Aggie sighed dramatically. “Fine, we didn’t want to overwhelm you. If you get spooked, you’ll bail. We thought if we handled the details, you’d be able to focus on everything else.”
Cora stared at them, then slowly shook her head. “Well, I’ve got news for you,” she said, pointing a finger at each of them individually. “If you think you’re going to take down Worthington without me, you’re wrong. Whatever you’re planning, I want to know what it is.” She crossed her arms again, mouth tight. “And for the record, I’m still planning to sell this place and get the heck out of town. But if anyone’s going to burn it down on the way out, it’s going to be me.”
Aggie and Bea exchanged a glance, a whole conversation passing between them in a millisecond.
Aggie finally nodded, grinning. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”
“You have no idea what you’ve just signed up for,” Winston added, shaking his head.
Cora smirked. “I don’t need to. All I know is, whatever happens next? I want in.”
Chapter Ten
They didn’t have much of a chance to investigate the Worthingtons over the next week. They were too busy exhausting all their fundraising options.
When Aggie first suggested a bake sale to save the café, Cora had laughed so hard she almost choked on her coffee. Then she’d cried when she’d realized Aggie was serious. Faking her own death and fleeing to the countryside had crossed her mind more than once. And then, as she stared at the sad parade of lopsided cupcakes and cookies with the density of cinder blocks spread across The Spoon’s front porch, she wondered if it was too late to hitch a ride out of town.
Her morning of stress-baking had produced nothing fit for human consumption. She’d paged through website after website dedicated to easy cookie recipes and picked one that seemed foolproof. It turned out that she was the fool. The café’s kitchen reeked of burnt peanut butter. Thank goodness for Governor Sam’s iron stomach and nonexistent standards. The massive Saint Bernard had hung out on the back porch all morning, devouring her creations like a five-star food critic.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d spent years predicting the next big food craze for million-dollar corporations andMichelin-starred chefs, yet there she was, struggling to figure out what might tempt Mrs. Henshaw from across the street.
“Listen up, team,” she said, injecting false bravado into her voice. “We’re not just selling baked goods. We’re selling hope.” She cleared her throat. “And hopefully not food poisoning,” she added under her breath.
Aggie snorted, adjusting herKiss the Cookapron with the confidence of someone who knew her cookies would bring people to their knees. “Speak for yourself, honey. My snickerdoodles can make a grown man cry.”
Cora glanced at her tray of cookies. They might make grown men cry for entirely different reasons. After three failed attempts, she’d finally managed to produce a batch of oatmeal cookies that looked like oversized gravel chunks.
Jack materialized beside her, blocking out the afternoon sun with that effortlessly tousled, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair, and eyes that sparkled with a mix of amusement and mild horror. “You know, when I suggested oatmeal cookies, I didn’t mean it as a dare.”
She jabbed an elbow into his ribs, which were annoyingly firm under his worn black T-shirt, trying to ignore how solid and unyielding he felt. “They’re not that bad. They’re...rustic.”
“Rustic?” He scooped one up, testing its heft. “Pretty sure this qualifies as a lethal weapon in at least twelve states.”
She snatched back the cookie, shooting him a glare. “Fine. We’ll market them as?—”
“Doorstops?” Winston suggested helpfully.
“Paperweights?” Bea offered.
“Ammunition?” Jack grinned, clearly enjoying himself.
She leveled a glare at her traitorous team. “I was going to say fitness cookies. For people craving a workout while they snack.”
Aggie patted her arm with a comforting smile. “Don’t youworry, sweet pea. We’ll stash them at the back.Wayat the back.”
As townspeople trickled in, lured by the promise of sugar and small-town gossip, Cora plastered on her best please-buy-something-so-I-don’t-have-to-auction-off-my-organs smile.
“Step right up, folks!” she called out, channeling her inner carnival barker. “Feast your eyes on these delectable delights. We’ve got cookies, pies, and...artisanal cookies,” she said, trying to use her New York marketing lingo to gloss over the fact that her contribution looked like something you’d scrape off your shoe.
Jack leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. “Artisanal cookies? Is that what we’re calling potential manslaughter these days?”
She stomped on his foot without breaking her megawatt smile. “Keep it up, Harlow, and you’ll be my personal guinea pig for every culinary experiment from now on.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” he murmured, and the way his voice dipped sent a flutter through her stomach.
For a while, things went surprisingly well. Bea charmed a group of elderly gentlemen, Winston debated macaron texture with the book club ladies as if his life depended on it, and Aggie? She was everywhere, refilling plates, making change, and somehow managing to play matchmaker to two shy teenagers over a plate of chocolate chip brownies. The bake sale was turning into a real success.
Then disaster struck.
