by Fiona Grace
“You must think I’m a right wuss,” he said, his voice distorted by the tissue he had wadded beneath his nose.
Ali sat on the sand beside him, keeping at least an arm’s-length distance between them, since she was so tempted to reach out and touch his muscles. “If you’re brave enough to surf, you can’t be a wuss,” she said.
“Brave? Nah. The waves out here are piddly. I’ve had much worse accidents happen out on Bondi.”
“Bondi Beach?” Ali asked, dreamily, imaging this handsome man cutting the waves on one of the world’s best beaches. “I figured you’re Australian.”
He propped himself up on his elbows, the bloodied tissue sticking out of his nostrils.
“What gave it away?” he joked.
Ali couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him, and his funny demeanor. He put her at ease. “I think that’s going to bruise,” she said, peering at his injury.
He gave a laid-back shrug. “Ah well. I’m collecting battle scars.”
Ali felt herself relaxing into his company.
“So, what are you doing in Willow Bay?” she asked. “Because you’re obviously not here for the piddly waves.”
“I live here,” he said. “I own a store here.”
“Really?” Ali asked, surprised they had something in common. “Which one?”
“Whitewater,” he said, pointing down the boardwalk. “The surf shop.”
Ali blushed. Obviously he owned the surf shop. You didn’t get a body like that selling donuts.
“There’s nothing like ending a shift at the store and going for a surf,” he said, smiling into the distance. “The ocean’s my playground. It’s heaven.”
“Hmmm,” Ali murmured dreamily.
“Oh, I’m Nate, by the way,” he said, offering his spare, non-blood-soaked hand.
“Ali,” she said, taking it. “I just opened a store here.”
“You did?” He sounded suddenly enthused.
“Yup. It used to be Pete’s Pitas.”
“Pete’s closed?” Nate asked, sounding distraught. “Damn. Those pitas were something.”
“So I’ve been told,” Ali said. She was starting to get nervous about the clearly big shoes she was trying to fill.
“Any idea what happened?” Nate asked. “Pete’s was super popular.”
Ali shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t know.”
“Maybe he made so much money he retired early,” Nate said. “Who knows—maybe you’ll be next!”
“I doubt that,” Ali said, chuckling.
“So what are you going to use the store for?” Nate asked.
“Pastries,” Ali said. “I’m a pâtissier.”
“Sounds fancy.”
The sun was beginning to descend, taking with it most of the warmth of the evening.
“I’d better get home,” Nate said.
He stood and held his hand out for her to help her up. Ali took it, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks.
“It was nice to meet you,” she said, bashfully. “Maybe I’ll bump into you again some time. It’s a pretty small town, after all.”
Nate wiggled his brows. “I hope so.”
Ali’s heart double-kicked.
That was flirting, right? He was definitely flirting?
Feeling incredibly flustered, Ali gave him a wave and stepped back. But Nate took a step forward.
“Looks like we’re going the same direction,” he said with a smirk.
“Where do you live?” Ali asked as they paced side by side along the beach in the direction of the colorful cottages.
“House with the green door,” he said, pointing to the row of shoreside apartments on the very same alleyway as Ali’s new place was. In fact, she realized when they arrived there, he was just a few doors down from her.
“In which case we definitely will be seeing each other again,” Ali said, feeling her lips tug up into a smile.
“I look forward to it,” Nate told her.
Then he headed in through his own front door.
Ali felt her cheeks flush with warmth. She hurried inside her apartment, shut the door, and pressed her back against it, feeling giddy.
Delaney had said not to date either of the Italians. But she hadn’t said a word about Australians…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Voilà!” Ali said, gently placing a caramel tart into the fridge to complete the display.
It was opening day. Ali had baked and DIY’d her way here, and now had a great range of gourmet pastries, cakes, and desserts to offer to the good people of Willow Bay. There was just one last thing left to do. Find a name.
Delaney was sitting in the window seat—upholstered by Ali’s own fair hand using a selection of old curtains from the local thrift store and an industrial-sized stapler. Her knee was crooked up, showing off an anklet around her tanned ankle, and her white-blond hair was swept over one shoulder. On the cushions by her sandaled feet was Ali’s notepad of name ideas, which she was scanning with squinched eyes.
She’d offered to paint a sign for Ali on a bit of driftwood she’d found on the beach. Ali had jumped at the offer, since she’d just about reached the end of her patience when it came to painting, and Delaney had significantly more artistic talent than herself.
“I’m adding Coastal Confections,” Delaney said as she glanced down the list in Ali’s notebook of ideas. “I am convinced alliteration is the way to go.”
She added her idea in cursive handwriting that was as pretty and floaty as she was herself.
Ali came and sat opposite her.
“It’s a bit fussy, isn’t it?” she said.
“Fittingly so,” Delaney said, gesturing to the display fridge filled with banoffee pies, profiteroles, peach pavlovas and palmiers. “I can’t even pronounce half the things you make.”
Ali laughed. “I get where you’re coming from, but I don’t want my store to have an arrogant vibe. I don’t want it to seem exclusive. I may be selling fancy desserts, but I want them to be for everyone.”
“Well, what vibe do you want?” Delaney asked.
Ali looked around. She’d collected a whole bunch of dining tables, proper 1950s ones from an old ice cream parlor. Then she’d upholstered all the chairs with pale blue gingham to match the peppermint floor. The blinds were white. The shelves were pastel green.
“Kitsch?” Ali suggested.
“Kitsch Kitchen,” Delaney offered.
Ali shook her head.
“Dainty Desserts?”
Ali stuck out her tongue.
“Yummy Scrummy?”
Ali just laughed. This shouldn’t be so hard. But it was important. She didn’t want to rush it just because she was supposed to be opening her doors today. This name would stick with her forever. Or at least as long as she was able to keep her business afloat. She needed a name that would become part of the fabric of Willow Bay, much like Pete’s Pitas clearly had. It had to be simple, but personal and friendly at the same time.
“How about just Sweet’s?” Ali said, printing the name in the air with her hands. “It would be a crime not to use my last name.”
“I like it,” Delaney said. “It’s cute. But it feels like it’s missing something.” She gazed out the window. “Beach Sweets.”
“Seaside Sweets!” Ali exclaimed.
Delaney looked back at her, her eyes wide like the muse had struck. “That’s it! That’s the one! I’m on it!” She grabbed a tube of paint and squeezed out a glob.
“Seaside Sweets,” Ali said again, trying it out for size. She liked it.
She grabbed her phone and quickly texted Teddy. He’d been on tenterhooks to find out what she finally decided to name the place.
Are you ready? Seaside Sweets is about to open its doors!
A few seconds later, Teddy’s reply buzzed onto her phone. I love it! Now, don’t forget those pearls!
Ali laughed, remembering how she’d told Teddy how she wanted to work in a bakery and wear pearls like Julia Child.
<
br /> If only, Ali replied.
Check your mail, woman! came Teddy’s response.
Ali frowned. In all the chaos of getting the store ready she hadn’t even thought about such a boring and practical matter as actually checking her mail. She glanced over the pile she’d accumulated and saw, almost immediately, the one that did not belong amongst all the plain white company letters and fast food flyers: a bulging, bright pink envelope.
Ali unfolded her legs from beneath her and hurried over. As soon as she’d snatched it up, she recognized Teddy’s terrible handwriting. He’d addressed it to Princess Allison the Sweet.
Ali chuckled and ripped open the top. A cute faux pearl necklace fell from it.
Touched, Ali scooped it up. A note fluttered to the ground beside it. She picked it up and began to read.
Now before you say anything about how much this cost, Hannah also chipped in. Congrats for making your dreams come true.
Ali was so touched. Of course he was joking about the cost—the pearls were clearly fake ones that wouldn’t cost that much at all—but it only made her love the gift even more. She wiped away a tear from her eye.
“You okay, hon?” Delaney asked from her window seat.
Ali swirled. “I’m good. I’m great.” She put the necklace on. “I’m ready to open those doors!”
She hurried over to the glass door. Delaney joined her at her side.
“Are you wearing pearls?” she asked.
“It’s a family joke,” Ali told her.
Then she unlocked the door and threw it wide open.
Ali had pictured this moment a hundred times since moving to Willow Bay. In her daydreams, the hordes of tourists and locals came flooding in and cleared her shelves immediately. Of course that didn’t happen in reality. Instead, a solitary seagull looked at her and blinked, before taking flight.
She let her arms drop. “I guess it’ll take a little while for people to realize I’m open.”
She gazed left and right, from Marco’s seating area to Emilio’s. Every single one of their tables was occupied. There were plenty of people milling along the boardwalk, too. But no one gave her store even a cursory glance.
“It’ll get better once the sign’s up,” Delaney offered.
She went back to the window seat to continue painting it.
Ali hoped she was right. At the moment, all there was, was a sad chalkboard she’d drawn for the occasion.
Suddenly, she noticed a woman marching purposefully toward her store, and her heart leapt.
“Someone’s coming,” she squealed.
Delaney was too absorbed in her task to even look up, with her tongue poking from the side of her mouth in concentration. All she did was grunt an acknowledgment.
Ali hurried behind the counter, ready to greet her first ever customer.
The woman entered.
“Welcome to Seaside Sweets!” Ali exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. “How can I help you today?”
“Help me, darling?” the woman purred. “Why, you’ve already done plenty by opening up.”
Ali frowned, confused.
Delaney’s head snapped up as if the voice was familiar to her.
“Miriyam,” she said.
The woman looked over her shoulder. “Oh, Delaney. Hello. I didn’t notice you there.”
She had a pompous tone, Ali noted, and by the look of trepidation in Delaney’s eyes, she guessed she wasn’t a welcome visitor after all.
The woman peered back at Ali. “I’m Miriyam. I own another bakery on the boardwalk. I must say, it’s good to have another upscale store. All these surf shops and pizza joints really bring down the pizzazz. Willow Bay used to be more upscale. It’s been sliding recently. So I’m pleased to see you here.” She peered at the fridge and all the goodies being offered. “Yes. This will do nicely. Your prices are a little on the low side though. Perhaps jack them up a little. You won’t turn much profit otherwise. Stores of our caliber don’t get much footfall.”
Behind her, Delaney made a face. Ali smirked. Miriyam snapped her head over her shoulder suspiciously.
“Seaside Sweets?” she said, reading the sign Delaney had skillfully sketched onto the driftwood. “Oh no. That’s a terrible name. It sounds far too informal. You need something much more grand than that.”
“My surname is Sweet,” Ali said. “Get it? It’s a play on words. Kind of.”
Miriyam did not look impressed. Ali’s smile slid off her face.
“What’s your store called?” she asked, attempting to overcome the awkwardness.
“Cookies,” Miriyam replied.
“Cookies?” Ali echoed. “I don’t think I’ve noticed it yet. Where did you say you were located?”
“Other side of the boardwalk,” Miriyam said brusquely. “You must have seen me.”
Ali snapped her fingers. “I remember now. It’s Kookies with a K, right?”
Miriyam pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean with a K? How else would it be spelled?”
“With a C,” Ali said, simply. “Cookie is spelled with a C.”
She noticed too late Delaney’s desperate hand gestures and attempts to get her to abort her sentence. Miriyam’s face turned thunderous. Ali felt her features drop.
“Goodbye, Miss Sweet,” Miriyam said, huffing out.
Ali got the distinct impression she’d made her first enemy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ali straightened up the croissants for what felt like the hundredth time that day. But it wasn’t like there was anything else to do. All day, her store had been almost completely empty.
Just then, a woman came in holding hands with a small kid. Ali’s heart skipped. Kids loved dessert.
“I need to use your bathroom,” the mom announced dramatically. “This one drank a whole liter of pop.”
Ali looked down at the tubby little boy clutching her hand. His brown hair was messy from swimming in the ocean.
“What did I tell you about fizzy drinks?” she said gruffly.
Ali sunk her head onto her fist. Of course the woman wasn’t here to buy anything. No one else had all day. A few people had come in to check out the refurb, or to ask what happened to Pete’s Pitas, but Ali had made precisely zero sales.
“Through there,” she said, glumly, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the bathroom, wondering why the kid hadn’t just peed in the sea like any other five-year-old would do.
The woman tugged the kid’s hand. But the kid did not move. He dug his heels in.
The mom frowned.
With sudden dawning horror, Ali realized what had happened. The child had already peed, all over her peppermint-tiled floor.
“Duncan!” his mom yelled. “What have I told you?”
Duncan promptly burst into tears. Because of course the only thing that would make the fact there was pee all over her floor worse was the high-pitched shrill wailing of a child.
With a sigh, Ali left the counter and headed for the cleaning supplies closet at the back of the kitchen. At least it gave her an opportunity to use the cute floral print mop and bucket she’d brought online.
She retrieved them from the cupboard and headed out through the side door into the seating area of the store. Poor Duncan was still getting an earful from his angry mother.
“You got it all over your shoes!” she was screeching. “I’m going to have to put them in the washing machine when we get home, and tonight I was planning to wash whites!”
Ali flashed him a pitying smile. As annoying as it was that he’d made a disgusting mess on her floor, she still didn’t like watching his mom berate him like that.
At the sight of Ali’s kind face, Duncan stopped crying. He blinked at her, looking confused that an adult was showing him an ounce of kindness. Then his perplexed expression disappeared, and in a split second he stuck his finger right in the middle of one of the sweet-glazed French crullers, pulled out a sticky finger covered in cream, and shoved it ri
ght in his mouth. He grinned in a way Ali could only describe as devilish.
“Hey!” she exclaimed.
But Duncan was being frog-marched away by his ranting mom, who seemed to have completely forgotten Ali was there, or that she owed her an apology for the havoc she’d caused.
Ali gritted her teeth. She grabbed the spoiled French cruller and threw it in the bin. Then she got to work mopping up Duncan’s puddle of urine.
This day had been a terrible disaster. She’d offended Miriyam. She hadn’t sold a thing. And now she was mopping up pee.
She heard a noise and looked up, anticipating the next disaster. A seagull was standing in her open doorway, with beady, questioning eyes.
“Hey, buddy,” she said, wondering if making conversation with a seagull was the first sign of madness. “Can I help you?”
He squawked, his yellow bill opening and closing again, as if in response to her question.
Ali couldn’t help herself. She giggled. A friendly seagull might just be the antidote she needed to her sad and stressful day.
“What was that?” Ali asked, immediately going into improv mode. “You said you’d like to purchase a sweet-glazed French cruller, preferably one that a little boy has stuck his finger into? Well, you’re just in luck. I have one right here in the trash can. Freshly poked. And you, sir, can have it for free.”
She rested the mop against the wall and leaned into the trash to retrieve it, only to hear the sudden sound of flapping wings behind her. She turned sharply to discover the seagull had flown inside her store and snatched up a croissant! It flapped away, cackling as it went.
“Thief!” Ali cried, waving her fist the bird.
She slammed the door shut.
Great. So she wouldn’t be able to leave that open now. Which meant she’d probably have to shell out for proper air conditioning. Her simple desk fan wasn’t going to cut it.
She felt deflated. What else could possibly go wrong?
Just then, the door flew open and a man stormed inside. He had dark greasy hair hanging in limp tendrils over his dark beady eyes. His round tummy protruded over the waistband of his ill-fitting pants. He didn’t look like your average Californian, to say the least.
