For now, I let myself believe I could have this. Buffaloberry Hill. A home. A man who loved me as though I hadn’t been broken. And a job that didn’t remind me of stainless steel trays and correctional clocks.
Every morning, before the town rubbed the sleep from its eyes, I was already tying the apron around my waist at Butterberry Oven. The air outside still held the hush of dawn, that deep navy before the sunrise, but inside? It buzzed.
Mrs. Appleby, the bakery’s fierce and fabulous matriarch, was already elbow-deep in dough, wielding her rolling pin like it was an extension of her soul. She was the kind of woman who said things like “real butter or bust” and meant it.
“Morning, sugar,” she greeted me as usual. “The oven’s yours when you win our scone battle. Again.”
“You’re just bitter because I use bourbon,” I teased.
“Bitter?” she scoffed. “Honey, I’m aged to perfection.”
By six, the back kitchen was a three-ring bake-off—flour drifting, mixers whirring, and the scent of something buttery and magical curling up through the vents.
The other girls—Cassie and Jordan—were already elbows-deep in batter, and I jumped in with them. Cassie had a habit of humming whatever country song was stuck in her head, and Jordan talked to every cupcake she piped like it was her child.
We worked in sync, a flurry of sugar and sass as Mrs. Appleby tossed out the morning’s best tidbit. “Darla Jensen’s son might be seeing the waitress from The Whistlin’ Elk, but don’t quote me,” which was immediately met with Cassie’s dramatic gasp and Jordan’s, “Called it!”
I rolled out the dough, grinning. “What’s the over-under on Darla showing up just to check the place out?”
“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Appleby said, “she already ordered a lemon tart. She’s coming.”
Everyone liked me. At first, I thought it was the novelty—new girl with a record, rumored to be living with one of the Lucas boys. But it wasn’t that. I fit here. And not because I was trying. Because I wasme.
“You hear who bought the old Bailey farm?” Cassie whispered during a lull.
Mrs. Appleby didn’t even look up. “If it’s not another tourist turning it into a wine-and-goat-yoga retreat, I’ll eat a raw scone.”
“Oh, it’s worse. It’s that couple from Sacramento. The ones who brought their own ice machine to the potluck.”
We all gasped appropriately, then went right back to batter, butter, and business.
“Mrs. Appleby,” I called out. “Noah’s trying to round upsome volunteers to get the Buffaloberry Hill kids’ hockey team off the ground. Mind if I put up a few posters out front?”
“You don’t even have to ask!” she said. “It was a smart move on your man’s part, starting that league. Some of these kids have way too much time on their hands and not enough to do with it. You come up with a name yet?”
“The Buffaloberry Blizzards.”
“Nice!”
I hesitated, then added, “Once the team’s up and running, think I could borrow the kitchen on some weekends? I was hoping to bake cupcakes for their meetings.”
“Of course, honey! Just don’t forget the ‘Sponsored by’ stickers.” She winked.
And then the front bell jingled.
The moment the door opened, chaos took on a different form. Thegoodkind.
Locals rushed in like caffeine-starved cattle. Regulars had their usuals while others pointed at the chalkboard menu I’d helped redesign, now cluttered with way too many offerings.
But my Flathead Cherry & Bourbon Cake? That thing was flying off the counter. The glaze shimmered like stained glass under the lights, and the scent of cherry and warm vanilla stopped people in their tracks.
“Miss Maya,” one customer asked, clutching a boxed slice, “is this the one with the bourboninthe cake orinthe frosting?”
“Both,” I said sweetly.
The cupcake display was downright dangerous. Little works of art, each one a swirl of color and imagination. Some had tiny marzipan flowers. Others were topped with edible lace, gold dust, or candied lemon peel. People loved them, took pictures of them, and occasionally bought two. One to eat and one to admire.
“This one’s too pretty to eat,” someone said.
