Chapter 8
Penny
I step into Sweet Cakes, and the smell alone ought to come with a warning label.
Sugar, cinnamon, butter, vanilla—all the scents when put together feel like a warm hug.
It’s a dangerous combination when I’m supposed to be on a twenty-minute break from the café because whatever pastry I’m about to talk myself into will require a strong cup of coffee to go with.
And coffee is meant to be savored, hopefully alongside good conversation.
Larkin’s little bakery is one of my favorite places in Whynot. It’s cozy, sunlit, and just a little too cute to be real. The front windows glow with late-morning light that filters through lace curtains, landing on glass cases filled with pastries so perfect they could’ve been airbrushed.
Behind the counter, Larkin Mancinkus Locke is in her element, as evidenced by the flour covering her pink apron like she’s been marked by the baking gods. Her head lifts, the piping bag of blue icing in her hand hovering over a tray of blank cupcakes.
“Look what the biscuit fairy dragged in.” She grins, setting the bag down. Her Southern accent is the sweetest, matching her bubbly personality.
“Hey yourself,” I say, dropping my tote onto one of the small wrought iron tables. “Central’s finally running smoothly enough I thought I’d risk a coffee break.”
Larkin cocks an eyebrow. “You have excellent coffee there.”
“Fine,” I say with exasperation. “I want something sweet and since you’re the best baker I know, here I am.”
Larkin laughs. “What would you like?”
She pours coffee—a cup for her and a cup for me—while I peruse the glass case. I point at a chocolate croissant and when it’s warmed up, she joins me at the table to take a break.
“You look halfway alive, so I’m glad to see that the restaurant isn’t wearing you down.”
“High praise,” I mutter, but I’m smiling. “It’s going good. Luckily, Muriel has long-term, dedicated staff. They’re all busting their butts to make this work. Today’s been near perfect—everyone showed up on time, nobody set anything on fire, and I only threatened homicide once before ten a.m.”
Larkin laughs, the sound warm and easy. “That’s progress.”
“It is,” I admit, waving my croissant at her. “I’ve got a crew I trust now. Muriel trained them well, and I think they were just waiting for someone to steer the ship again.”
“Look at you,” she teases. “Coming in here all competent and managerial.”
“Don’t make it sound too glamorous. I still go home smelling like bacon grease.” I take a delicate bite of the croissant and almost die from pleasure. “The best part of things rolling along means I don’t have to live at the diner anymore and can take time for myself to hang with my bestie.”
Larkin sips her coffee. “You’ve done something amazing, Penny. I know Muriel is so proud of you. I saw her two days ago and she’s just gushing. It means a lot, you doing this for her.”
I smile down at the steam rising from my cup. “Well, I wouldn’t be what I am without her, so it was the only thing I could do.”
Muriel was the one who pushed me to chase my dreams. She was the one who pushed me out of Whynot while everyone else—including my parents—wanted me to stay.
They wanted me to work a reasonable job, get married, have babies.
My parents never saw my potential past the boundaries of this town, and while I love them beyond measure, they didn’t want me to grow.
But I did, and now I’m back, sitting here with one of my favorite people in the world.
The coffee’s rich and slightly sweet, and the chocolate croissant is perfection.
For the first time in weeks, I let myself be still.
No orders waiting, no invoices stacked up, no stress about my job in DC or what comes next.
Larkin fixes me with that slow, catlike smile that says she’s been sitting on a question and can’t hold it anymore.
“So…,” she starts, drawing out the word until it’s practically a song, “you gonna tell me what’s going on with you and Sam Rochelle?”
I almost choke on my coffee. “What makes you think anything’s going on?”
She arches a brow, amusement written all over her face.
“Honey, Whynot’s got three reliable sources of information—Facebook, the prayer chain, and the gossip mill.
But I’m not relying on any of that. I saw it when he came into the diner the other day.
The way he looked at you like he wanted to eat you up gave me the shivers. ”
Gave me the shivers too, but I don’t admit that. “He came in for breakfast. He was just being friendly.”
She cackles and slaps the table. “Oh, sweet Lord, I needed that,” she says, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. “You’re really gonna sit there and tell me that with a straight face?”
“Yes,” I say, though even I can’t stop my smile.
“Uh-huh.” She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You realize you blush every time you talk about him, right?”
I groan. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” she says. “And that little grin you’re trying to fight off right now? Dead giveaway. So come on, spill it. Is there something brewing there, or are you just playing hard to get?”
I sigh, turning the mug in my hands. “Fine. We’re going out on a date.”
Larkin’s whoop startles me, sending a tiny bit of coffee sloshing over the edge of my cup. “I knew it,” she says, grabbing a napkin from the silver holder and blotting up the spill before I can. “The heat rolling off you two could have melted the butter on your amazing biscuits.”
I can’t help laughing. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not even a little. The air practically sizzled. So, when’s the date?”
“Tomorrow night,” I say, trying for casual, but the butterflies in my stomach give me away.
She gasps, delighted. “Oh my God, Penny Bean’s got a date with Sam-Pete Rochelle, no less. The same Sam who once gave a eulogy at Floyd’s goldfish funeral because nobody else could stop laughing long enough to talk?”
“The very same,” I say with a laugh, having forgotten that bit of nostalgia. Floyd was very attached to that fish and insisted on a funeral on the square.
“Well, this I gotta hear.” She props her elbows on the table. “How’d it happen?”
I hesitate. “He just called… asked me straight out. No games, no awkward buildup. I liked that.”
Of course, I can’t tell her everything that went on before that—the trip out to his mansion, the revelation he’s a romance author and the fact he trusted me with his secret.
“Straightforward’s good,” Larkin says, nodding. “So, what’s the verdict—nervous or excited?”
“Both,” I admit. “I mean, he’s… Sam. He’s grounded, genuine and nothing like the DC guys I’ve dated who think ordering an Old Fashioned makes them deep.”
She snorts. “Let me guess—suits, cuff links and zero personality?”
“Pretty much.” I smile. “Sam’s just… different. He listens when you talk, but not in that fake polite way. He actually hears you. I don’t know… it’s hard to explain.”
Larkin studies me, her teasing playful and supportive. “Doesn’t sound hard to explain at all. Sounds like you’re smitten.”
“Don’t you start,” I warn, but my heart does that stupid little flip anyway. “We’ve only hung out a couple times.”
“Uh-huh. And how many times do you think about him when he’s not around?”
I glare at her. “You’re dangerous.”
“Occupational hazard. I spend all day surrounded by sugar—some of it’s bound to rub off.”
I grin, shaking my head. “You really are something.”
Larkin pops up from the chair. “I gotta get a tray of cookies out. Want a refill on the coffee? Another croissant?”
“Lord, I don’t need another one of those. Take your time.”
I scroll my phone, savor the last few bites of my pastry, and finish my coffee.
The bell above the door jingles again, and before I can turn, a voice rings out—rich like cream, a little on the high side, and unmistakably performative.
“Hide your husbands, hide your deviled eggs, and alert the town council—Morri D. is back in Whynot!”
Larkin laughs as she comes out from the back kitchen. She’s grinning with her hands on her hips. “Lord help us,” she mutters, though there’s nothing but affection in her tone.
I pivot just in time to see Morri sweeping through the door like he’s making a Broadway entrance.
He’s tall, gorgeous and looks like he stepped straight out of a glossy New York fashion spread then took a wrong turn at the state line.
His dark skin glows against a linen shirt the color of buttercream, his trousers are pressed sharp enough to cut glass, and his scarf—a riot of floral silk—drifts dramatically over one shoulder.
Oversized sunglasses perch on top of his head amid close-cropped curls, and he carries himself like someone born to be adored.
Larkin crosses her arms. “I thought New York was keeping you busy, city boy.”
“New York,” Morri says, drawing out the syllables like he’s exhausted by the very idea, “was draining my spirit and ruining my cuticles. I needed to come home and breathe some honest-to-God Southern humidity.”
He sweeps his gaze toward me, a grin spreading across his face. “Look at what the cat dragged in… Miss Penny Pritchard.”
I stand up and air-kiss his cheeks. “It’s good to see you, Morri.”
“And it’s good to see you too,” he says, taking both my hands and squeezing them. “I heard you came back to open Central Café and have been dubbed by the town as savior of biscuits and patron saint of caffeine. Honey, your name has reached the outer boroughs.”
I laugh and wave him off. “That’s an exaggeration.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “Not in my circles. I had a man in Chelsea tell me your bacon melts away despair. I wept.”
Larkin laughs so hard she has to grip the counter. “You’re full of it.”
“I’m full of passion,” Morri corrects. “And maybe a little bullshit, if we’re being honest.”