Chapter 1
Carli
I've had many baking disasters but whatever it is,
I'll cover it with icing and sprinkles
and say a child has made it.
~ Rylan Clark-Neal
“I’m here! I’m here!”I skid to a stop inside the kitchen of Baker From Another Mother. The back door clatters shut behind me.
The bakery already smells like cinnamon, sugar and warm dough. Silver worktables fill the center of the room. Ovens and prep stations line the edges.
I’m not usually in a rush, but when Emberleigh called me before the sun was even up, I scurried out of the barn, washed all residue of hog down the drain and drove my pickup into town as quickly as I could.
“Thank you. Thank you,” Emberleigh sighs. “You’re literally the best.”
“I thought I was the best,” Sydney says, a mock pout on her face.
“You’re the best too,” Emberleigh says, grinning softly at both of us.
“That one hundred percent obliterates the meaning of the best,” Sydney says. “It’s like peewee sports nowadays. Everyone gets a trophy or medal. What’s become of the world?”
I chuckle. “Okay …” I grab an apron off the hooks on the wall. “Put me to work.”
It’s Valentine’s weekend and the bakery part-timers called in. Our town loves a holiday, and this one is no exception.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Emberleigh asks, concern etched in her face.
“You know ranchers are like bakers—up at what most people call an ungodly, pre-dawn hour every morning.”
“I know. I just feel bad …”
“Stop it already,” I tell her with a smile. “I’m glad to be the one you count on in a pinch. Okay?”
“Okay.” Emberleigh breathes in a deep breath, blows it out and says, “Syd’s going to be back here manning the ovens. If you can cover the register, I’ll toggle between the two of you.”
Her frantic state of mind seems to be easing up.
“We’ve got this,” I assure her, flipping my braid over my shoulder.
An hour later, the doors to the bakery open—a line already wraps out the door. I greet customers, ringing up orders, sometimes bagging easier items like a single donut or cookie so Emberleigh doesn’t have to do it all.
Between baking, Syd pops out into the main room, her apron dusted in flour and a smile on her face. She boxes donuts or cakes, and answers customer questions.
“One moment,” I tell Mrs. Hellman. “I’ll be right withyou.” Then I turn to another customer and answer her question. “Yes. We have gluten-free heart cookies. Can you step over there to the end of that line and Emberleigh will box some up for you.”
I glance over the tops of the customers’ heads when the door pops open again. The attention of every female in the room—and even some of the guys—pivots to the three men in station uniforms striding through the doorway. Patrick, Dustin and Cody.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Dustin shouts. “Especially to my beautiful fiancée.”
Emberleigh blushes, but she continues filling orders. Cody and Patrick wear twin expressions of amusement over Dustin’s antics.
“We heard you were short-handed,” Dustin says, cutting through the crowd and saying, “Good morning,” or “Excuse us,” as he passes people.
Everyone moves aside for the three firefighters. It’s like Moses parting the sea, only if Moses worked out two to three hours a day and didn’t stutter when he spoke.
