Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
But you trained for this. You can do it. And I just want to say—don’t let them get you down.
They’ll come around.
They’ll see who you are. Gutsy, determined, focused.
And, you’re funny.
Well, maybe don’t let them see that.
Save that part just for me.
Your friend,
Russ
I’m quiet, as if speaking might pierce a magic spell cast by the past and those words. I want to live in this bubble for a few more shimmery seconds.
After a moment, he breaks the silence. “Seems like he had it bad for your great-grandmother. He had it bad from the start.”
A warm, hazy smile keeps tugging at my mouth. I didn’t know Harriet and Russ, but thanks to my grandma’s last gift, I get to experience their love story. “He sure did,” I say, kind of amazed.
And we sit on the bench, neither one of us wanting to move, just soaking in the next chapter in a love story I didn’t expect.
23
SHIRT SWAP
MABEL
On the eve of opening day, with a digital sign in the window boasting “Grand opening tomorrow!” I bake alone. This is normal for me, and Corbin’s at the rink for morning skate anyway. We’ve spent the last two weeks on the final details: painting the exterior brick, printing menus, finalizing recipes, and creating hype on our new socials accounts, and now we’re ready. On time, as planned, in early December.
Right now, though, I’m not baking goodies to sell at Afternoon Delight. I’m baking dozens upon dozens to give away to townspeople. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner, but maybe I can win them over with food. Studies show that sharing food releases oxytocin. And firefighters who cooked and ate meals together had better team performance and cooperative behavior. I might have gone down a rabbit hole. But it was a useful one, since I’d like to have the town on my side—especially if I’m going to make this place work. The last thing I need is the locals thinking I’m the scatterbrained, careless girl who left Cozy Valley after the original firehouse fiasco and then swooped in and ruined their beloved firehouse.
I make my signature orange habanero cookies, but not everybody likes spice, so I whip up some pistachio chocolate chip ones, along with normal chocolate chip, because the classics are the classics for a reason. I make mini cupcakes—chocolate with caramel buttercream and sea salt, vanilla with raspberry, and coconut cake, too—and I include the sweet and salty bars that Corbin made for me, baking both a regular and a gluten-free version. Finally, I whip up some cinnamon rolls, just because the icing is divine. By mid-afternoon, I’m sweating and half-exhausted as I swipe pieces of hair from my face and back into my bun. With the scent of warm treats in the air, I fill box after blush-pink box and put stickers on each one: “A little Afternoon Delight for you.”
When I’m done baking and ready to deliver them to the shop owners around town, I stop, catching a glimpse of myself in one of the dressing room mirrors—because of course we kept them.
But mirrors don’t lie, and this one is a billboard telling me I’m a little too hot and sweaty to be my own welcome wagon. “Dammit,” I mutter. Why didn’t I think of that?
Wait. Wait a hot second. This place has a shower on the second floor. The perks of converted firehouses.
On the flip side, I don’t have any shower supplies. I hustle out to a home decor gift shop on Main Street and grab some soap, then a towel for good measure, even though it’s barely bigger than a kitchen towel. Actually, I think it is a kitchen towel.
I thank the proprietor, a folksy woman with gray hair and a name tag that says Mariah.
“Thanks, sweetie. You come back if you need anything else,” she says.
“Do you like cookies?”
“Am I alive?”
“I hear you,” I say. Back at the bakery, I shut the door behind me and lock it, then grab one of our T-shirts—that’s a good thing about offering merch; I’ve always got a change of shirt when I need it—and head upstairs. The pipes groan from disuse, and the water takes more than a hot minute to heat up, but once it does, I jump in and wash off the major stink zones with the soap that smells like sweet pea. After a satisfying inhale, I turn off the shower. Stepping out of the steam, I wrap the towel around myself.
Well, mostly.
It reaches the edge of my boobs and leaves a long strip of skin exposed down my side.
I leave the shower, turn into the former sleeping quarters, and step smack-bang right into Corbin.
My towel pulls a Houdini.
For a few seconds, I stand there naked in front of my business partner.
He doesn’t move either. He just swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes locked on me. All of me. Every inch of me. Just…me. Flames flicker in his green eyes, turning them molten. His lips part. His fists clench.