My Cupcake, My Love
by
Carolynn Carey
My Cupcake, My Love
Copyright © 2013 Carolynn Carey
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights reserved under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without proper written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmark mentioned in this work of fiction:
Jeep: Chrysler Group LLC
Cover design by Dar Albert
Other Titles by Carolynn Carey
Christmas with Tiffany
The Secret Christmas Ciphers
Prognosis for Happiness
Lily for a Day
Dealing with Denver
Falling for Dallas
A Summer Sentence
My Elusive Countess
A Christmas Spirit of Forgiveness
Compromising Situations
About the Author
Three of Carolynn Carey’s manuscripts were finalists in the Golden Heart contest of the Romance Writers of America before her first book (A Summer Sentence) was published by Avalon Books in 2005. That book, a contemporary, was a finalist in the HOLT Medallion contest and in the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence Contest as well as placing first in the traditional category of the Romance Writers Ink contest. Her first published historical novel, Compromising Situations, won the National Readers’ Choice Award in the Regency category and the 2008 Laurie Award for Published Authors. Ms. Carey continues to write both historical novels set in the Regency period and contemporaries set in her home state of Tennessee.
Chapter One
Briana Galen stopped in her tracks when the bell above her bakery shop door chimed. Sighing, she turned to look at the clock on the kitchen wall behind her. Five minutes before closing time. That was par for the course.
But a customer was a customer, so she hurried into the front of the store carrying the special-order strawberry layer cake she’d just finished icing. She eased the cake onto the counter, then forced a smile before turning to face her last-minute customer.
She wasn’t surprised to see Arthur Wheeler moseying through the door. He owned Great Smoky Mercantile, the country-themed general store next door, and he visited her shortly before closing time almost every day. Today she noticed that a dark-haired man and a little blonde girl entered just on Mr. Wheeler’s heels. The little girl took off to the side of the store where Bri displayed examples of her various Valentine-themed baked goods. The man followed the child while Mr. Wheeler sauntered up to the counter, a grin on his broad face and his hands shoved into the pockets of his baggie overalls. His shirt today was fire engine red, while his bright green cap would have put a loblolly pine to shame.
“Afternoon, Miz Galen,” he said, just as he did every afternoon. “Whatcha got good today?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wheeler.” Bri, as always, responded in a tone that bordered on cool. This was part of the game she and Arthur played. Bri had understood for years that teasing was his way of expressing his fondness for her, so she responded in kind. “I see that you’re still wearing your Christmas-themed shirt and cap. Perhaps it’s escaped your attention, but Christmas is over. In fact, in a little less than two weeks, it will be Valentine’s Day.”
“Ah, well, Miz Galen, if I could afford to switch caps every time a new holiday rolls around, I wouldn’t need to come in here begging for day-old bakery goods, now would I? Have you got anything left over from yesterday that a man might take home to his hungry young’uns?”
Considering that Arthur and Mary Wheeler had never been blessed with children, Bri recognized this ploy as a new wrinkle in their game. She pursed her lips. “I suppose I could let you have half a dozen stale cookies.”
Arthur tut-tutted, then heaved a heavy sigh. “Well, I guess I could break every cookie in two, but that would still leave little Arzie, my thirteenth, with nothing to eat. Couldn’t you throw in one more? That way their ma could have half a cookie too. I can get by without, of course.”
Briana mimicked his sigh, then propped her hands on her hips. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Wheeler, but I’m not made of money, you know. I suppose I can let you have half a dozen whole cookies plus the broken ones I couldn’t sell yesterday. They’re mostly crumbs, but that’s the best I can do.”
She’d just winked at Arthur when her attention veered toward the man who’d entered the store behind him. The fellow, whose dark good looks vaguely reminded her of someone, stomped across the room toward her, dragging the little girl behind him. He stalked up to the counter, slammed his hand down, and shoved a bill toward Briana. “Here! Let the poor man have some fresh bakery goods, for God’s sake. And if he doesn’t use all of this today, apply it toward something for him and his children in the future. Come on, Kaitlin. Let’s get out of here.”
He turned, still pulling the little girl along with him. As they exited the store, Bri could hear the child objecting. “But Daddy, I wanted a cupcake.” The door closed behind them, shutting off any response the man might have made.
Stunned, Bri stared at Arthur, whose eyes had widened. “My stars,” he murmured. “What was that all about?”
Bri looked at the bill the man had left on the counter. “That’s a hundred dollars,” she exclaimed. “He must have thought we were serious. I can’t take this.”
She grabbed the money and rushed to the front door and then out onto the sidewalk. Unfortunately, the man and child had disappeared into the throngs of tourists who crowded the streets of Cedar Hollow, Tennessee, this time of year. Some came for the skiing, of course, but quite a few were here because of the numerous wedding chapels in the area. The fourteenth of February was a popular day to get married.
“Blast the man,” Bri muttered aloud. “Now I’ll have to watch for him in hopes that I can return his money.” After looking up and down the street once more, she shook her head, turned and went back into the store. Arthur had removed his cap and was running a hand over his bald head.
“Damn, Bri, I’m sorry. I didn’t figure on that man overhearing us, let alone him thinking badly of you. Maybe I can get in touch with him and explain.”
Bri stopped to stare at her old friend. “How could you get in touch with him? He’s just a tourist, isn’t he?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure, but I believe he’s that writer fellow who bought the old Wilson house up on Hemlock Mountain. You know the one I mean—that big glass and stone place that sits on the bluff overlooking the valley?”
“I know the house you mean, but I didn’t know someone had purchased it. If this man is a writer, he must be a successful one to have bought the Wilson place. It was priced at a million and a quarter.”
“Yep, and I hear he paid almost that much for it. He’s that fellow from around here who went to New York and married an actress. I expect that was their little daughter he had with him. They say he got full custody when his wife ran off to France with that actor she starred with in a Broadway play.”
Bri’s mouth went dry. “Are you talking about Devin Morris?”
“Is he the one who writes all those mysteries set in the mountains back around the nineteen forties?”
“Yes. He went to school at Cedar Hollow H
igh and then to the university in Chapel Hill before he moved to New York where he wrote for a couple of years before getting picked up by one of the big publishing houses. I can’t believe he’s moved back to Cedar Hollow.”
“Why? Were you acquainted with him in high school?”
“Not really. As you know, I was only a student at Cedar Hollow High during my freshman year. Devin was a junior then, so we didn’t have any classes together. He was editor of the school paper and I was the freshman class reporter, but we never really worked together. I turned my articles in to the managing editor and that was that. I doubt Devin even knew my name.”
“Well, in any case, there was no need for him to get on his high horse like that with you, him not knowing the straight of the matter. I’ll see if I can find him and clear up his misunderstanding.”
“Never mind, Arthur. It wasn’t your fault. If Devin’s living around here, he’ll stop in again some day, and I’ll give him his money back then. In the meantime, I’ve got a delivery to make on my way home.”
She nodded toward the pink, heart-shaped cake sitting on the counter waiting to be boxed. She’d hoped to redirect Arthur’s attention, and she succeeded. He frowned. “I don’t think you should have to make delivery stops after a hard day at work here. Who are you supposed to take that to?”
“Aleeta Blevin. She asked if I could drop it off at her house since it’s on my way home.”
“What? Her house isn’t on your way home. You just pass the turn-off to her house, so you’ll have to go three miles out of your way. She’s got some nerve. What’s she want a cake for, anyway?”
Bri suppressed a smile. Mr. Wheeler was famous for knowing what was going on in the county. Some called him nosy, but most people knew he was just honestly interested in his neighbors because he was always ready to lend a helping hand if someone had problems of any sort.
Bri stepped behind the counter and started boxing the cake. “Turn the sign in my door over to CLOSED, will you, Arthur? I can’t afford to be delayed if I’m going to get to Aleeta’s before dark. And as to why she wants the cake, I believe tomorrow’s her mother-in-law’s birthday, and Aleeta says Mrs. Blevin is partial to my strawberry cakes.”
“Oh! Okay. Well, child, you be careful on that road to Aleeta’s house. It’s pretty curvy and not well lit.”
“I’ll be careful, Arthur, so don’t worry. I’ll leave here in less than five minutes. Mrs. Sandler is going to clean up for me and then take the leftover bread and cookies to the homeless shelter.”
“All right, child. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He let himself out, then rattled the doorknob, obviously checking to make sure the door had locked behind him.
Bri hurriedly taped the sides of the box, grabbed her scarf and gloves from under the counter and pulled on her coat.
When she picked the box up, she noticed Mr. Morris’s hundred dollar bill still lying off to one side of the counter.
“Hmmm,” she mused aloud. “I’ll pass the old Wilson place on my way to Aleeta’s. If the lights are on, I might stop back by there after I drop her cake off. I’d love to know if Devin Morris really lives there.”
She half smiled to herself as she slipped the bill into her coat pocket. Then she fished under the counter for one of her smaller boxes, folded it into shape, and filled it with four of her most popular cupcakes.
Finally, after telling Mrs. Sandler goodbye, she let herself out of the back door, stowed the boxes in the back of her SUV and headed out of town.
* * * *
The mountain view outside his second-story office window might be picturesque enough to feed his creativity on most days, but this afternoon Devin had found the overcast skies to be an irritant.
Of course the clouds probably wouldn’t have bothered him if he hadn’t already been furious because of that selfish female who seemingly owned Bri’s Bakery. For some reason that woman had really soured his mood. And although he hated to admit it, part of his problem stemmed from guilt because his righteous indignation in the bakery had robbed Kaitlin of getting a cupcake.
And Kaitlin had already been robbed of so much.
Not that the child complained. For a six-year-old, she was amazingly mature, and that was another reason Devin was in a bad mood. He didn’t want his little girl to be mature beyond her years. He wanted her to enjoy her childhood, which had been his purpose in moving back to the mountains. He’d hoped that getting her out of New York would help her forget that her mother had deserted her.
His plan hadn’t shown any significant signs of success so far.
Besides which… Damn! Was that the doorbell? At five-thirty in the afternoon? Right in the middle of the block of time he reserved for writing!
Not that he’d done much writing this afternoon. He’d mostly stewed, reliving those few minutes in Bri’s Bakery and then worrying about Kaitlin. Sighing, he saved the few paltry paragraphs he’d written in the last hour and put his computer to sleep. “Better go see who the devil is at the door,” he groused aloud, getting to his feet and stalking down the stairs toward the foyer.
Ten seconds later, he flipped a switch to turn the porch lights on, then twisted the knob on one of the huge twin doors that graced the front of the house. Whoever was out there better have a damned good reason.
He pulled the door open, aware that he was scowling but prepared to break out in a smile if his visitor should prove to be someone he actually wanted to see. Although he couldn’t think who that might be.
Then he saw who his visitor was.
Her.
That female from the bakery.
Had she followed him home? Surely not. She wouldn’t be that brazen, would she?
Or would she? She stood there smiling at him, looking more enticing than any conniving female had a right to. Obviously she’d walked a few steps through the misty rain. Tiny droplets of water layered her blonde hair, which caught the light from the porch’s chandelier and sparkled as though some flighty fairy has sprinkled it with diamond dust.
He’d noticed back at the bakery that she was pretty, even when her behavior toward that poor man had been so ugly. But now, standing on his front porch with her huge blue eyes growing bigger with each passing second, she was downright gorgeous.
Which made him furious all over again. Beauty with rottenness at its core tended to have that effect on him. “What the hell do you want?” he snarled.
Her smile died a quick death, and he would have sworn that her face paled before blood rushed to her cheeks. She took a quick step back, then squared her shoulders and ran a hand into her pocket. She pulled out a hundred dollar bill and held it toward him. Her hand trembled just slightly but her voice was steady. “I wanted to return this to you. Your generous gesture was unnecessary. Mr. Wheeler doesn’t need your charity, and I don’t need you passing judgment on me when you didn’t have a clue what was going on between me and my friend.”
Her eyes had narrowed as her temper flared, but that didn’t detract from her beauty. Damn, but he wished he weren’t so attracted to her physically. Fortunately, he had learned his lesson years ago. He no longer allowed his desires to make decisions for him. Not anymore. And if this woman thought otherwise, well, she’d learn the error of her assumption soon enough.
He made no move to take the bill she held, and she eventually opened her fingers and allowed it to flutter to the stone floor between them. He glanced down at it, then shrugged. “You didn’t have to come all this way to return the money, even if the gentleman in your store doesn’t want charity. You could have kept it for yourself. What was it you told him? That you’re not made out of money? Not very original, but I guess you got your point across. So, just out of curiosity, why didn’t you keep it?”
She gave her head a slight shake, almost as though his words were somehow muddled in her head and she was trying to right them. Then she sighed. “I don’t need your money, Devin. And Mr. Wheeler doesn’t need my food. He has no children to feed. In fact, his biggest expense o
utside of feeding his livestock is stocking his lake with trout. He owns that farm at the foot of Snake Mountain with the cattle grazing near the road and that big lake off to one side of the house.”
Devin felt warmth spreading from his neck upward. If that man in the overalls had been Arthur Wheeler, then Devin had made one humongous social blunder inside Bri’s Bakery.
And quite possibly a second social blunder right here on his own front porch. “Do I know you?” he asked, forcing a smile he knew was pathetic. “You called me Devin.”
She shrugged. “I know you a little, but you wouldn’t remember me.”
“I find it difficult to believe I’d forget you,” he said, frowning in concentration. “Where did we meet, in high school?”
She nodded. “I was a freshman. You were a junior. I was the freshman class reporter when you were editor of the school paper.”
“Little Bri Galen?” Devin wasn’t sure how he’d dredged up her surname after all this time. He probably hadn’t talked to that skinny little girl with big glasses more than a time or two. She’d struck him as bright and possibly talented, but then she’d disappeared and he’d frankly forgotten her. He stepped back. “Obviously I owe you an apology. Won’t you come in?”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but I need to get on home. But please, would you give these to your little girl.” She turned to the wrought iron bench sitting off to one side and Devin noticed for the first time that she’d set a small white box there. She picked it up and held it out to him. “It’s cupcakes. I heard her say she wanted one as you were leaving the shop.”
Okay, now Devin wanted to beat his head against one of his thick oak doors, but that would accomplish nothing other than making him feel a little less ashamed. Instead he reached for the box. “Thank you. Kaitlin will be thrilled. As for the money…”
He paused, not quite sure what to say, so she spoke first. “I can donate it to one of the charities in town if you wish. Maybe one of the food banks?”
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