered my arm. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here to do my very best and rise to the occasion.”
She didn’t smile at my terrible pun, but Jordan snickered.
Lucia eyed me skeptically. Her dark hair had streaks of gray at the sides and temples, spilling out of her tight bun that made her resemble a strict librarian who’d just discovered a wayward overdue book. I’d better watch my back with her. I didn’t need any frenemies.
“Start by frosting those scones,” Lucia ordered.
I went to the sink, washed my hands, and then slipped on gloves. Ensuring my hair was securely pulled up, I moved to the vacant counter space. Lucia observed me warily, her lips pressed firmly together.
“What are you waiting for?” Lucia waved a spatula at me like a sword of justice. She seized a piping bag and thrust it into my hands.
A wave of nervousness hit me, given my lack of experience. But why dwell on trivial details?
Sure, the stakes were higher than my stack of unpaid bills at home, but I couldn’t let them catch onto the fact that my expertise came from a night spent binge-watching baking shows on Netflix and not from working with an actual oven. My sister, my dog, and let’s not forget my landlord’s incessant love for timely rent payments, were all counting on me.
As I started practicing my piping skills on the tray of scones, Lucia returned to drizzling colorful sprinkles onto a batch of cookies.
Jordan faced me. “Did the boss fill you in on the annual bake-off yet? It’s the most important day of the year for us. The two bakeries in town and a few townsfolk go head-to-head, showing off the tastiest and most imaginative pastries.”
“It sounds very competitive,” I said.
“Oh, it is, for sure.” Jordan went back to work.
Holding the piping bag, I was suddenly struck with memories of my grandma, the pet treat creation queen. I choked back a lump swelling in my throat. Her big smile flashed through my mind, and that familiar heartache made itself at home in my chest. I resumed icing the scones, and thought about her recipe for dog biscuits, wondering if I could somehow recreate them and honor her memory.
When I finished frosting, I set the piping bag down. “What should I do next?”
“Before you start on another project,” Jordan said, “you should probably check in with the boss.”
He led me into an alcove, where Bishop was glazing cupcakes.
“Bishop, Kenzi’s here. I know you’re busy, but do you have a minute?” Jordan said.
I waved at my boss. “Hello.”
Bishop gave me a curt nod. Seeing him again did peculiar things to my heartbeat. His well-defined arms, sexy brown eyes, and spiky, dark-brown hair could easily rival the dashing heroes of any Austen novel. That is, if Mr. Darcy had traded in his ruffled shirt for a V-neck black shirt, darkwash jeans that clung to him in all the right places, and a baker’s apron.
Bishop didn’t smile or offer any pleasantries. “I hope you’re ready to apply yourself and learn quickly.”
I gave him a mock-serious nod. “Sure. I’ve already binge-watched, like three seasons of The Great Baking Show, so I’m basically a pro at this point.”
Jordan smiled, but the stern-faced Bishop only grunted.
“I forgot you were funny.” Bishop raised one eyebrow. “We’ll see if your peculiar humor translates into skill.”
“Not to worry. I mean, baking is like creating art, but with flour...and potentially fire.”
“Let’s avoid the latter.” Bishop handed me a clean pink apron from a hook on the wall. “We need more frosting. Can you work on that?”
“Okay.” I tied on the apron. “How much are we talking?”
“Enough to frost an army of cupcakes,” Jordan said. “Come with me.”
Jordan escorted me to a counter laden with the usual suspects for frosting—butter, powdered sugar, vanilla extract, and milk. Beside them was a small note scribbled with what looked like a simple recipe.
I grinned. Thank the baking gods!
Pouring the sugar into the mixing bowl, I paused. Was it one cup or two? Well, two sounded sweeter. Adding a dash of vanilla and milk, I frowned. Icing was supposed to be fluffy, not watery. I’d go easy on the milk.
With a deep breath, I channeled my inner-artist and began blending the ingredients, careful not to over mix. The mixer hummed along, and my concoction began to take on a surprisingly decent consistency.
I whispered a silent plea, Please look like frosting. Please look like frosting…
A pair of hands appeared beside mine, adjusting the speed on the mixer. I lifted my head to find Bishop beside me. “Try going a bit slower. It’ll make it fluffier.”
When his fingers brushed my shoulder, a jolt of electricity zipped through me. I became hyperaware of his closeness, the heat of him, and the faint trace of his cedarwood and citrus cologne.
“Don’t be nervous. I know this is your first day in my kitchen,” he whispered, his lips close to my ear, making the hairs on my neck stand up. “But you’re going to do fine.”
I stilled, my breath catching. Get it together, Kenzi.
“Um, thanks.”
He moved to my side. “Are you going to add any flavor or color?”
“Why, Mr. Bishop, are you challenging my artistic sensibilities?”
He picked up a bottle of yellow food coloring and handed it to me. “Just thought this might give it a bit more pizazz.”
I grinned, grateful for his help. He returned to the alcove, and I found it easier to breathe.
My next task was to fill eclairs with cream. Sounded simple enough. I gave the bag a gentle squeeze. Nothing came out. I tried again, a little harder this time, but still zero cream filling. Huh. Maybe it was blocked. I lifted the nozzle, then gave the bag a forceful squeeze.
A jet of cream shot straight up, hitting the ceiling. I yelped, dropping the bag, which sent another spurt soaring across the room and landing on Lucia.
I grimaced. “Oh, my bad!”
Lucia gave me a withering stare. “First day on the job and you’re already redecorating,” she remarked coolly.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Try to remember, this is a bakery, not a paintball arena. Eclairs are filled with cream, not the ceiling or your coworkers.” She sucked in an exaggerated breath, as if trying to control her temper. “You might be more suited to working the front counter. Far, far away from me.”
“Again, so very sorry.”
I cleaned up the mess and resumed filling the eclairs.
Throughout my shift, I occasionally passed by Bishop, watching him measure, mix, and decorate each baked item. Underneath that gruff exterior was someone who cared deeply about his work. There had to be a softer side to him that was just waiting to be discovered. Perhaps all it would take was the right artsy girl to bring it out.
Stop it! Focus on your job, not the broody eye candy.
I should not be fantasizing about him in any way other than boss and employee. He could have a pet ferret obsession or a creepy taxidermy collection of ferrets. Yes, ferrets were adorable, but having them stare at you from every corner of a room? That’s a hard pass.
“Time for a break,” Bishop announced, startling me out of my thoughts.
“Finally!” Jordan stretched his arms above his head. “I’m going up to the rooftop for some fresh air. The view of the town is spectacular.”
“Oh? I’ll have to check it out some time,” I said.
“You should. I take most of my breaks up there, weather permitting.” Jordan walked past me and ascended a narrow staircase in the rear of the room that I hadn’t noticed before.
The mother hen of the kitchen, Lucia, sampled one of Bishop’s cupcakes. “These are divine, Bishop. I like the new formula.”
He handed me one. “Let me know what you think.”
I took a big bite. Closing my eyes and savoring the sweet flavor, I moaned.
Realizing what I had done, my eyelids snapped open and my face warmed hotter than the oven we’d been using all day.
I cleared my throat and tried to regain my composure. “It’s delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it. You can clean up and go home now.” Bishop’s gaze lingered on me briefly, a gold ring around his pupils glimmering. “Good work today, Kenzi.”
“Sorry about the icing apocalypse earlier.”
Bishop’s fingers encircled my wrist as he led me to a quiet corner, away from the others. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, sending goosebumps rippling over my skin. “Look, I knew you weren’t the next Julia Child when I hired you. But there’s a genuineness about you, Kenzi, that I think my customers will appreciate. Lucia is an excellent baker, but has horrible customer service skills, and Jordan’s only here part-time.”
My pulse quickened at his close proximity. “Thanks for taking a chance on me. I’ll do my best.”
“See you tomorrow,” he said, letting go of my arm.
As the door closed behind me, I realized that my biggest challenge wasn’t mastering recipes, but resisting the attraction to a certain handsome baker.