Besides, I’m not even curious about seeing his house.
Liar.
A figure steps directly into my path, and I stumble to a stopwith my heart hammering from more than exertion. Adrenaline floods my system in a familiar fight-or-flight response that recedes almost instantly when I realize there’s no threat.
The woman blocking the sidewalk looks like Betty White’s mountain cousin, white hair wispy around a round face, and faded overalls under a flannel shirt that’s seen better decades. Winnie Keller owns The Sugar Shack, a Skylark institution for longer than I’ve been alive. Bright pink reading glasses are perched low on her nose, and her posture tells me she saw me coming and positioned herself for this confrontation.
“You’re sabotaging my business.”
I guess we’re skipping right past good morning? Noted.
“Excuse me?” I feign shock even though I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“All those cinnamon rolls and cookies you’ve been pumping out of Sloane’s kitchen.” Despite her grandmotherly exterior, Winnie’s sharp eyes pin me in place like a butterfly on a corkboard. “Nobody’s gonna buy from me when you’re filling their bellies for free.”
My cheeks flush as I think about the multiple containers I’ve sent out through Sloane to feed bookstore customers, friends of friends, anyone she could flag down on Main Street. I’ve been hiding in her apartment while she’s dealt baked goods to half of Skylark. “I wasn’t trying to?—”
“Get a new hobby.” Winnie folds her arms across her flannel like a general assessing an insubordinate soldier. “Knitting, pottery, competitive axe throwing—I don’t care. But stop giving away product that competes with my livelihood.”
A snippy retort rises automatically in my throat because I’m just trying to cope. To keep my hands busy so my brain shuts up for five minutes. But I don’t want to add to my reputation by handing a beat-down to one of the Golden Girls.
“I thought Sloane was joking when she told me you were upset. I didn’t mean to hurt your business.”
Winnie’s expression doesn’t soften, but her tone loses some of its bite when she says, “I heard you dumped your fiancé.”
Because the news has spread through Skylark like wildfire. I’m the unhinged bitch who walked out on him in paradise for no reason.
“That’s right.”
I brace for the judgment of yet another person who thinks I’m just the girl who made a scene. She studies me for a long moment, and although the thin scar from where I hit the coffee table is hidden under my ball cap, I have a feeling she’s seeing more than I want her to.
“I never trusted that man.” She sniffs. “Anyone who won’t take even a bite of something sweet is shady if you ask me.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. Jon was so fucking proud of his obsessive focus on macros and measured portions. He hated my baking, and God forbid I indulged in those empty calories. I internalized his disapproval without even realizing it when I started hiding in the bathroom to enjoy a cookie in peace. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop baking now.
“He wasn’t really a dessert person.”
“I think the precise term is shady AF.” Winnie’s mouth curves at the corners, and the tension in my shoulders eases slightly because it’s good to know someone in this town isn’t buying Jon’s story. Maybe she’s not the only one.
“I should get going.” I step to the side, ready to continue my run, away from the complicated feelings this conversation is stirring up. “So you know, I’m looking for a new job, so I probably won’t have as much time for stress baking anyway.” The self-deprecating edge in my voice makes me cringe a little. Jeez, even when I’m trying to be conciliatory, my default setting is defensive sarcasm. “And if I don’t find one right away, I’ll take up something that doesn’t cut into your profit margins.”
“You could work at The Sugar Shack.”
Iblink. “What?”
“You heard me.” Winnie tilts her head. “I need help, part-time to start. You clearly know your way around a kitchen.”
“I’m not a professional baker.”
Her laugh is dry as cornmeal. “Neither was I until I bought the place. My husband died the same year my youngest left for college. I lost both of them in the span of three months, one to an aneurysm and one to UCLA.” I catch the sound of vintage grief underneath her steady tone. “I know what it’s like to have too much time on your hands and too many feelings that need somewhere to go. I found this shop and poured everything I had into it.”
She pauses, glancing behind her at the curling white letters on the glass and the window boxes full of cheerful flowers. “I’ve got another baker, JP, who takes at least three shifts a week. That helps, but to be honest, these old bones aren’t interested in four a.m. anymore, and I’d like to slow down some.” Another pause. “Maybe a lot.”
The offer for a job that doesn’t require polishing myself back into someone I’m not sure I want to be anymore is unexpected…and a bit terrifying.
I search for the right words to describe the metrics by which I’ve measured my worth for years. The boxes everyone expects me to tick. “I need to find arealjob.”
Winnie’s eyebrows rise toward her white hairline. “Talk to me about how real it is when your alarm goes off at three thirty in the morning.”
