Take the risk.
The Worst Day
Molly
Thebellabovethedoor chimes for what feels like the hundredth time this morning. I smile as I pipe another perfect rose onto one of three dozen cooled cupcakes.
February 13th is absolutely chaotic with preparations for the impending holiday, but I love it—the rush of last-minute romantics buying a treat for their loved ones, the smell of chocolate and vanilla filling every corner of the bakery, the way love seems to make everyone a little bit sweeter.
“Molly, can you check on the macaroons?” Mitch, my brother and business partner here at The Village Bakery, calls from the back.
“Got it,” I sing back, adding a tiny fondant heart to the last cupcake.
Valentine’s Day has been my favorite holiday since I was six years old and Billy Prescot declared me his valentine when I gave him a handmade card on the playground.
Jodie, our one and only employee we have aside from Mitch and myself, appears at my elbow, her apron dusted with cocoa powder and pink sprinkles in her hair. “I’ll get them. You’ve got someone at the counter for a pickup. The Palmer order.” She squeezes my shoulder as she passes.
Odd, but I don’t question it. Out of the three of us, I’m usually on decorating duty or the register—most of the time, both.
“On it.” I hum to myself, practically bouncing to the register. I grab the tablet, pulling up the order. One custom cake, chocolate ganache with decoration notes to addWill You Marry Me, Cindy?in elegant script.
“Hey, Molls.”
My entire body goes cold.
That voice. I glance up, and there’s Nathan, hands shoved in his pockets, doing that thing where he can’t quite meet my eyes. Same dark hair that curls at his collar, same crooked smile that used to make me smile back.
Three months. It’s been three months since he sent me a breakup text claiming he needed space to ‘figure things out.’
Apparently, he’s figured them out.
And her name is Cindy.
“Nathan.” My voice comes out steady somehow, though all my earlier joy drains out of me in an instant. “Let me get your order.”
I turn toward the walk-in cooler. The cold air hits my burning cheeks as I locate the white box on the special orders shelf. Through the clear window on top, I can see my personal handiwork—delicate sugar roses, perfect cursive lettering. I spent an hour on those roses yesterday, humming love songs, not knowing I was decorating my ex-boyfriend’s proposal cake.
“The bakery looks great,” Nathan says when I return, setting the box carefully on the counter. “You and Mitch have really—”
“That’ll be forty-five dollars,” I cut him off, fingers flying over the tablet screen. All the warmth I usually have for our small-town customers has vanished.
Living in Hemlock Point, a hot tourist, beach peninsula off the border of Canada, buttechnicallypart of Washington in the United States, we get quite a few travelers from the Great White North. But it’s always the loyal, local customers that come in daily for a chat and a scone that have me springing out of bed in the early morning to get here.
This local, however, isn’t one I’m very cheery about.
He pulls out his wallet. “Molly.” He pauses, credit card halfway extended. “I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know how to—”
I snatch the card and run his order. “Proposing is a big step.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “What happened to needing time to figure out what you wanted?”
His face flushes. “It’s not like that. Cindy and I, we just…clicked. Sometimes you just know, you know?”
I want to laugh. Or cry. Or throw the cake at his head, which would be a shame because those roses really are some of my best work. We dated for almost two years. Two years’ worth of laughs and love and conversations about the future.
But sure, sometimes you justknow.
“Well.” I slide the box across the counter with perhaps more force than necessary. “Congratulations. I hope she says yes,” I say, and hate that I mean it…
I really am a sucker for love.
