“You know I’ll be there. I like to see my goods represented,” she says, then wraps up some of the white plates with the yellow flowers on them. An image of Mrs. Henderson’s mailbox flashes before my eyes. She had a flowered mailbox that I ran over years ago, didn’t she? Guilt creeps into me, but I shoo it away and focus on the moment, rather than another mishap.
“You will definitely be represented at Afternoon Delight. I’d be happy to put some of your business cards on the counter at the bakery or a card with a QR code,” I say, grateful to have hit it off with someone from the town.
“Yes. Let’s do a trade,” she says, grabbing a postcard for her shop with a scannable code on it. I take it as she adds, “And be sure to stop by the gym with some of those cards. I bet you can get some of the gym crowd right after they work out and feel virtuous enough to afford a cookie.”
I laugh. “Good plan.”
I pop into the gym next, where a young woman with shiny blonde hair stands at the counter, her workout top sloping down her shoulder, her head bent over her phone as she scrolls and scrolls.
She even scrolls as I wait for her to notice me.
Something must draw her attention away from the screen since she snaps her head up, then blinks twice. “Whoa. You’re, like, Dax’s ex.”
I cringe. Everywhere.
“That’s me,” I say, a little bitter.
And shit. That won’t sell my bakery to a town that’s tepid on me. I pour on the sweet. “I’m Mabel, and it’s good to meet you. I’d love to invite you to come to my bakery that’s opening in early December,” I say, then give her the name and date.
“Oh, I don’t eat sugar,” she says, then waves a dismissive hand. “But I loveRomance Beach. I even sent that meme to a friend last week. I have got to get my act together too. Selfie? Because…you? Me? Same.”
Oh, wow. Oh, shit. This is not the notoriety I wanted. But it’s too late, since she’s already flown around the desk, wedged herself next to me, and is making a duck face at her phone.
“Thanks, babe,” she says, then returns to the desk to scroll again.
Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to have any luck here.
I leave in a funk, that familiar feeling of not being enough hitting me square in the solar plexus. But as I sink into the front seat of my car, vaguely tempted to return to Afternoon Delight and hunker down with my good friends flour and sugar, I hear my grandmother’s voice askingIf not now, when?
Dammit. She’s right. I can’t quit this mission. That would be like leaving town all over again. I soldier on, doing my damnedest to see myself as something other than the girl who’s too impulsive, too loud, too bold. I can be the woman who gets things done. The woman who follows recipes when she bakes. Well, most of the time.
I hit a few more shops before it’s time to return to the bakery, sit down with my laptop and market in other ways. I draft some social posts, schedule some mouth-watering pics of cupcakes and cookies, and organize more photos for next week. Then, I install some shelves.
As I work alone, I let myself daydream about the other day here, from the painting to the kissing to the reading, and all of that carries me into the night too.
“No, girl, no. You serve underhand,” Trevyn calls out from next to me on the pickleball court the next day.
I roll my eyes at my doubles partner and friend. “I know. I was just seeing if you were paying attention.”
That’s a lie.
I’m daydreaming. Totally daydreaming about the mural Corbin and I finished, the garage door that’s now installed, the windows inviting in streaming sunshine throughout the day as we get the little bakery ready. I’m thinking about the sign that now hangs above the garage door, pretty in pink, with a cheeky little winking dot above theiin Delight. I’m picturing the display cases fully installed and ready, right next to the shining fire pole, and the appliances, checked, polished, and tested.
And I’m daydreaming, too, of the way Corbin held my face when he kissed me, the tension in his jaw as he fought to resist, the desperate rasp in his voice as he gave in, and the words that play on repeat in my head.
I think about you all the time.
Trevyn clears his throat, pulling me from my wandering thoughts once more.
He steps closer to me on the court. He’s every bit as committed to pickleball fashion as I am in his tight white shorts and equally tight white shirt, which contrasts elegantly with his rich brown skin. He points at me, drawing a circle in the air at my outfit, a patterned little white-and-pink number. “We all know you look good, friend. But some of us like to look hot and win. Now, either focus on the game or tell us all in delicious detail why you’re zoning out.”
“Because we’ve been betting that you got some D,” Skylar chimes in from the other side of the net, flicking her auburn hair for emphasis.
Remy—her pickleball partner—just nods sagely in agreement.
My jaw drops. “You all bet on that?”
“Of course we did,” Skylar says with a nonchalant shrug. “You just have that look about you.”
