A tiny smile made the corners of her mouth curve up rather enchantingly.
He smiled back just a little as well.
“What can I get you to go with your cinnamon roll?” she asked.
“How about a second one for Dillon to swipe so I’ll still have one?”
“Good idea. Anything else?”
“Put in a few more of whatever you’ve got. We’re just a couple of cooking impaired bachelors, and your pastries look amazing. Surprise me.”
She boxed him two cinnamon roll, two savory breakfast scones, and two slices of something with cream cheese filling and raspberry filling alternating between flaky layers of thin pastry and topped with whipped cream and fresh raspberries. She poured him a cup of black coffee.
She remembered how he took his coffee. Not that his order was difficult. But still. She rang him up and he paid, refraining from asking if she’d ordered a security camera and remembered not to prop open the back door with a brick today. She was an adult and could take care of herself. Right?
Still. She looked so small and fragile behind the counter.
At the front door he stopped. Turned back. Said in concern he miserably failed to disguise, “You’ll let me know if anything shows up unannounced here?”
She stared at him for a moment, as if perplexed as to why he cared. But then she nodded and said politely, “I will.”
She turned to greet the next customer and take the woman’s order, and he limped out into the bright spring morning carrying a bag of pastries that smelled as heavenly as the person who’d made them.
He sincerely hoped she meant it when she said she would let him know if anything more happened, but he couldn’t tell. He didn’t know her well enough yet to spot her tells for evasion or deception. Everyone had them except professional gamblers and professional liars, and even then, if he had enough time to study one of them, he could usually spot the little tics, eye movements, or fidgets that gave away when someone wasn’t being truthful with him.
Ever since Grace told him about the weird gift someone had left for her to find in her kitchen, he’d had a bad feeling about it. His gut was warning him in no uncertain terms that something bad was going on at her store. But he couldn’t see the shape of the threat, which meant he couldn’t predict where . . . or who . . . the danger was coming from.
One thing he knew for sure: he didn’t like the odd appearance of the rosemary one bit.
She might not be in direct danger, but someone had managed to sneak into her bakery unseen and plant that rosemary. Either that, or the culprit had somehow obtained a key to the bakery.
Alarmed at that prospect, he made a mental note to tell her to get both the front and back doors rekeyed as soon as possible. In fact . . .
He pulled out his phone and searched for the nearest locksmith. There was one over in Apple Pie Creek who made house calls. Reno called the guy, but he didn’t answer his phone, so he left a message that he needed an emergency re-key on a business in Cobbler Cove. He left his own cell phone number as the call back number.
3
The baking order from the McAllister wedding had grown by fifty percent since Tuesday and the wedding was the day after tomorrow. It had only just dawned on the bride that several of her guests were gluten intolerant and needed a gluten-free option in lieu of the main wedding cake. Never mind that Grace had suggested adding a dozen-gluten-free cupcakes to the order months ago when the bride and her mother placed the original order.
At least Buns ’N’ Roses wasn’t catering the sit-down dinner that was being served Saturday evening. She would hate to be that caterer trying to scramble to get ingredients and prepare a hundred extra plates on such short notice.
Thankfully, she’d already baked and frosted the cake with its initial layer of fondant and had finished making the dozens of sugar flowers that would adorn the cake in elaborate sprays.
Thursday morning found Grace braiding loaves of cardamom brioche that the panicked caterer had asked if she could take over making for the McAllister wedding. The sleeves of her pale blue chambray shirt were pushed up past her elbows and her ivory apron was liberally dusted with flour as she rolled dough into long strips and twisted them into intricate six-strand braids.
Mary came downstairs from the storeroom on the second floor with an armload of cardboard pastry box flats. She set them at the other end of the prep table and began folding and assembling several dozen of them to store under the front counter for large or delicate orders that couldn’t go in a bag.
While they worked Grace’s assistant baker said casually, “We had a guy stop by earlier while you were at the store getting more eggs.”
Her heart leaped. Had Reno come in? Disappointment at missing him coursed through her, startling her. She wasn’t in the habit of missing any man these days.
“What kind of guy?” Grace asked by way of keeping the conversation going.
“Some sort of utility guy. Said he needed to go in the back to check the meter.”
Okay. Not what she’d expected Mary to say. She tried and failed to ignore the relief that flooded her at not having missed Reno stopping by. Belatedly, she asked Mary, “Which utility was he from?”
“He didn’t say. I assume it was the water company since it still uses meters.”
