Chapter 9
Pushingthrough the bakery doors each morning, I was met with an increasingly disheartening sight. The once bustling seating area was vacant. I tied on my apron, the cheerful jingle of the bell above the door now a rare occurrence. With no customers, I cleaned and restocked the display-case with fresh pastries.
An hour later, the door swung open and Bishop strode in, pausing in front of the counter. Instantly, my heart fluttered like a deranged hummingbird.
Bishop inspected the seating area. He scowled, as if taking a personal offense at the quiet emptiness that followed the earlier busy hours.
“Hello there, boss,” I said. “You’re looking especially grumpy today.”
“That’s because I’ve had a strange and disturbing morning.”
“Uh-oh, sounds serious.” I leaned closer. “What happened?”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Henderson, a regular customer, entered the bakery with Mr. Patel. They looked anxious as they approached us.
I stepped away from Bishop to greet them. “Good morning. What can I get for you?”
“Actually, sweetheart,” Mrs. Henderson said hesitantly and glanced at Bishop. “We’ve heard some rather unsettling rumors about the bakery.”
“Oh?”
“Someone’s saying you use low-quality ingredients and had a rat infestation,” Mr. Patel said with a haughty sniff. “We wanted to make sure it wasn’t true.”
“Of course it’s not true,” Bishop said, his voice hard. “Our ingredients are always fresh and high-quality. And we’ve never had any rodents in my establishment.”
I pointed at my boss with my thumb. “Yeah. What he said.”
Mrs. Henderson exhaled through her nose. “We knew it couldn’t be true, but we thought you should know what people are saying.”
Mr. Patel clucked his tongue. “It’s such a shame when people spread such vicious lies.”
“It certainly is.” I tried not to roll my eyes at these two gossips.
After Mrs. Henderson and Mr. Patel left the bakery, Bishop turned to me.
“We’ve got a problem.” His full lips pressed together, his posture stiff. “I know who’s spreading these lies. It’s my cousin, Maxwell.”
I wiped my hands on my pink apron. “Ah, our friendly neighborhood rival. Do tell.”
His jaw clenched. “I spoke to a friend, who told me he overheard Maxwell at the bank, spreading nasty rumors about my bakery, which Mrs. Henderson and Mr. Patel just confirmed. The guy’s been a thorn in my side for years.”
Serenity Falls might have that small-town vibe, but there were still plenty of people I didn’t know, like Maxwell Turner. Since I usually worked from home, I didn’t get out much to meet people.
I refilled the coffeemaker with dark roast grounds. “We can’t let him tarnish the reputation of your bakery.” I tilted my head. “How long has Maxwell owned the other bakery? What does he specialize in? Give me all the dirt.”
“Maxwell opened Sweet Sensations two years ago. Our families used to be friendly, but that changed when our grandfather died.”
“Ah, so this rivalry is practically a family tradition. Clearly, a Shakespearean tragedy in the making.”
“More or less,” he muttered and placed one hand flat on the counter. “Sweet Sensations is known for its specialty cakes. Maxwell suddenly had this belief that he’s a culinary prodigy of sorts.” His brows furrowed. “Kenzi, these lies could really harm us, and I’m not sure what to do.”
“Don’t you worry, Bishop. We’ll put a stop to those rumors.”
I laid my hand over his, and the warmth from his skin seeped into me. Instead of retreating, his hand shifted subtly, fingers curling around mine in a comforting squeeze. My body trembled under the intensity of his gaze. The world had narrowed down to only the two of us and the intertwined heat of our hands, as though we were on the precipice of something profoundly intimate.
“Kenzi,” he said, his voice soft and raspy, as if he too was grasping at the reins of his emotions.
“Yes?” I whispered, hyperaware of his closeness.
He was quiet, the silence punctuated only by the distant hum of the oven and the gurgle of the coffeemaker. I inhaled a whiff of Bishop’s cologne, a subtle blend of cedar and citrus notes that made me feel lightheaded.
Smelling salts, anyone?
He drew in a breath before moving his hand away. Looking down, I saw him clench his fingers and unclench them as if my touch had affected him, too.
That split second of candid emotion, combined with his usual strength, somehow made him all the more attractive.
His shoulders tensed. “I need a minute.”
“Are you okay?”
“No,” he said flatly. “This Maxwell situation is…a lot.”
“I’m coming with you.” I followed him as he strode into the kitchen. As I passed Jordan making a crepe, I said, “Watch the front counter for me, please. Be right back.”
Bishop’s office was small and tidy, with a simple wooden desk that held his laptop, stacks of paperwork, and framed photos of his parents and grandparents. Cookbooks and various knickknacks filled the shelves lining the walls. A window overlooking an alley bathed the room in soft yellow light.
Bishop took a seat at the desk while I stood.
“I’m wondering why your cousin would do such a thing. Does Maxwell have a grudge against sugar and happiness?”
“Or just against me,” Bishop said darkly.
Our eyes locked for a potent second and the air was charged with a sizzling intensity. Startled by the sudden intimacy, my brain scrambled for something to say.
“If a cake is well baked, I always find it too small,” I blurted, misquoting Jane Austen.
Bishop retook his seat. “That’s not quite how I remember the quote from Sense and Sensibility, but it’s clever.”
“I take pleasure in my literary adaptability. You’re familiar with Austen’s works? Not that I mind, but it’s unusual.”
Bishop tugged at his collar. “Um, yeah. My mom is a big fan and read them to me when I was a kid. They weren’t the typical bedtime tales, and as I got older, watching the movies together became our thing.”
“I like your mom already and can’t wait to meet her someday.” I tapped my chin with a finger, then said, “I just had a thought, a way to prove the rumors are false.”
He rocked back in his chair. “What did you have in mind?”
“What if we make a cake and film it, then upload it onto social media? To show the town the truth and that Maxwell’s underhanded tactics don’t intimidate us.”
“It won’t stop the rumors, but it will cheer me up.” The hard lines of his face softened and his mouth opened slightly, and I couldn’t look away from those full lips. “Thank you, Kenzi. Not just for the cake idea, but for the support.”
“Now, let’s go record you baking a cake to show Maxwell Turner, who’s the real king of sweetness in this town.”
Back in the kitchen, I set up my phone to record us, and then started taking out ingredients. “Flour, sugar, eggs…what kind of cake should we make?”
Bishop grabbed the container of sugar. “A red velvet cake?”
“Ohhh, I like your style.” I winked at him. “Red like the blood of our enemies.”
We started measuring and mixing ingredients. The balminess from the oven and the sweet perfume of sugar floated in the air as we poured the batter into cake pans and then put them into the oven. While we waited for it to bake, we tidied up the kitchen.
“Okay, now for the icing.” I took out the pans from the oven and set them on racks to cool.
He whipped up a batch of black-colored buttercream frosting and talked to the camera as he worked.
When the pans had cooled, I removed the cakes. Spreading a generous coating of black glaze between the cakes, Bishop then added another layer over the entire masterpiece.
I stepped back to admire our handiwork and smiled. “Looks pretty good.”
“We need to add red roses.” Bishop went to the cupboard, telling the camera what he was doing.
My cute boss fed the piping bag with icing, and then, with a steady hand, he created beautiful roses across the top of the cake. When he finished, he lifted his head. “What do you think?”
“Perfect,” I declared, admiring the cake, then shutting off the recording.
“Don’t move…” He lifted his hand and brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch lingering on my skin, igniting warmth where his fingers had been.
Frozen in place, the gesture felt intimate and tender. A hint of desire sparkled in his eyes before he turned away. Bishop was my boss and off-limits, and yet, the tiniest flicker of romantic hope still burned within me—a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished, especially after that smoldering look.
“How about we send Maxwell a slice of this cake?” I said. “We can attach a note from you, saying his shady tactics to tarnish the bakery’s reputation haven’t phased you in the slightest. Let’s kill him with kindness—and cake.”
“I like that idea.”
As he boxed up the slice of cake, I reflected on our newfound camaraderie. Bishop and I had become more than just friends—we were partners in crime, united by a common goal. He wiped a stray smear of icing from his cheek, and my heart swelled with affection for the gorgeous baker.
Bishop scribbled a note and taped it to the box. “Now who’s gonna deliver it?”
Oh, sneaky man, giving me those soft looks, but it wouldn’t work on me. I wouldn’t be so easily swayed. Nope, I was immune to his charm…
Ah, who was I kidding? I was a sucker for those dark, soulful eyes.
“Me, I guess?”
His lips twitched. “Well, it was your idea.”