Chapter 21
Two weeks had slippedby since that fateful day when Bishop had learned the truth. I’d been left to wrestle with the harsh reality, feeling like my heart was a crumpled tissue within my chest. It seemed impossible to escape the longing for the man who’d become so much more than just my boss.
Thankfully, money wasn’t a concern anymore. I had landed a bunch of design gigs and my freelance hustle was on fire since the work I’d done at the bakery. But emotionally? I was one step away from belting out Adele songs in the shower and ugly-crying into a pint of fro-yo.
Chantel and Bree had tried to console me, but it wasn’t any use. I missed Bishop. Late at night, amidst design sketches and drafts, I’d often doodle cupcakes, subconsciously yearning for that world. Heck, I even missed Lucia’s passive-aggressive quips and side-eyes.
How twisted was that?
But even drowning myself in work, the gaping void Bishop and the bakery had left in my life was undeniable. It was like missing a part of my soul, and no amount of pixel-pushing could fill that.
I had to reconcile with Bishop, even if it meant groveling for forgiveness or plastering ‘Forgive Me’ billboards all over town.
Forcing myself to get out of bed, I wiped the tears from my cheeks. As Mochi wagged her tail, offering her unwavering support, I hatched a plan to win Bishop back.
And I knew just where to start...
“Time to put on your big girl apron, Kenzi.”
That very afternoon, I stood outside the prestigious Sweet Success Baking Academy, a culinary school in a nearby city. I’d had to take two buses and walk three blocks to reach the imposing brick building that loomed over me, daring me to prove my worth. My head held high, I marched inside to enroll.
* * *
Over the next six months,my life became a whirlwind of flour, sugar, and butter. Early mornings found me trudging to class with a steaming to-go coffee, bleary-eyed but eager. Instructors taught me the art of diligence, patience, and perfecting my pastries. I practiced tirelessly, often ending up covered in more ingredients than my creations, still each day I progressed.
Finally, I received my certificate with pride. I clutched it tightly, knowing that this was more than just a piece of paper. My chest swelled with hope on the bus ride home that this certificate would represent a new beginning, not only for my career, but for proving myself to Bishop. It was my chance to right my wrongs and re-earn his trust.
The bus dropped me off a few blocks from home and I walked briskly toward my apartment. When the door closed behind me, Mochi’s excited pattering of paws on the hardwood floor greeted me.
I spent the day lounging on my sofa with Mochi, reading a rom-com and munching on cookies I’d baked to celebrate. As the heroine wooed her love interest with a grand romantic gesture, inspiration struck me.
If the characters in the book could take risks for love, why couldn’t I?
“Mochi,” I said, stroking her soft fur. “I think I’ve got an idea.”
Mochi lifted her head, giving me her full attention. I grinned, feeling invigorated by this new plan, and hopped off the couch.
Channeling my graphic prowess, I crafted a cardboard sign brimming with heartfelt remorse, stating how sorry I was, with images of cupcakes and hearts incorporated into the design. To add extra flair, I used my glue stick and glitter, sprinkling it onto the letters.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting warm hues across the sky. I pedaled toward Bishop’s house on my bike, with Mochi perched in the basket attached to the handlebars and the sign tucked beside her.
When we arrived, I removed my dog and the cardboard poster from the basket, then reclined the bike against a tree.
“Okay, Mochi, we’re here.”
We tiptoed onto the well-manicured grass of Bishop’s modest two-story Colonial, its light-blue exterior blending with the neatly trimmed hedges.
I tugged out my cell phone from my pocket, then started scrolling through my playlist for the perfect romantic ballad. Pulse pounding, I hit play and set the phone down on the grass, letting the music fill the air.
Mochi glanced at me and let out a short bark.
Holding the sign over my head with one hand, I serenaded Bishop. My voice wavered at first, but soon I found my groove, belting out every high note and lyric with confidence. As the song reached its crescendo, Mochi harmonized with me, her howling adding a unique style to my impromptu performance. I sang my heart out, finishing with jazz hands.
Catching my breath, I squinted up at the house and saw him watching me from an upstairs window. A few seconds later, Bishop stepped out the door and onto the porch. His expression was all hard angles and tense lines.
Crouching, I grasped the poster and held it in front of me like a shield. “Hi. I, um, just wanted to tell you I graduated from the Sweet Success Baking Academy. I have a certificate and everything.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Kenzi,” he said softly. “I appreciate your unique apology, but it’s going to take more than glitter and a song to make things right between us. You...betrayed me and that hurt is still too raw.”
My stomach dropped into my sneakers, and I stared at the grass, fighting back tears. “Oh, okay.”
He went inside and shut the door.
Lowering the poster, I backed away toward my bike with Mochi at my side. I guess winning Bishop’s trust would be harder than I thought, but I wouldn’t give up until I’d earned his forgiveness.
Pedaling home, the sky was a canvas of watercolor blues and pinks, as if even the heavens couldn’t decide on a proper mood. The quaint cobblestone streets of our small town lay quiet, except for the occasional bark from Mr. Henley’s overzealous schnauzer, who seemed to think he was the size of a mastiff. As I rounded the corner, still smarting from Bishop’s brisk dismissal, I nearly collided with the human equivalent of a walking kaleidoscope.
“Hello, hello, Kenzi!” Vivian Lark exclaimed, her clothing flapping in a vigorous breeze. “Biking is all about balance, isn’t it? Though I suppose that’s a metaphor for life too, huh?”
I skidded to a halt, narrowly avoiding a crash into her. Vivian stood there, somehow embodying the word ‘pizzazz.’ Her clothes were a clash of colors that could give the rainbow a run for its money. An oversized pair of glasses perched precariously on her nose, magnifying eyes that sparkled with the latest scoop. The fiery tendrils of her hair, more untamed than Mr. Henley’s schnauzer, were twisted into a messy bun so high it could scout out the gossip before she did.
“Sorry, Vivian.” I huffed, catching my breath and trying not to seem like I was fresh from a rejection rodeo. “You look...nice.”
With a laugh that bubbled up like a well-shaken soda, she twirled, making her skirt billow around her. “Why, thank you. This old thing?” She gestured to her ensemble with a grin. “It’s just something I threw together after my morning interview with the mayor. Well, I said to myself, ‘Self, you need to add some zest to the affair.’ You know how dry political types can be.”
“Zest is one word for it,” I said, eyeing her polka-dot blouse paired with a striped skirt only Vivian could pull off.
I glanced back down the road toward Bishop’s house and my heart pinched. But I wouldn’t cry in front Vivian or my Bishop rebuff would be featured in her next gossip column.
She adjusted her glasses with a shrewd frown. “And you, darling, look like someone ran over your dog.” She tilted her head, glancing at Mochi in the basket. “No one did, I hope.”
“Ha, no.” I forced a slight smile. “Just the remnants of a long day.” I straddled my bike, ready to pedal away from the conversation and back into my own muddled thoughts.
Vivian leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, thick with the promise of juicy gossip. “Darling, Kenzi, have you heard the latest on Maxwell Turner?” She paused dramatically, her eyes gleaming with the glee of a child about to share the biggest secret ever found in a cereal box.
My gaze drifted to a couple of sparrows lazily circling above us, then flying off. I paused, one foot on the pedal, the other still grounded, as if her words were an invisible force field keeping me in place. “Maxwell? What about him?”
“Kenzi, darling, brace yourself because this is juicier than a ripe peach in August.” She glanced around dramatically before continuing. “He’s been smuggling in pastries and those fancy mini-cakes from a highfalutin bakery out of town. Then he passes them off as his own creations at Sweet Sensations.” Her eyebrows arched in mock horror. “It’s a scandal! A culinary caper of confectionery proportions!”
My mouth fell open. “No way. How do you know that?”
Vivian face glowed with the thrill of the scoop. “Well, if you must know, I caught him red-handed—or should I say, flour-handed? I was snooping around for a new story, as one does, and there he was, in the dead of night, unloading boxes with ‘Fancy Feast of Flour’ written all over them. And no, it’s not cat food; it’s that swanky bakery’s name from a nearby city.”
I raised an eyebrow, barely containing my smirk. “It sounds like Maxwell’s baking skills are about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. Who knew the secret ingredient to his success was a dash of deceit and a sprinkle of scandal?”
She snickered, pushing up her glasses with a self-satisfied air. “I know, right? The article goes live tomorrow.”
“You’re going to blast this all over the front page?”
“Front and center,” Vivian confirmed with a grin as vivid as her neon pink blazer. “The whole town will be gobbling up the news along with their morning coffee. Maxwell Turner’s fraudulent fluffery will be outed.”
“Wow.” A laugh escaped me, light and surprised. “Thanks for the heads-up, Viv. This is...wow. I mean, Bishop’s going to flip when he hears about this.”
“Kenzi, darling, it’ll be like lighting a firework inside a hen house,” she said, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “All feathers flying and squawks echoing about town.”
We stood beneath the awning of The Yarn Barn, a craft store that had become an impromptu landmark with its multicolored skeins of yarn. The air was thick with the aroma of rich chocolates and roasted coffee beans from a nearby cafe.
“Make sure you get your copy early.” Vivian tucked a stray curl back into the fortress of her messy bun. “This edition’s going to sell like hotcakes—or should I say, like Maxwell’s counterfeit confections?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, my mind already churning with the possible aftershocks of her exposé.
“And, Kenzi...” She tapped the side of her nose. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
I feigned innocence, pressing a hand to my chest. “My lips are sealed. Cross my heart and hope to eat stale scones.”
Vivian twirled away, her laughter lingering in the air like bubbles escaping from a soda can.
I hopped back on my bike, the seat slightly damp from the mist that had been playing at drizzle all morning. The wind picked up as I pedaled, an annoying adversary that caused my hair to fly wildly around my face.
The town blurred by as I rode, each familiar shop front and eatery passing like stills in a flipbook. The pet store window boasted a new litter of puppies tumbling over each other, their barks muffled behind the glass. I made a mental note to doodle them later, maybe even feature them in my next design or a new recipe—Pupcakes, perhaps?
“Ah, Bishop’s going to love hearing about Maxwell,” I said to Mochi, who barked once in reply. “It’s like finding out Mr. Darcy is actually a golem designed to recite poetry and brood attractively.”
It felt like justice after all underhanded deeds that Maxwell did, or at least the prelude to it. Especially after calling me a fraud in front of Bishop.
“Let the crumbs fall where they may.” A grin curled my lips as Sweet Sensations came into view. It stood there innocently enough, but soon, its facade would collapse like a poorly constructed gingerbread house—and I was here for it.