13. Chapter 13
Ava
The first tray of caramel apple muffins disappears in minutes. I know because I check the time when Kayla carries the empty tray into The Foundry’s kitchen and places it beside me.
“You have more, right?”
“Three boxes beneath the prep table.”
“Good. There may be a riot otherwise.”
Out in the main room, nearly two hundred people move between heavy wooden tables, the bar, and displays from businesses throughout Forge Creek.
Music plays near the small stage. Glasses clink.
Conversations rise beneath the exposed steel beams. And directly beneath one of those beams stands the Sweet Treats display.
My display.
Jake’s reclaimed oak shelves are filled with muffins and cinnamon rolls arranged at different heights, every flavor identified by a small handwritten card.
Caramel apple occupies the center tier. Lemon-blueberry and strawberry cream cheese add bright color beside the deeper brown of the apple crisp cheesecake muffins.
People are photographing it. They are photographing my food. For one brief moment, I stand inside the kitchen doorway and let myself absorb what is happening.
Eleven days ago, Sweet Treats opened with one employee, an unpredictable front-door hinge, and a bank account that made me afraid to calculate how many pounds of butter stood between me and financial disaster. Today, half of Forge Creek knows my bakery’s name.
“Boss?”
“What?” I ask.
Jake points toward the coffee station. “The line is blocking the front of the display.”
My first instinct is to tell him to move it. I stop myself. He noticed the problem but did not act without me.
“What do you recommend?”
A smile comes across his face. “Move the coffee station closer to the bar and angle the display toward the entrance.”
I study the room. He is right.
“Do it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jake signals Cole, and they begin shifting the urns and small table. He does not rearrange the pastries or change anything else. He moves exactly what I approved, then returns to wait beside the display. The crowd flows more easily almost immediately.
Someone near the bar calls, “Dalton, are you changing careers?”
Jake gives a smirk. “The benefits are still under negotiation.”
Several people laugh. My entire body warms. I turn away before he catches me smiling.
Kayla joins me at the display with another empty tray. “You may need a bigger bakery.”
“Let me survive the one I have.”
“A woman from the historic inn wants catering information. Two people asked whether you take holiday orders, and Sheriff Callahan bought six muffins after saying he only wanted coffee.”
“That sounds like Jake’s influence.”
Across the room, Jake is explaining the display’s reclaimed wood to an older couple. When they ask whether he designed it, he gestures toward me.
“Ava told me what she wanted. I only built it.”
Only. As though he did not choose the century-old oak, add the curved header, or carve the little apple beside my bakery’s name. He gives me the ownership anyway.
My ex-husband believed Sweet Treats would become an expensive embarrassment. Jake looks proud every time another person stops at the table.
My ex wanted me to choose something safer, smaller, and easier for him to understand. Jake built a display big enough for my ambition.
Jake does not want to own my dream. He wants a place beside me while I build it. The final cinnamon roll sells shortly after dinner begins.
I am rearranging the remaining muffins when Kayla appears with a platter from The Foundry’s kitchen.
“Try one of these,” she says. “New appetizer.”
Small pieces of bacon glisten beneath a maple-bourbon glaze. Jake reaches for one. I tap his hand with the serving tongs.
He gives me a look. “I thought we had moved beyond this.”
“You still have to wait your turn.”
Kayla offers him the platter directly.
“Favoritism,” I say.
Jake bites into the bacon, then glances toward the single cinnamon roll I saved behind the display for myself.
Before I can stop him, he tears off one corner, places a piece of the glazed bacon on top, and eats them together. I stare at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You just put bacon on my cinnamon roll.”
“It works.”
“It is an abuse of pastry.”
“Try it.”
“I will not.”
Kayla holds out another piece of bacon.
I break off a portion of the roll, add the smallest possible amount of glaze, and taste it.
Bourbon. Maple. Smoke. Salt. Cinnamon. My irritation disappears beneath a rush of possibilities.
Jake recognizes the expression immediately. “What?”
“I could make this better.”
“It already tastes good.”
“I could put maple into the filling, add a bourbon glaze, and crumble candied bacon over the top.”
Kayla nods. “I would buy that.”
Jake reaches for another piece of my roll. “Make two.”
“I’ll make one test batch.”
“What will you call it?”
“I haven’t decided.”
I look at Jake happily destroying a cinnamon roll with bacon, and know exactly what the new recipe will be called. The Dalton. He does not need to know that yet.
By the time the celebration begins winding down, only seven muffins remain. I have collected three catering inquiries, a page of holiday orders, and more compliments than I know how to accept without becoming emotional.
Jake helps me pack the flavor cards and empty trays. Every time he notices something that needs doing, he looks at me first. I nod or give him an instruction. He follows it. The difference is so simple I wonder why neither of us understood it before.
When the last customer moves toward the bar, I join Jake beside the empty display.
“You were very good at taking orders tonight.”
“I had a demanding boss.”
“You liked it.”
“More than I should.”
“Thank you … for everything,” I say.
His expression becomes serious.
“The display. The plumbing. Moving the kitchen. Listening when I told you what I needed.”
“You asked me to help. I wanted to do it your way.”
“I noticed.”
Jake waits, giving me room to continue.
“I’m still not happy about the inspection.”
“I don’t expect you to be.”
“But I know you aren’t my ex-husband.”
Relief moves across his face, although he does not step closer.
“I made you feel the same way,” he says. “That was enough to make it wrong.”
The apology contains no defense. That matters, too.
Kayla calls my name from the kitchen, asking where I want the remaining boxes.
“In my car,” I answer.
Jake reaches for them automatically, then stops.
I smile. “Yes, you may carry the boxes.”
He collects all three at once. Show-off.
An hour later, the display is packed into Jake’s truck, the bakery supplies are inside my vehicle, and The Foundry is nearly empty.
Jake closes my rear hatch. “Anything else, boss?”
“Yes.”
He looks interested.
“Meet me at Black River Overlook in an hour.”
His expression changes, uncertainty slipping beneath the humor.
“Am I being called in for a performance review?”
“Something like that.”
“Should I bring representation?”
“You should probably change first.”
He nods solemnly. “Understood.”
I turn away, then glance back.
“I’m going to freshen up too.”
Jake’s slow smile appears. I walk toward my vehicle before he sees how much I am smiling. He catches my hand as I pass him, his fingers warm around mine.
“Ava?”
I turn.
“Are we okay?”
I think about the inspection, the repaired pipe, the empty pastry display, and the way Jake stood beside me tonight without once trying to stand in front of me.
“We’re not finished,” I tell him.
His thumb moves lightly across my knuckles.
“That sounds promising.”
“It might be.”
I release his hand and open my door.
“One hour,” I say.
I drive away with the taste of bourbon, maple, and possibility still on my tongue.