Carpentry and Cocktails

by Smartypants Romance

  Baking Me Crazy

  Donner Bakery Book #1

  Karla Sorensen

  www.smartypantsromance.com

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

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  Copyright © 2019 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Made in the United States of America

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  eBook Edition

  Contents

  Author's Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Stud Muffin, Book #2 in the Donner Bakery Series by Jiffy Kate

  Other books by Karla Sorensen

  Dedication

  To my mom, the biggest cheerleader in my life.

  Author's Note

  Approaching the character of Joss, it was very important to both me and Penny to make sure that she was honestly written and an accurate reflection what life might be like for a young woman living with Transverse Myelitis. I could probably fill an entire chapter talking about the research that took over my life while I was working on this book, the women who inspired Joss and what she's physically capable of, and how she lives her life. I could fill another chapter talking about Brittany, the amazing young woman who offered to be my sensitivity reader for Baking Me Crazy. Because of Brittany, and our conversations, emails and online chats, I changed the reason that Joss is in a wheelchair. I could talk to you about Steph, a wonderful, kind blogger, who took the time to make sure that I was telling Joss’ story in a way that respected her own journey.

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  Joss is a fictional individual that is directly inspired by a couple different women, and that inspiration plays out in her emotions, her personality, and her physical capabilities. And because she is an individual, it's impossible for Joss to fully encompass or represent everyone's experience. If there are errors in wording, or phrasing, those errors are mine alone, and in no way reflective of the people who shared their story with me.

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  I hope you love her half as much as I do.

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  For more information on Transverse Myelitis, please visit myelitis.org

  Prologue

  Levi

  Five years earlier

  Until the day I finally spoke to Jocelyn Abernathy, I never really believed in the Buchanan curse. I made it to the ripe age of eighteen years and three days old before it finally got hold of me. I'd heard my father talk about meeting my mom when he was fifteen, and how it felt like someone grabbed his heart and said, hey, look at that one, we like that one. My middle brother told me that when he met Sylvia—both of them sixteen—his brain short-circuited, and it took him two months to be able to make intelligible conversation with her.

  As far back as my great-great-great-grandfather, it’s been said that Buchanan men fall in love only once, and they fall in love—real, true love—the moment they meet the one. And once a Buchanan found The One, that was it. Nothing would come close, no one else would suffice, and you'd lay your heart out on the train tracks before walking away.

  The day I met Jocelyn Abernathy, it was her hair that caught my notice first. It sprang out of the top of her head like someone shook up a box of wound-up, champagne-colored springs and then set them loose. It was so crazy, so wildly overwhelming, that her bright blue eyes and high cheekbones were a very distant second and third.

  Of the players on the team I was assistant coaching, she was the fastest, had the most natural talent—her three-point shots were so beautiful, I almost cried when I watched her run drills—but she was also the quietest. It took two weeks of practice before I even got the chance to talk to her.

  Every time I saw her use deft, strong movements to propel her wheelchair forward, blond curls bouncing wildly when she spun around to steal the ball during practice or when she'd ram into the side of someone else's chair to try to snag a rebound, I got this persistent tug in my head.

  You know when you woke up in the middle of the night and realized you forgot to do something? It was like that. But the thing I was forgetting felt critical. Forgetting your mom's birthday. Forgetting to show up for a midterm. Forgetting to do your taxes—not that I was old enough to do my own taxes, but it was on that level.

  That feeling like I hadn't done something vital was a churning in my stomach, all acid and knots, until practice on the first day of week three. Along the back of the gymnasium, part of the converted elementary school that we used as the Green Valley Community Center, I sat with my legs dangling over the edge of the wooden stage, looking at Coach's beat-up clipboard to prep for the drills he wanted to run that day.

  Because the weather was still warm, and it made it easier for our players, we had the metal doors propped open with little plastic wedges. I heard her chair pop noisily over the small metal lip of the entrance when she came in.

  "Abernathy, right?" I heard Earl ask from his perch at the long rectangular table. Earl and Merl, both in their nineties if they were a day, took it upon themselves to be the unofficial greeting committee for every activity held at the community center.

  My head jerked up when I heard him say her last name.

  She pulled her chair to a stop, twisting it as she did to face the two men. "Yes, sir."

  He nodded, swiping at his forehead covered by the red hat I'd swear he'd had since the day he was born. "I knew your grandma. She was good people even though she always wore that ugly purple hat to church."

  Merl leaned in, cupping a hand to his ear. "Which hat?"

  "The purple one," Earl bellowed. "With the yellow bird on the front."

  The two men nodded while Joss waited patiently. Or impatiently, as her fingers tapped rapidly along the top curve of her wheels.

  "I can't say I've seen the hat," she said.

  "It didn't come with the house?" Merl asked. "We heard she left you and your ma that house. Must have the hat in there somewhere."

  "Not that I've seen. But I'll try to find it for you if you'd like."

  Earl tapped the side of his red hat with a gnarled finger, chuckling hard enough to spur a coughing fit. "Sure, sure, you've got Ruby's sense of humor too."

  I was far enough away that I had to strain to hear her response, but she delivered it with a slight smile on her face—her favored facial expression, as I'd learned.

  "I'll have to take your word on that one. I didn't know her well, but I've heard a lot of good things about her."

  Earl tsked,
looking her up and down. "Shame about your legs."

  I rolled my eyes because I'd heard them say it to just about every person on the team.

  "Heard you got a cold," Merl said loudly, like she couldn't hear him. Everyone in the gym could hear him. "Got a cold and they just stopped working, isn't that right?"

  She gave another small, tight smile. "Something like that."

  It wasn't a cold, I wanted to shout. Not that I'd asked Coach. (I'd absolutely asked Coach.) Or googled her diagnoses, transverse myelitis—paralysis caused by an infection that triggers inflammation of the spinal cord—a dozen or so times in the past two weeks. (I'd googled it the night I saw her for the first time.)

  Earl glanced at her over his thick glasses. "Looks like you must've been a helluva basketball player before it happened." He clucked his tongue. "Shame. A crying shame, that is."

  Jocelyn laughed under her breath, snagging a basketball from the ground next to the table where they sat. It spun up on her finger like it was held by a string. "I still am, sir. It's the damnedest thing, but you don't actually need your legs to shoot perfect threes."

  I barked out a laugh, and her head snapped in my direction.

  She nodded at the men, then dribbled the ball next to her as she pushed toward me.

  Her hair was braided tightly to her head today, and I wanted to undo it to see the curls spring out in every which direction. But as she got closer, her eyes trained on me for the first time, I stopped thinking about her hair. I didn't really think about the fact that Earl and Merl had their weathered hats bent in, watching us with unabashed interest.

  All I could do was send up a fervent prayer that I wouldn’t say something stupid, that I wouldn't stare, wouldn't stumble over my words, or come off like a crazy person who, after eighteen years and three days, finally believed in family curses and love at first sight.

  As she came closer, it felt strange to sit up on the stage so far above her. I was no slouch at six feet one, but the raised platform kept us uncomfortably separated. I hopped off and wiped a hand down my gym shorts.

  My heart stuttered once, twice, and then a third time for good measure when she continued to hold my gaze as she wheeled over the floor. She almost went past the hoop, only blinking away for a second to flick the ball up in a reverse layup that went in so smoothly the net barely moved.

  The men cheered, and I smiled. Her eyes, back on me now and brighter than I realized, were center of the flame blue.

  Ocean off the coast of Greece blue.

  The curse is not real, the curse is not real, I chanted over and over in my head. The curse is not real, and whether you want to admit it or not, you now currently reside in a city called Denial.

  "Saddle up, Coach," she said, tilting her pointed chin at a few extra wheelchairs lined up neatly against the stage.

  "Saddle what?" were the first stunningly impressive words out of my mouth. Honestly, I was just glad I didn't croak like a bullfrog since my throat was as dry as scorched dirt.

  An eyebrow over one of those bright blue eyes lifted slowly. "Yourself? I need to kick your ass in a game of one-on-one, so those old guys quit telling me how great I must've been every time they see me."

  I blinked a few times, and she gave me a look that had me questioning whether I was imagining this entire exchange. I hoped I was because the times in my life that I'd choked talking to someone of the female gender was zero. Zero times.

  And at my first opportunity to speak to this particular woman, I'd managed two words.

  Saddle what?

  Before I could try to redeem myself, she sighed and pushed one hand down on her right wheel, sending her gliding quickly over to where the ball landed. I blew out a quick breath and went to grab one of the spare chairs parked next to the bleachers. As per the rules, I strapped my legs together with a large, black elastic band and then rolled my neck back forth until I felt a pop at the base of my skull.

  My chair was far more basic than her athletically designed one. Her wheels were thinner and wider, she had small wheels along the back for stability during play, and her backrest was only a few inches tall. While I got myself settled in the chair, she spun in tight circles, stopping and pivoting quickly to dribble the ball and flick it up to the net.

  She wanted to prove something to Earl and Merl? No problem.

  No really, it wasn't a problem. She was so much better than me in every single category, and not because of any attempt on my part to be chivalrous.

  Without breaking a sweat, Jocelyn kicked the ever-loving shit out of me on that court. I saw her grin once—though it was gone as soon as I blinked—and it was because she hit a shot from so far past the key that I swore under my breath.

  Great. The second thing I said to her was a curse word. My mother would rip my ear off.

  Coach entered the gym, followed by a few of the players. They all watched from the sidelines as Jocelyn pummeled me into submission, shot after shot, until she rammed my chair hard enough that I pitched forward as she tried to snatch the ball after I bricked it off the rim.

  "Oh, come on, that was a foul," I yelled out.

  Jocelyn glanced over at Coach, who held his hands up. "Looked clean to me, Levi. Better hit some shots. You're embarrassing me out there."

  Earl chuckled. Merl slapped his leg.

  Jocelyn pursed her lips to keep from smiling, and I felt it again.

  A tug. A reminder. Someone poking me in the back to get me going in the right direction.

  Do something. You're not doing what you're supposed to be doing.

  I held up a hand to pause the play even though there was no earthly way I could catch up to her. She stopped moving and set the ball in her lap.

  "Do you give up?" she asked.

  Under my breath, I laughed, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. "I have a strong sense of self-preservation, so yes, I concede."

  Jocelyn tossed me the ball, and I caught it. "Good game."

  I raised an eyebrow at her, which made her grin again. It was another quick one, just a hint of her full smile. The words were out of my mouth before I could think twice.

  "Would you like to go out to dinner with me?"

  Her face froze, the seemingly endless confidence I'd seen since she first came through the doors showing its first hiccup. "You wanna what?"

  I breathed out a laugh, glad that no one was within earshot now. My body relaxed for the first time since she approached me. This is what I was supposed to do. "I'd love it if you'd allow me to take you out to dinner."

  She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed me suspiciously. "You don't know me. What if I'm fourteen, and you just became the pervy coach who asked out a minor?"

  My head cocked to the side. "Well, then you'd have some explaining to do since you have to be sixteen in order to play."

  Jocelyn puffed air out of her mouth. Not quite a laugh, but it was something. "Do you even know my name? Because I don't know yours."

  Liar, I wanted to say. Coach yelled at me every practice, but I let it slide.

  I held out my hand. "Levi Buchanan. Born and raised in Green Valley, just turned eighteen, future exercise science major at Maryville College, and youngest of three boys. And I'm terrible at wheelchair basketball."

  Her nose wrinkled like I'd thrown dirt in her face, but she shook my hand.

  "Jocelyn Abernathy, not born or raised in Green Valley, sixteen years old, I'm not terrible at wheelchair basketball, and my friends call me Joss." She tilted her head. "Or they would if I had friends."

  Again, I laughed, but her face didn't change from that same mildly amused expression. My smile dropped, and I cleared my throat, not quite sure what to say to that.

  The other players, sensing that our match was over, started passing drills on the opposite side of the court, with Coach yelling suggestions. Jocelyn watched them for a second, her cheeks taking on a pink tinge that I couldn't decipher because she didn't seem pleased by my offer. Surprised, maybe, but there was no excite
ment in her eyes and no fidgeting of her hands.

  When she glanced back at me, her gaze was direct.

  Tennessee summer sky over the mountains blue.

  "I'm not …" She swallowed. "I'm not in a place where I'm ready to have dinner with anyone, Levi." She gestured weakly at her lap and legs. "Even though it's been two years since I got sick and ended up … like this, it's still … it still takes up a lot of my head. I can't think about dinners," she said it quietly, looking far older than her sixteen years. "Or anything like that right now."

  I nodded, using two mental hands to shove down the biting sense of disappointment.

  Stupid Buchanan curse.

  I expected that same thing prodding me forward would start railing, turning the nudge into something more persistent, but it was quiet. Waiting for what she said next.

  "But," she continued, hesitation written all over her face, in her wrinkled brow, the uncomfortable smile, "finishing high school on your computer doesn't give you much of a social life. Especially when you're new in town." Her fingers curled together on her lap. "Maybe … maybe a new friend wouldn't be so bad."

  It made no sense that I'd know, instantly and with complete surety, that what she'd just admitted to me was a gift. Something real and raw, hard for her to say out loud, something I definitely hadn't earned yet, but that I'd hold carefully, nonetheless.