Warmth slapped my cheeks, and the blush shot down my body into my toes.
He kissed my forehead, then set me back on the tile. I'd worn black, cushioned flats today, and at my five-four height, I came up to his chin—perfect for forehead kisses. He held up the bouquet of daisies, handed them over, and bowed his head. "To the new queen of all things of deliciousness. I take it Grams finally retired?" He jutted his chin toward the re-grand opening banner.
I curtsied and breathed in their delicate fragrance. "They're beautiful. Thank you. And yes, she did. Yesterday."
The last time I spoke to Jared was when he'd come home for Christmas. I'd mentioned Grams' cruise plans then.
"So when did you get here, and how long are you staying?" I asked.
"Last night and forever." He winked at me.
I squealed. I may have jumped up and down once or twice too. "You're moving back?"
He chuckled. "Already done. I take it you approve?"
I widened my eyes. "Absolutely. But why?"
He sighed so deeply that his shoulders and chest rose and then crashed down. "It's a long story, and I don't want to be late for my first day of work."
"Excuse me?" I asked. "How did you get a job so fast?"
"I've been working on it for a while, and an opening emerged unexpectedly. I'm here this morning to gather sustenance for my day from my favorite bakery."
I hurried around the displays and set the daisies on the counter behind me. "What would you like?"
He cocked his head and smiled. "Do you really need to ask?"
I mentally smacked my forehead. "No." I chose the cinnamon muffin with the most crumble on top and placed it and a napkin into a brown paper bag with a clear plastic panel. Jared's sweet tooth was as big as mine, but his absolute favorite had always been the bakery's specialty. Then I took a large Styrofoam cup and filled it with black coffee.
"I hope you have a vase. I didn't think about that," Jared said.
I nodded. "Grams keeps a few in back." There was always some man trying to woo her, especially in the summer during tourist season.
"Are you nervous on your first day, Ms. Boss Lady?"
"More anxious and exhilarated. How about you? Wait, where are you working?"
He took a step back and spread out his arms. "Get a load of this. I am the new tenth-grade English teacher at Danger Cove High School."
Seriously? My excitement quickly faded. He'd wanted to be a Broadway star, and now he was teaching? He'd gone to college and earned an education degree, but that was mostly because his parents hated the idea of him majoring in drama. I couldn't help wonder if he was truly excited about teaching at our old school.
I stared into his eyes but couldn't tell if his expression was genuine or not. He and I needed to sit down and have a long talk. This wasn't the time though.
"Congratulations," I said, but I wasn't sure if I meant it. "We'll hang soon, right?"
"You are first on my list of people to spend time with."
I smiled.
After paying for his order, he said, "I'd love to stay and help you, but I have children who wait on my beck and call. If I'm not there, I could ruin their futures."
I'd missed this casual, easy banter we shared.
I laid the back of my hand against my forehead. "Oh dear, what will I do without your knowledge of confectioner's sugar?"
He leaned over the counter, grabbed my other hand, and kissed it. "I'm sorry, m'lady. Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good-night till it be morrow."
As he walked out, I glanced down to my hand. What was up with the tingles in my belly?
Three hours later, after a normal busy Friday morning, a flash of brown appeared at the door and flew toward me. It was Amber, my cousin-slash-part-time employee. I'd swear she was the Road Runner. How did she move so fast? She was an Aries though—never sitting still.
Panting, she leaned on the counter and stared at me with her big brown eyes. Her light-brown hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she wore absolutely no makeup. Not even a smear of Chap Stick. She never did. Unlike me, who spent thirty minutes each morning on my face. Today I had perfected overly arched brows, winged black liquid liner, heavily mascaraed lashes, and deep red lips to go with my 1950s dress. I liked to switch up my makeup every day to match what I wore. I had a closet full of clothing from every decade since the '20s. Besides baking, I just loved dressing up.
It had started when I'd participated in drama in high school. Turned out that acting wasn't my thing, but I'd loved the costumes. I'd had a ball wearing them, and then one lucky day I'd spotted a pair of white vinyl go-go boots in our own attic. They'd been Mom's. She'd let me have them, and my passion for vintage clothing had begun.
I wanted to lecture Amber about at least using something with sunscreen on her lips, but she hated my attention on her naked face, so I kept quiet. Instead, I took in her faded jeans, dingy sneakers, and peach-colored tee and waited for her to catch her breath and explain the fire.
Her father, Uncle Douglas, was Mom's brother. Her mother was Aunt Sandra. She was the other person in the car the night my parents had died. Amber had been only six when she'd lost her mom. Ten years her senior, I'd felt somewhat responsible for her. As if their deaths had been my fault. Of course, they weren't, but I put myself in the role of big sister as she'd grown up. Heck, I still felt responsible for her in some ways.
She grunted and moaned and slapped a sheet of paper onto the counter.
"Did you run here?" I asked.
She nodded.
"From home? The whole way?"
She nodded again.
Her house was half a mile away. Amber lived her life teetering between not caring and being dramatic each moment of every day. Sometimes I wished I had her resolve, and others I wanted to shake her to get her to calm down. I guessed it was why we got along so well. Two peas and all of that.
"What's so important you couldn't call or text?" I asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the paper, but it was scrunched up in her fist.
She lifted her hand, shoved the sheet toward me, and managed a breathy, "They're coming."
Assuming she was referring to some new horror flick at the cinema, I smoothed out the page, then lifted it to read. Instead of a flyer about a grotesque monster or a heinous serial killer—her favorites—it was an e-mail message directed to her stepmother, Aunt Bernie.
I glanced to my panting cousin. Why was she showing me her stepmother's e-mail? More importantly, why was she reading it?
Sensing my confusion, she whispered, "Read."
The subject line was Cinnamon Sugar Bakery Special—One Day Only!
Wait, this was about the store?
With the new ownership, Cinnamon Sugar Bakery is offering free baked goods to select Danger Cove residents, Friday at 10:00 a.m.
That was today.
I glanced at the clock on the wall behind the register.
That was now.
I stared into Amber's wide eyes, catching a glimpse of my own terrified reflection. "What is this? Why? How?"
She shrugged and shook her head.
"Well, this is just crazy. We can't afford to give away free food. I'll just call Aunt Bernie and…" I looked to the e-mail header to see who else this had gone out to, but Aunt Bernie's address was listed under BCC. Blind carbon copy? That meant no one else could see who received it.
The sender was listed as Riley Spencer, but that was impossible. I hadn't sent it. Was there another Riley Spencer in the world? It wasn't the most unusual name, so it was likely. Maybe this Riley got her e-mails crossed with Aunt Bernie? No, that wasn't possible. The e-mail was titled Cinnamon Sugar Bakery. The e-mail address beside fake me's name was [email protected]. I didn't recognize it.
Amber tapped the counter and swallowed hard. "It's too late."
"What do you mean?"
She grabbed my wrist and dragged me around the counter. We traveled out the front door and to the corner, which wasn't very far
since the bakery sat on the corner lot. She pointed, and I followed her direction.
Headed our way, walking down the sidewalk, was a large group of people.
And they looked hungry.
Lemon Pesto Muffins
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup milk
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 large egg
1 teaspoon pure lemon extract (can omit if you don't have it)
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
Freshly grated rind of one lemon
1/2 cup spinach pesto (recipe below)
Preheat oven to 375°.
Grease a 12-muffin pan or use liners.
In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.
In a large bowl, whisk together the milk, extra-virgin olive oil, egg, extract (if used), lemon juice, and lemon rind. Stir in the pesto. Add the dry ingredients to the wet, and combine until just moist. Do not overmix.
Divide batter among muffin cups. A scoop (ice cream, cookie, melon) works awesomely.
Bake for 16 minutes until a toothpick inserted into the middle of a muffin comes out clean. Let cool for a few minutes before removing them from the tins.
Eat and enjoy!
Spinach Pesto
2 cups packed fresh baby spinach leaves
2 cloves garlic
2/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup freshly grated Romano cheese (may use Parmesan)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Combine the spinach and garlic in a food processor and pulse until coarsely chopped. Drizzle in the oil and process until fully incorporated and smooth. Stir in the cheese, and season with salt and pepper.
Use extra over pasta, fresh vegetables, eggs, or on pizza. Pesto is extremely versatile.
CHAPTER TWO
Oh my God, this wasn't happening!
Panic swelled in my chest. For a second I was frozen, stuck to the cement, and I couldn't breathe or think. Fear ping-ponged throughout my body, hitting each organ and blood vessel on its way from my roots to my toes. Then one of the townsfolk looked in my direction, and I snapped out of my trance.
As I hurried inside, my first thought was, Why are they traveling down the street in a herd? This was like a B movie—or a nightmare, but as far as I knew, I was awake.
I ran past the tables and slid on the shiny floor while turning into the kitchen. I stared at the trays of cookie bars, muffins, and brownies, all cooling down so they'd be ready for this afternoon's crowd. Plans suddenly changed.
I reached for a silver tray, set a sheet of parchment paper on top, and grabbed a knife. If we were going to do this, I couldn't cut into the profit too much. And I could bake another batch of whatever we gave away. I slid the knife into a brownie, cutting it into four bite-sized pieces.
Amber followed me into the kitchen. She stood near the door, watching me wide eyed. "What are we going to do?"
"Get a tray and a knife and get working. Cut the desserts down into smaller pieces. We'll serve this as their free samples."
My gaze spotted the cinnamon buns Joe had recently made. Their dough required proofing. If I handed them out now, I wouldn't have time to make more later. "Only cut bars, muffins, and cupcakes."
Amber followed my instructions. "Wouldn't it be easier to tell them the e-mail is a fluke?"
I nearly sliced off the tip of my finger and willed myself to slow down. "If I wait until everyone is in here and then tell them 'Sorry, it was just a joke,' we'll look like a couple of idiots. You know how people like free stuff. I don't want to tarnish our reputation." Especially when I didn't have Grams to smooth any ruffled feathers. She was exceptionally good at persuading people to see things her way.
Amber nodded. "You're right."
As we filled each tray with miniature samples, we rushed them out to the four tables. Back and forth from the kitchen to the front of the store, and by the time we were done, sweat trickled down my back, and I panted like a dog. I glanced down to my dress, making sure I wasn't covered in flour or crumbs.
After a semi-thorough inspection, I stood in front of the counter, feet together, hands clenched behind my back, and I plastered a welcome smile onto my face.
The bell above the door jingled. They'd arrived.
The first person to enter was Mallory Winchester. She was a PTA mom, and her youngest daughter took a couple of dance classes at Tara's studio. She wore black yoga pants and jacket, a light-blue top, and white sneakers. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail. She gave a tight-lipped smile and walked over to the tables, seemingly hesitant about taking one of the items.
I didn't know her well—just what I'd observed over the years. You didn't hang out with her unless you wanted your conversation plastered around town. She was very generous and community-minded though. A gossip with a heart of gold was what Grams called her.
After her entrance, everyone else entered in a blur. The small bakery filled almost immediately. The crowd was so thick that I couldn't see the front windows anymore. Bodies even extended past the register and front door, to the narrow corridor that led to the public restroom.
This had to be a fire hazard, but I had no intention of commenting and possibly getting trampled. If the fire marshal showed up… Well, I just prayed he wouldn't.
"Welcome, everyone," I shouted, but no one seemed to hear me.
I looked to Amber, and we exchanged a fleeting glance of panic. I stepped behind the counter, wanting to get out of the way and to get ready for all of the orders we'd ring up. One taste of our baked goods always left people wanting more. My mind drifted to the e-mail. Who had sent it out? Certainly not Grams. If she had, she would've told me about it. And she had never done anything like this before.
She wasn't a believer in freebies. She felt everything should be worked for in some way, even if it meant bartering. I didn't agree with her, especially in this day and age. Sometimes you had to give away a sample so people knew how good your product was. She'd be mortified if she knew what was happening in her store right now.
But it wasn't her store anymore.
The left side of my mouth rose. I could do whatever I wanted. She'd made it perfectly clear that handing over the keys meant I was fully in charge, and she was no longer responsible for any of it. I could get up on the counter, strip, and sell dollar bills for a quarter, if I wanted to. Not that I would be that foolish. There wasn't enough room on any of the counters.
Mallory finally acknowledged my presence. She glanced my way, raised her half-cookie bar, and smiled. "These are excellent, Riley."
I nodded, smiled, and went in for the sell. "None of the recipes have changed. These are all mine and Cinnamon's original creations. I will be adding some new variations over time, but they will all remain nut and preservative free."
Amber had been just over a year old when Grams gave her a small bite of a peanut butter cookie. Amber's chubby, pale face and neck broke out in bright-red hives. We'd discovered she had a peanut allergy, and Grams removed all nut traces from the bakery.
A trio of older women in pastel-colored tracksuits smiled and nodded while chewing. I could never remember their names, Bitty, Batty, Babs, something. Despite the fact that they were also in their midsixties, Grams wasn't close to them. Their idea of a hot night out was bingo at the church, while Grams preferred salsa dancing. But Grams loved talking to them and making a big deal out of their arrival every time they came into the bakery. She said everyone who entered deserved to feel special, and Grams was the queen of small talk. While she preferred spending her days surrounded by people, I preferred cozying up to the flour, eggs, and sugar. They were more predictable. And delicious.
The shortest woman, in yellow, swallowed fast and said, "Tell Cinnamon we'll miss seeing her spunk when we come in here. It won't be t
he same without her."
Amber snorted.
The woman in pink swatted her friend's arm and whispered, "That's rude."
I just smiled. I was no Cinnamon Templeton, ex-Playboy bunny, charismatic Leo, and sweet talker. I knew this. I just hoped people stopped in more for the cupcakes than seeing Grams.
A tall, younger woman stepped forward. She had a sleeping infant strapped to her chest in one of those Babybjörn contraptions. She pointed to the banana muffins in the display. "How many calories are in a whole muffin? And what about the fat grams? Do you cook with butter or applesauce, because applesauce has fewer calories?"
She was aware this was a bakery, right?
"Everything is preservative free and made from scratch, but we don't calculate calories, and we use unsalted butter, olive oil, and canola oil, depending on the recipe," I said.
She looked downright offended, as if I'd just said her newborn was fugly.
Amber stepped forward. "Bakeries are fun. They're not supposed to be about calories and fat. It's a treat."
That didn't help. The woman huffed and turned back to the crowd.
I raised a brow to my cousin. She smiled.
When I'd started working here full time after college, I asked Grams about offering items on the menu that were more health conscious. I hadn't cared if our items were made with real, unsalted butter, or applesauce, but I'd had some classmates who severely restricted themselves and wouldn't go near a grain of sugar. Grams had refused to tamper with our recipes, a few of which were handed down from her own grandmother. I understood that. They were awesome recipes.
The bell above the door jingled again, and I turned my attention to it, as did everyone else.
Chatter lulled as an older man stepped into the bakery.
Immediately, everyone grew silent, as if their talking was controlled by a switch. They all seemed shocked, standing with their half-eaten muffins and cookies in hand. A gasp echoed from within the crowd.
What was the big deal? Who was he?
Tastes Like Murder (Cookies & Chance Mysteries Book 1) Page 24
