3. Chapter 3
Ava
Jake Dalton leaves his tool on my counter.
I immediately take notice that he didn’t leave it beside the napkins where a distracted customer might set something down and forget it.
He leaves it directly in front of me after announcing that he likes whatever Loralee thinks I am, then walks out of the bakery without it.
It’s Deliberate … absolutely deliberate.
I hold the compact silver tool between two fingers and watch his truck disappear at the end of the block.
“He left that so he can come back,” Loralee says.
“I know.”
“Then why are you frowning?”
“Because he thinks I don’t know.”
I open the drawer beneath the register and drop it inside.
Loralee peers over my shoulder. “You’re hiding it?”
“I’m securing lost property.”
“You could text him.”
“I don’t have his number.”
“You could call his company.”
“I am not calling a construction company to report a missing pocket screwdriver.”
“It’s a multi-tool.”
“Whose side are you on?”
She considers that. “The universe’s.”
I should have expected that answer from her. I close the drawer harder than necessary and return to the pastry case. The morning rush has left three empty spaces where caramel apple muffins once stood, and the remaining batch is disappearing faster than I expected.
Jake bought three pastries during two visits. Four, technically, if I count the cinnamon roll allegedly intended for someone else. Which I do. Sales are sales.
I arrange the last six muffins into a tighter display, turning each one so the caramel drizzle faces forward. A bakery case should look abundant even when inventory is running low. It is one of the many small rules I live by.
Loralee begins rearranging the lemon bars. I watch her move one from the center to the far left.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“The energy was stagnant.”
“The rows were straight though.”
“That may be the problem.”
“The straight rows are not the problem.” I advise.
Loralee moves another lemon bar. I move it back.
She sighs. “You make it very difficult for abundance to flow.”
“Abundance may flow between the clearly marked price cards.”
The bell over the front door rings. Both of us look toward it. My stomach performs a small, ridiculous flutter before I see the woman entering. It’s not Jake.
The new customer is in her late twenties, with honey-blond hair pulled into a high ponytail and a quick smile. She wears jeans, ankle boots, and a black T-shirt with THE FOUNDRY printed across the front.
I recognize the name of Forge Creek’s bar and grill, although I have not made it there yet. Since opening Sweet Treats, my evenings consist mostly of reviewing receipts, cleaning equipment, and wondering how butter can cost that much without arriving in a chauffeured limousine.
“I heard the caramel apple muffins were to die for. Do you have any?” she asks.
“I have six.”
“Then I need four before somebody from the mill comes in to buy them.”
I reach for a bakery box. “That sounds like experience talking.”
“I bartend near men who believe baked goods are a competitive sport.”
“Construction crews can be that way.”
Her gaze moves toward the muddy prints I have not completely erased near the door.
“Dalton?”
I pause. “You identified him from his footprints?”
“Jake has been working three blocks over. Half his crew has been through The Foundry this week.”
I place the first muffin in the box. “He was here.”
“Once?”
“Twice.”
Her eyebrows rise. I should not have said that.
“Coffee,” I add. “He came back for coffee.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And muffins.”
“Of course.”
“And cinnamon rolls.”
She leans one elbow on the counter. “You must be Ava.”
There are days when I appreciate the intimacy of a small town. This is not one of them.
“I am.”
“Kayla Brooks.” She offers her hand. “I work at The Foundry, although apparently my true profession is collecting information I didn’t ask for.”
“That sounds useful.”
“Sometimes. Other times, I know who backed into whose mailbox and which member of the town council cries during dog food commercials.”
Loralee joins us at the counter. “Which member?”
Kayla points at her. “You’re Loralee.”
Loralee smiles. “My reputation precedes me.”
“Your tarot readings precede you.”
“I only did three.”
“You did seven.”
“Some people required clarification.”
I slide the fourth muffin into the box before either of them can begin discussing the reliability of tarot cards in public establishments.
“Anything else?” I ask Kayla.
“Yes, actually.” She straightens. “I came in because I need to talk to you about an event.”
Interest replaces my mild disappointment that she is not Jake. Not that there was disappointment. There was only recognition followed by a normal digestive response to coffee.
“What kind of event?”
“The Forge Creek Renewal Celebration. It’s next Saturday at The Foundry.”
“I saw a flyer about that.”
The celebration is part community event, part business showcase, and part excuse for Forge Creek residents to gather somewhere with food and alcohol. Several renovated downtown properties will be open for tours during the afternoon, followed by live music and dinner at The Foundry.
Kayla nods. “We don’t have anything for the dessert table.”
“We don’t necessarily need cupcakes,” Kayla continues. “The committee wanted something local, and you’re the newest business downtown. I thought muffins, cinnamon rolls, dessert bars. Or whatever you do best.”
Everything. I do everything best.
That is not arrogance. It is the standard required when most of your savings, part of your divorce settlement, and every ounce of your pride are tied to your new bakery business.
“How many people?” I ask
“We’re expecting around one hundred and fifty, but attendance could reach two hundred.”
My pulse jumps. Loralee makes a quiet, delighted sound beside me. I ignore her.
“What quantity are you considering?”
“Maybe two hundred individual items? A mix would be great. We’d display some during the afternoon tours and bring out the rest after dinner.”
Two hundred pastries.
The largest single order I have filled since opening Sweet Treats is three dozen muffins for the elementary school office.
Two hundred items would mean multiple batches, extended prep hours, careful storage, transport, and a display large enough to make everything look intentional rather than stacked wherever it fits.
It would also place my bakery in front of half the town. Possibly more.
“When would you need delivery?” I ask.
“Some items by noon. The rest by five.”
“That’s manageable.”
Loralee coughs. I turn my head, glaring at her. She smiles innocently.
Kayla studies me. “You opened recently, right?”
“Eleven days ago.”
“And you can handle two hundred?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes out before caution can tackle it. I can handle it. I will handle it. There is no point opening a business if I am afraid to accept business.
Kayla’s smile widens. “Perfect. I’ll need to confirm the budget with the committee, but could you give me a proposal by tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
She pulls out her phone, and we exchange contact information. Then I take down the details I will need: approximate guest count, setup times, available table space, allergies, preferred flavors, and whether The Foundry can provide refrigeration.
The answer to that last question is not enough. They have one reach-in cooler in the kitchen, but it will already be crowded with event food. My own walk-in is large enough for normal bakery operations, not two hundred extra pastries.
That is a problem for later.
I close the notes app.
“I can have a menu and estimate to you by noon tomorrow.”
“Wonderful.” Kayla collects the muffin box. “You should come by this afternoon and look at the setup area.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Three?”
“Three works.”
Kayla pays for her muffins, adding two orange-cinnamon coffees to the order after Loralee tells her the flavor promotes optimism and creative energy.
I chuckle under my breath but do not correct her claim because selling coffee is selling coffee.
Loralee waits until Kayla has crossed the street before turning toward me.
“You said yes very quickly.”
“I know my capabilities.”
“You also said your left eye starts twitching when you’re stressed.”
“My left eye is fine.”
“It twitched while you said that.”
I press one finger beneath it. It’s probably nothing. It is nothing. I will do this.
“I have more than a week to prepare,” I say. “Two hundred items is less than thirty per day if I spread production out.”
“Most baked goods do not improve after sitting for seven days.”
“I am aware of how baked goods work.”
“I thought so.”
I move behind the counter and pull a clean legal pad from the shelf beneath the register. Digital planning has its uses, but some situations require paper, columns, and the satisfying certainty of crossing things off. At the top, I write:
FORGE CREEK RENEWAL CELEbrATION
Under that:
200 ITEMS
Loralee watches as I begin calculating.
Muffins can be baked in advance and refreshed if stored properly, but the cinnamon rolls should be produced as close to the event as possible. Lemon-blueberry muffins would add color. Caramel apple would highlight the current weekly feature. Strawberry cream cheese would need extra cooler space.
Apple crisp cheesecake muffins would be perfect for Forge Creek. They’re familiar, substantial, and full of cinnamon. I write possible quantities beside each flavor.
“Do we know whether you’re working that Saturday?” I ask Loralee.
“I can be.”
“I need something more definite than that.”
“I’ll check my chart.”
“Check your calendar.”
“Ava, it’s hard to explain. But they work together.”
I continue writing. The front bell rings. This time, I do not look up immediately.
“Welcome to Sweet Treats,” I say. “I’ll be with you in one …”
“Did you miss me?”
My pen stops as I lift my head. Jake stands inside the door wearing the same dark T-shirt and worn jeans, although a streak of pale dust now crosses one shoulder. His boots are cleaner than they were earlier. Not clean, but cleaner.
“I forgot something.”
“Did you?”
His hazel eyes settle on mine.
His mouth shifts. “You found it.”
“I secured it.”
“In a secret location?”
“It would not be secret if I told you.”
His gaze drops toward the drawer beneath the register. I sigh, retrieve the multi-tool, and place it on the counter.
“There. Reunited.”
Jake picks it up but makes no move to leave. “Too much coffee today?”
My fingers rise instinctively toward my twitching eyelid before I stop them. Loralee makes a suspicious choking sound and retreats toward the coffee station.
“I may have my first large catering order.”
That gets Jake’s attention.
“The Foundry is holding the Forge Creek Renewal Celebration next Saturday. They’re expecting close to two hundred people, and I’m submitting a proposal for the pastries.”
“Two hundred items?”
“A mixture. Caramel apple muffins, lemon-blueberry, apple crisp cheesecake, cinnamon rolls, and possibly strawberry cream cheese if I can manage the refrigeration.”
“That’s a big order.”
“I can handle it.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t. How will you set it all up at The Foundry?”
Jake glances around the bakery, but this time I recognize concern rather than criticism. He waits for my answer as I glance at my notes on the legal pad.
“The Foundry has folding tables. I need something better than plastic trays lined up in rows, but I don’t know what I can order and have delivered in time.”
Jake leans one hand against the counter. “What do you want it to look like?”
His question surprises me.
“Warm. Rustic, but not rough. Something that fits The Foundry without making the pastries look like they were dropped off at a construction-site lunch.”
“I can build that.”
I stare at him.
“You can?”
“A three-tier display. Reclaimed wood with dark metal supports. I can make it in sections so you can transport it and use it again.”
The image forms immediately: muffins arranged at different heights, handwritten flavor cards tucked between the trays, cinnamon rolls displayed across the top. It would be perfect.
“How long would that take?”
“I can bring it here in two days.”
“Two days?”
“I have reclaimed boards at the shop. One of my guys can help me carry it over.”
I look at him, trying to determine whether he is exaggerating. His expression says he is discussing an ordinary piece of work.
“What would you charge?”
“Nothing.”
“No.”
“Ava …”
“I will not let you build something for my business without paying you.”
“I already have the wood.”
“There will be other materials.”
“A few.”
“I insist on paying for them.”
Jake studies me for a moment, then nods. “You can cover the materials.”
“And your labor.”
“No.”
“Jake.”
“If you insist on paying for the labor, I’ll charge you in muffins.”
“That is not how businesses operate.”
“It’s how this one will.”
I should argue. Instead, relief and excitement swell inside me until I cannot prevent another smile.
“You can really have it here in two days?”
“I said I could.”
“That would solve everything.”
“Not everything.” His gaze shifts toward the front door.
I point at him. “Do not ruin this moment by mentioning the hinge.”
His mouth curves.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I think about a lot of things.”
His eyes hold mine long enough for warmth to creep into my cheeks.
I look down and write PORTABLE DISPLAY on my list, followed by three firm lines beneath it.
“What time should I bring it?” he asks.
“After closing would be easiest. Around five?”
“I’ll be here.”
Jake slips the multi-tool back onto his belt and heads for the door. This time, he remembers to take it with him.
He stops before stepping outside.
“For the record, I didn’t leave it here on purpose.”
“Of course not.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then you’re unusually careless with your equipment.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Maybe I wanted another muffin.”
“That explanation is more believable.”
Jake gives me that slow, almost-smile and walks out. The hinge squeaks behind him. I choose not to care.
In two days, Jake Dalton is bringing me exactly what I need, built specifically for Sweet Treats. There is nothing dangerous about feeling this happy over a pastry display. At least, that is what I tell myself.