The Baker’s Beauty
The River Hill Series | Book Three
Rebecca Norinne
Jamaila Brinkley
Copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Norinne and Jamaila Brinkley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product(s) of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or meant to lend credibility and authenticity to the story. The use of brand names and locations should not be read as an endorsement of this author’s work.
Contents
About This Book
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
Epilogue
Coming Soon: The Barista’s Beloved
Start at the Beginning …
About The Authors
Also by Rebecca Norinne
Also by Jamaila Brinkley
About This Book
THE BAKER’S BEAUTY
(River Hill #3)
After tragedy struck, Sean Amory left his job as a music producer in Los Angeles to go back to his roots. He’s come home to River Hill to work in his family’s iconic bakery while he decides what to do next with his life. The warm ovens soothe his raw nerves, while the gorgeous brunette who jogs past every morning has another effect entirely. He’s in no place to start a relationship, but she makes him want to try.
Former beauty queen Jessica Casillas-Moore hasn’t eaten carbs since she was fourteen. But smelling them won’t ruin her figure, so she routes her morning run past the town’s most delicious-smelling site. When she meets The Breadery’s handsome baker, sparks fly ... and cupcakes get frosted. He’s everything she shouldn’t want, while also being everything she needs.
Sean and Jess might be made for each other, with her family refusing to let her her grow up, and his demons threatening to consume him, the odds against them seem overwhelming. Together, the baker and the beauty will have to decide if their love is meant to be, or if it’s all just a recipe for disaster. Can these opposites find their way to happily ever after?
Chapter 1
“I don’t know much about interventions, but I think you’re doing it wrong.” Sean Amory peered over the rim of his glass at his friends. “For starters, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do it at a bar.”
Max Vergaras rested his elbow on the sticky surface of The Hut’s bar top, making a face as his shirt moved in a different direction than his skin. “It’s the only place we can find you these days.”
“It’s here or work,” Noah Bradstone added, taking a seat on the other side of Sean as Iain Brennan nodded in agreement from behind him.
“So?” Sean sipped his whiskey, ignoring the concern written all over their faces. “Disappointed I’m not drinking yours?” He aimed the barb at Iain.
“We don’t distribute here. Just Frankie’s,” the Irishman answered with an easy shrug.
“I don’t drink at Frankie’s.”
“Not anymore, you don’t,” Max said. He owned Frankie’s, and when he wasn’t in the kitchen, he was behind the bar. He had a fair idea of how much his customers drank on any given night, which was precisely why Sean had stopped drinking there.
“I didn’t know you were hurting for business.”
Max rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to respond. Frankie’s—and many of the other businesses that rounded out River Hill’s ridiculously charming downtown—had never been better. Some recent high profile publicity for the town had brought the tourists in droves, and everyone appreciated the extra income, if not the actual vacationers.
Noah leaned in. “Sean, you know why we’re here.”
“Slumming?” Noah’s highbrow wine labels weren’t available at The Hut any more than Iain’s fancy whiskey was.
“You need help.” Noah’s thick eyebrows snapped down into a frown. “Seriously.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re drinking too much.”
“Maybe you’re not drinking enough.” These men had been his friends for years. Iain was new to the pack, having moved to River Hill to cohabit with the notoriously prickly Naomi Klein last year, but the others knew him well. Right now, though, Sean wished he’d never met them.
“Listen.” Noah was taking the lead again. Sean briefly imagined slamming his friend’s head into the ancient bar top in front of them, then shook his head slightly to clear it. Violence wasn’t his style. Did the guys have a point? He transferred his glare from the group to the glass in front of him as Noah continued speaking. “My therapist is always saying to think about what it would look like if you confronted the things you’re running from, if your worst fears came true. Then—”
He snorted a bitter laugh. “That’s the last thing I need to imagine.”
He knew exactly what it would look like. Cal Grissom’s too-pale face, slack in death, had been floating into his vision every time he closed his eyes for the last year and a half. Drinking was the only thing that blurred the grisly image, the only thing that stopped him waking up in the middle of the night reaching helplessly toward the kid’s hand, dangling loosely over the side of the perfectly made-up hotel room bed, still clutching the pill bottle that had killed him. Rigor mortis had made his fingers curve to the shape of the bottle even after they’d pried it out, a detail Sean wished every single day he could forget.
“I think you should call a therapist. If not mine, then a different one.” Noah reached out and plucked the half-empty glass from Sean’s loose grip. “This isn’t cutting it, my friend.” He sniffed the glass. “I’m pretty sure Johnnie Walker’s degree is strictly honorary.”
“Fuck you.” He’d meant for the insult to be biting, but it just came out sounding tired. He didn’t try to get the glass back.
Max sighed. “Whether you decide to call a shrink or not, brother, this phase is over. We’re calling it.”
“What are you talking about?”
The chef exchanged a nod with the bartender, who shot Sean a guilty glance. “Sorry, Sean. Big Mitch called a few minutes ago. You’re cut off.”
“What?” This was the last thing he’d expected. Nagging him to get help he could deal with. Bringing Big Mitch into the picture was a little extreme. The head of River Hill’s resident biker gang was a silent owner of The Hut, a fact not many people knew. Except the other small business owners of River Hill, of course. “What the hell did you do?” he said, turning on Max.
Iain laid a hand on Sean’s back, warm through the fabric of his vintage tee. “Sorry, lad. It’s done. I’m afraid you won’t be served at any bar in town.”
“You …” Sean seethed. He couldn’t even get words out.
“It’s for your own good,” Max said.
“You’ll thank us later. Maybe.”
“I don’t give a shit whether you thank us or not,” Noah added. “I just want you upright and alive by the end of the year, and this is the only way we could see to make that happen.”
“I’ll just go out of town to drink, then.” Sean rolled his eyes. “Your perfect plan has some pretty big holes in it, guys.”
“Well, that’s your choice,” Noah said. “But I have to tell you this particular plan was Plan B.”
“What was Plan A?” Did he even want to know?
Noah sighed. “Angelica just got a seat on the tourism board. With your mom.” Noah’s girlfriend was a former actress who’d opened a bed and breakfast in River Hill last year, leveraging her former career to get a deal with a TV network to film the renovation. The show had brought a lot of good publicity to River Hill, and pretty much everybody adored her these days. Including Sean’s mother, who owned the family bakery. Where he now worked.
The only thing he did these days besides drink, and the only thing that had given him a lifeline when it had felt like his entire world had spun out of control, was head to the bakery. He’d come home to River Hill to work, hoping the familiar actions of kneading, cutting, and baking would soothe his bruised soul after what had happened in L.A.
But his mother didn’t know about the drinking part, as far as he knew.
“I hate your girlfriend,” he told Noah. “And you can tell her I said so.”
“You can tell her yourself if you do it sober,” Noah said. “And she told me to tell you that.”
Sean shook the bleariness of sobriety out of his eyes as he bent over a sheet of scone dough. His head was aching more than it usually did on the days he was hungover.
He sliced mechanically through the thick dough on a diagonal with his bench scraper, the movement economical as only years of practice could make it. He might have spent the last ten years in L.A. working his way up the ladder as a record producer, but he’d grown up doing this. Baking was in his bones. The Amory family had owned The Breadery since River Hill had been founded.
He slid the scones onto a waiting sheet pan and popped them into the huge oven, pulling out two oversized muffin tins before he closed the door. He prodded the muffins with a finger, then spun the tins onto the counter to cool enough that he could turn out the goodies inside and put them into the display case before opening. Which he wasn’t looking forward to.
It was the quiet mornings alone in the bakery that had brought him back here. Sometimes, he thought the bakery had saved his life. He’d been shell-shocked, shattered after finding his protégé dead. Producing records had suddenly seemed like an incredible waste of time. A week after he’d buried the kid, Sean had returned to the one thing he knew he could do productively: feeding people. When he’d asked for the opening shift, the bakery’s other employees had practically thrown him a party. His mother hadn’t asked any questions either. She’d simply handed over the keys and a couple of quick instructions he hadn’t really needed.
It turned out baking was like riding a bike. You never really forgot how, especially when every turn of the dough, every shake of the sifter, and every sprinkle of cinnamon brought color back into your pale, dry life.
But he still hadn’t been able to shake the nightmares. So he’d been drinking. Maybe his friends were right, though, and it was too much.
Today was the first morning in ages he hadn’t merely gone through the motions of mixing, scooping, rolling, and flipping. The line of pastries already in the display case shone softly in the light, sugar crystals winking slightly. Sean sighed and rested his head against the side of the huge refrigerator.
Sobriety might be healthy, but it was hard as shit. He wanted a drink.
Instead, he swept the used parchment paper and crumbs lining the countertop into a trash bag and spun it swiftly to bring the ends together. He tied a knot in the top and hooked a finger through it, lifting the bag and taking it to the back door toward the dumpster, which was cleverly disguised behind a faux picket fence. Because this was River Hill, and everything was relentlessly pretty here. Even the dumpsters.
Sean heaved the bag over the edge of the fence, then paused to admire the sunrise for a brief moment before going back inside to start on his next batch of danishes. Picket fences, window boxes full to bursting with color, and delicate filigree gazebos were one thing; this was real beauty.
The Breadery opened at seven in the morning for folks who wanted a quick breakfast pastry to go with their coffee from The Hollow Bean across the town square. That meant he arrived no later than four to prepare the morning’s offerings. A few doughs got made by whoever closed the night before—usually his mom and one of the other employees—but the quick breads and all the decorative work had to get done before the sun came up.
He stretched, feeling his back crack, then paused as he heard an unexpected sound. Was that somebody running? His body came alert without conscious thought, years of living in L.A. taking his mind into danger mode immediately. He wasn’t about to deal with another tragedy, especially not here on his home turf. Just the thought of seeing another dead body here, in his safe haven, made his blood boil. He turned, ready to do something—although he wasn’t entirely sure what—and saw the source of the running footsteps.
It was only a jogger. His body sagged, then straightened as he got a closer look. She was toned and lean, but with just enough curves in all the right places. Tanned skin wrapped in black compression leggings and a purple tank that left the lines of her shoulders bare to the thin morning light. Long dark hair, swept back into a thick ponytail, swung with every rhythmic step. She slowed as she came closer to the bakery, and he stepped back, not wanting to get in her way. His back hit the doorframe, and he watched, enraptured, as she slowed to a walk. The woman took deep breaths, lifting her head and closing her eyes. It seemed like she was sniffing the air. Then again, perhaps she was. He was mostly used to it, but the heady scents coming from the ovens were most potent at this time of day.
His foot scuffed the ground, and her eyes flew open. When she saw him staring, he felt himself blushing like a teenager. It was like she’d caught him peeping. He raised a hand awkwardly, and she smiled at him, then sped past without a word. A few long steps later, she was gone, jogging around the corner and into the foot traffic of a River Hill morning.
Sean let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. Well, that was something new. If he saw beauty like that every time he took a break in the morning, he’d come out to admire the sunrise a hell of a lot more often.
As it was, this was the first morning he’d taken even a moment out of the simple routine he’d clung to as a lifeline when he came home. And to be honest, it was the first morning in months he’d been sober enough to appreciate anything anyhow. Had she been there all along?
What else had he been missing?
Chapter 2
Jessica Casillas-Moore sagged through her front door. Bent over at the waist, she took a few deep breaths before straightening. She raised her arm and tapped the screen on her digital watch to gauge her progress. Three miles. Not bad. Not great either, but some days getting out of bed for a pre-dawn run was harder than others. If she were being honest with herself, that was the case more often than not these days.
Fanning the long, chocolate brown hair off the back of her neck as she made her way to the bathroom at the back of her tiny cottage, Jess wondered if it was time to reconsider her priorities in life. She’d won a few pageants when she was younger, and she’d managed to leverage her so-called ‘beauty queen’ status into both a successful beauty blog and, most recently, a job as a lifestyle ‘guru’ for a few local TV stations. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed a meal with friends or family without counting the calories of everything she consumed. She had friends who swore by skinny margaritas and oven-baked tortilla chips, but as far as Jess was concerned, she’d rather have the real thing or nothing at all.
Which brou
ght to mind the route she’d traversed this morning. After attending her niece’s birthday party a handful of weeks ago and not eating any of the prettily-decorated cupcakes or cookies from The Breadery, River Hill’s famous bakery, she’d taken to running past there every morning instead. If she couldn’t eat any of their baked goods, Jess reasoned inhaling the sweet, buttery scent was close to the next best thing. Although after the handsome—if slightly bleary-eyed—baker had caught her sniffing the air this morning, she might have to reconsider that plan.
Now, Jess peeled the sweaty athletic gear from her body and stood naked in front of the mirror on her closet door, turning this way and that to inspect her reflection. Even with constant diet and exercise, some of her natural curves were a bit softer than they’d once been, and her breasts didn’t sit quite so high up as they had even a year ago. She cupped them and then dropped her hands away, watching the weighty flesh bounce and then settle back into place.
She’d always heard a woman’s body changed drastically once she hit thirty, and with that date looming in the not-too-distant future, Jess wondered what other changes she could expect. She turned and stared back over her shoulder at her rear, surveying it for any new signs of cellulite. Between the fifteen miles she ran each week and the squats and lunges her trainer made her do three times a week, it was arguably her best feature. Even so, as someone whose professional longevity was tied to her beauty, she knew all too well that age and gravity waited for no woman.
The Baker's Beauty (The River Hill Series Book 3) Page 1
