by Maggie Knox
Charlie shrugged, shifting slightly away so he would stop touching her. “Just burned some of the sourdough.”
“That’s not like you,” Brett said. Then, more quietly, “I’m sure you’re upset about last night. But I’m not mad, babe.”
She somehow held back the flurry of things she would have liked to unleash on Brett. “I’m good. Better than good, actually. I’m fantastic.”
Charlie moved behind the bakery counter and away from Brett, opening one of the cardboard boxes. “I need to pack this up for the crew. Hey, Jake?” she called out. He popped his head back through the doorway. “A little of everything?”
Jake nodded, walking back inside. “That would be great.”
Brett seemed oblivious to Charlie’s disdain and made no move to get out of her way. Charlie had strict rules about her workspace, and she knew Cass was the same; they had been well taught by their father. “A chef’s domain should always be free of clutter, mess, and anyone who doesn’t understand the art of the work,” Thomas Goodwin liked to say. Though he had worked in top-ranked Zagat restaurants before they were born, their dad always seemed happy with small-town life, much like Cass.
Now Brett stood behind Charlie, peering into the ovens, then at the blackened loaves in the sink. He whistled. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse than some burned bread.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Charlie tried to tune Brett out, concentrating instead on filling the box for the hot firefighter standing in front of her, whose presence she found highly distracting. What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually so unfocused. She lived in L.A., where all you had to do was throw a pebble and you’d hit a half-dozen attractive actors.
“I’m surprised you didn’t smell the smoke,” Brett said, and Charlie wished he would go back to whatever it was he was doing before he arrived at the bakery and leave her—and Cass—alone. Ideally forever.
“Well, I was . . . taking the cat for a quick walk before the bakery opened,” she replied, swallowing hard. The fact that she still couldn’t smell or taste anything was a worrisome reminder about what had happened and why she was here in the first place.
Jake laughed. “You took Gateau out for a walk? In the snow?”
“Cats need walks, too.” He knew Cass’s cat’s name was Gateau? Why had Cass never mentioned Jake? He was definitely worth mentioning. “Pet obesity is a real problem, you know.”
Jake held up his hands at her tone. “You don’t have to tell me. Bonnie’s on a diet right now.”
“Bonnie?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah, Bonnie. My Lab?” Jake tilted his head, giving Charlie a curious look.
“Of course. How could I forget Bonnie?” Charlie focused on arranging the baked goods in the box.
“The vet said she needs to lose a few pounds for her joints, so no more lemon squares for her. Gran has been sharing them a bit too liberally,” Jake said.
“Cass and I were talking about getting a rescue.” Brett helped himself to one of the chocolate chip cookies, straight out of the box Charlie was packing up. She wanted to slap his hand away. “But we would need something nonshedding. Nothing worse than dog hair all over the furniture.”
“You get used to it.” Jake shrugged. “Just need a good vacuum.”
“Here you go,” Charlie said, handing the box of treats to Jake. The rest of the department was already back on the truck waiting for him. “Thanks again.”
“It’s our job, but you’re welcome,” Jake said.
“Yeah. Thanks, man.” Brett slapped Jake on the shoulder. He had to reach up slightly as Jake was a solid few inches taller than him. “See you tomorrow at ten?”
“For sure.” Jake nodded. Charlie wondered what they were referring to. It was only day one of pretending to be Cass and she was overwhelmed. How was she going to pull this off for the rest of the week?
Brett leaned in to kiss Charlie, but she turned her head when she realized what was happening, so his lips landed somewhere around her jaw. There was an awkward moment of silence, but Brett recovered quickly, saying, “Bye, babe. I’ll come back and check on you later.”
She murmured, “No need,” but Brett was already out the door. Charlie exhaled loudly. She looked behind her at the blackened loaves and pressed a hand to her forehead.
Jake gave her a sympathetic look. “Hey, maybe don’t take Gateau out for a walk while you have bread in the oven? And you might want to double-check all those oven timers again. Just to be safe.”
“Just to be safe,” Charlie said, clearing her throat. “I will.”
“Bye, Cass.”
“Bye,” Charlie said, wondering where Jake the firefighter had come from.
5
Cass
Wednesday: 10 Days to Christmas . . .
Los Angeles
The sound of an alarm interrupted the dream Cass was having about showing up to the Sweet & Salty set wearing an apron and high heels . . . and nothing else. She opened her eyes and, for a moment, wasn’t sure where she was. The sheets surrounding her were soft and silky, not flannel like the ones she used at home; she rolled to her side and saw a large window overlooking glittering lights in a still-dark city. Los Angeles. Right. She was at Charlie’s place.
She reached for her phone to turn off the alarm and check the time: it was five-thirty in the morning. Nothing from her sister yet, whom she had texted a few times the night before. Cass was going to need to find time today to call the bakery and find out how things were going, and ask when Charlie was going to send the file with the rest of the recipes for the week. She was happy to see a text from her parents in Cabo and smiled when she opened it. She had tried to teach her dad how to take selfies before they left for the trip. But this attempt he had sent featured a huge swath of ocean and the tops of her parents’ heads. We saw dozens of humpbacks on an early morning outing today! Miss you and love you girls. Hope all is well, read the text.
Things are GREAT! Cass typed back. P.S. Try moving the phone down a little next time? ;-) She hit send, then yawned, wishing she could turn the clocks back at least an hour or two.
She had returned home the night before worn out from her first day on set, but still needing to test run the cupcake recipe her sister had left for her on the kitchen island for the next day’s Sweet & Salty Challenge Round—when both she and Austin were required to present a recipe to the contestants. She knew Charlie and Austin weren’t technically in competition, but by the end of the first day it had sure felt that way.
The theme was “Holiday Party” and Charlie’s recipe was for an eggnog-inspired cupcake. Unfortunately, as Cass was measuring out the ingredients, feeling clumsy because nothing was where she expected it to be, she managed to spill a full cup of eggnog onto the handwritten recipe. The thick liquid ran the ink beyond legibility, and Charlie didn’t have enough eggnog in the fridge for Cass to start again. She had almost called her sister in a panic—but had stopped herself. She was a chef, too. She could fix this. She could figure this out. There was no need to upset Charlie, who had enough on her plate running a busy bakery.
She had started going through her sister’s cupboards looking for inspiration and had found dusty bottles of prosecco and Aperol tucked at the back of a cupboard, likely leftover from a holiday gathering Charlie once had. Cass’s favorite cocktail was the Aperol Spritz. The beverage—an Italian aperitif made by mixing bubbly prosecco and the bitter, red-colored liquor Aperol, then adding a twist of orange rind—was her idea of festive, with its lovely red hue and sparkling bubbles. This would be the perfect way to transform a humble cupcake into something that would impress everyone at Sweet & Salty, and outshine Austin.
Cass was used to the bakery’s traditional recipes: lemon and date squares, cinnamon rolls, pies, breads, classic cakes, and birthday cupcakes. She often added her own twist, like a shortbread crust and burnt sugar topping for her lemon squares, and o
range zest and maple syrup in her date square crumble. But this was different. It was fun. As she worked late into the night, she kept adding new elements to the recipe to make it even more special. Her recipe waited on a rumpled and stained sheet of paper that was almost as illegible as the one she had spilled eggnog on—but she was sure she’d be able to explain it all to Sydney when she arrived on set. And by then, Charlie’s promised recipe file would have arrived and it would be smooth sailing for the rest of the week.
Cass rooted through Charlie’s cupboards for coffee, remembering as she reached for the canister that she’d used the last of it the day before. With a heavy sigh, Cass plodded toward the shower, which was filled with myriad smoothing, renewing, shine-infusing products. She ignored them all and stuck with shampoo and body wash. She put on some basic face cream—plucked from a cosmetics-crowded medicine cabinet—smoothed on some lip balm, pulled her still-wet hair into a messy bun, dressed in a pair of jeans she’d brought with her and a sweatshirt of Charlie’s, then grabbed the car keys and security pass.
With the help of her cell phone, Cass found the nearest open coffee shop, a place called the Hive that was just down the mid-city Santa Monica block, which was lined with condos, townhomes, palm trees, and Savannah oaks. She walked quickly past it all, desperate for her caffeine fix.
Soon, the coffee shop came into view, but as she reached the front door, Cass realized there were no lights on inside. She checked her phone—6:08 a.m. The sign on the door said it opened at six o’clock every morning, except Sundays. Cass tried the door handle, but it was locked. She turned back to the street, looking up and down for another option—but all she could see was the disappointingly familiar Makewell’s logo—jaunty and art deco—shining bright on the front of a building directly across the street. What was worse was that there was a life-size cutout of Makewell’s founder, Sarah Rosen, grinning in the window. Cass had read about her in a Forbes article—apparently she was a mere twenty-five years old and was well on her way to creating a global empire. The speech bubble above Sarah’s head said Makewell’s was “Famous because we’re that good!”
“What is it with this day?” Cass said, turning away from the image and the idea of Sarah Rosen trampling her family business, and leaning her forehead against the glass door. “I need coffee, damn it!”
Someone cleared his throat behind her. She turned, embarrassed that her caffeine-deprivation outburst had a witness. “Oh, morning,” she said to the amused-looking dark-haired man standing a couple of feet away. “Don’t bother,” she added, gesturing to the dark storefront. “They’re closed. And the only other option is . . . unsuitable.” She glowered at Makewell’s storefront, then pulled out her phone and started walking away, planning to find another coffeehouse as quickly as she could.
“Charlie? Charlie Goodwin?”
She stopped and turned back. The man’s head was tilted and his expression was quizzical. He was wearing hospital-green scrubs, and a Cedars-Sinai Hospital ID badge hung from a lanyard around his neck.
“Hi there,” she said, trying to sound relaxed and like she had some idea who he was. She glanced again at his ID tag, hoping to catch his name, but it had flipped around. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” he said. “But . . . how are you?” He watched her intently, and Cass started to squirm under his gaze. Charlie hadn’t mentioned any medical professionals in her litany of people Cass needed to know or look out for. But this guy clearly knew who she was, and his worried expression was beginning to worry Cass. He took a step toward her and gave her a smile that showcased two perfect dimples.
“Charlie, it’s Miguel. Miguel Rodriguez? I treated you when you came to the ER the other day.”
“Right! Miguel! Of course I remember you.” In truth, this Miguel would be hard to forget. Cass couldn’t believe Charlie hadn’t mentioned that the doctor who treated her was so gorgeous. “Sorry. I’m always a little foggy when I haven’t had my morning coffee. Just looking for a quick fix before I head to work.”
Now his expression grew more concerned. “I had recommended taking some time off. You’re heading to work today?”
Oh, damn it. “I’m feeling great, actually. And I hate to admit it, but I’m not the best at . . . following directions?” She smiled again, and he returned it this time; relief coursed through her, along with something else. Those dimples, full lips, perfect teeth, and eyes that could only be described as soulful were hard to ignore. Seriously, Cass? Get a grip. “Although I’d be feeling a lot better if these doors were open.”
“Me, too,” Miguel said. “And these guys always say they open at six, so I come here when I’ve got an early shift.” He leaned toward Cass, cupping a hand to one side of his mouth, as though sharing a great secret with her. “But one of the baristas has no appreciation for time or caffeine addicts, and today is his day to open, I guess.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve noticed that, too,” Cass said, nodding as though she was the commiserating Charlie who regularly frequented the Hive. “Every now and then this place has a dark morning. And, as you witnessed, it’s never less than devastating. Partly because I can never bring myself to go to Makewell’s.”
Miguel’s handsome grin deepened. “I hear you! Who wants baked-from-frozen muffins and terrible coffee? There’s no accounting for some tastes.” One last twinkle of those dimples. “So . . . you come here often?” He laughed and looked a bit sheepish. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”
Cass laughed as well, feeling altogether charmed. “I do. I have to be on set pretty early.”
“Well, I’m surprised I haven’t run into you before,” Miguel said. Cass couldn’t help but notice the way he said it, as if he would definitely have noticed her. Of course, he thought she was Charlie, but she was flattered regardless.
“But I shouldn’t be surprised that the famous Charlie Goodwin would come here. In my opinion, this place has the best cinnamon rolls and Danishes in L.A. And not a green juice or smoothie bowl on the menu.” He raised an eyebrow and Cass felt wobbly inside again, but this time it had nothing to do with exhaustion or a lack of caffeine. Not only was this guy after her own heart—she had never understood the obsession with unsatisfying liquid breakfasts—but he was also adorable.
“Right? My kingdom for a carb- and sugar-laden breakfast baked fresh! Who can live on chia pudding and green smoothies?”
“It would be like only living half a life,” he said, shaking his head in mock sorrow.
“As a medical professional, though, shouldn’t you be highly invested in the superfood breakfast bowl movement?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Good thing I don’t work in the cardiac unit,” Miguel replied with a wink. “Besides, I was raised to be of the opinion that everything is okay, in moderation. If you don’t have the real thing once in a while, you’ll be miserable.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Cass said, then glanced at her phone. “I have to run. The transition from freshly showered to show-ready is not a quick one.”
Miguel chuckled, then held her gaze. “I think you look great.”
Cass’s breath caught and she stayed still, suddenly not wanting the moment to be over.
He cleared his throat, and seemed a touch embarrassed. “Also, I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to go to work. That’s great news.”
“Yes, good as new,” Cass said, becoming lost in his warm eyes again. Then her phone buzzed and she broke eye contact to glance at the text. Priya.
Where are you??
“It was nice to see you again, Miguel,” Cass said, holding up the phone. “But I really need to go. The makeup department is getting restless.”
“For sure. Don’t let me keep you,” Miguel replied, giving a small wave. “And say hi to Priya for me.”
“Oh, you know Priya?”
Miguel’s smile disappeared and he gave her a puzzled look. “I met Priya, too.
She brought you in.” Now he frowned. “Charlie, are you sure you’re alright?”
Cass’s cheeks burned, in part because of the intense way he was looking at her, and in part because she knew she was screwing everything up. “Never better,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “It’s just the no-coffee fog. And I was up all night working on a recipe for today’s show.”
“Sleep is really important for concussions,” Miguel said, frown still in place. “And we talked about the importance of taking a bit of time off work.”
“I’ll go to bed extra early. Promise,” Cass said, feeling the phone buzz again in her palm. “And I’m taking it really easy at work. I swear.”
Miguel nodded, dimpled smile back in action. “So, before you run off, can you tell me what the recipe is? I can keep a secret.”
Cass hesitated, and Miguel held up a hand in apology. “You can’t tell me, I get it. Forget I even asked. It’s just . . . as I mentioned in the ER, I’m a big fan of your show. Like, geek level.”
“Yeah. I’m a big fan, too.”
“Of your own show?” Miguel laughed, and Cass pulled a face.
“Well, sure. It’s a great show!”
This made Miguel laugh even harder, which made Cass feel good. But the buzz of incoming texts reminded her she had reached situation critical. She had to get to the set, right now.
But she had an idea. It wasn’t a good one, given that wherever possible she should be avoiding people who had interactions with Charlie that Cass knew nothing about. However, in this moment outside the still-dark café she felt like she suddenly really was a different person—someone much more confident and bold than the woman she was in Starlight Peak.
“Listen, the holiday baking marathon is being taped in front of a live audience. Maybe you’d like to come watch a taping one day this week?” Cass had no clue if she was allowed to invite people to join the audience, but she figured Charlie had enough pull that it would be fine.
