I pause, cloth still in hand, as the thought sharpens. Is it just sex—or sex with Jack? Because somehow, instead of dragging through the day, I’m buzzing. Since he spent the night after the gingerbread competition, we’ve been together, save for him grabbing a bag from his hotel to save me from the embarrassment of having to ask Eileen for more coffee shop merch.
It’s only been one full workday since things changed between Jack and me, yet every task feels lighter, every batch quicker, even the paperwork less soul-sucking. Like when he pops behind the counter between Zoom calls to steal a kiss or when he’s ringing up a long line of customers as I ice cakes. Sharing the day with him makes the bakery feel less like a grind and more like a life.
Almost like the life I imagined when I decided to pull up stakes at the Ritz and come to Hideaway.
The phone rings.
Jack starts to rise, as if from habit, and I wave him down. “Finish your meeting. I’ve got it.”
His answering wink sends another slow burn through me.
With what I’m sure is a grin that screamssexually satisfied baker,I lift the receiver off the wall. “Making Whoopie, where every craving deserves a happy ending. Audrey speaking.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” My mother’s voice clicks sharp through the receiver.
“Oh, uh, hi, Mom.” From the corner of my eye, I see Jack’s head pop up from his laptop. “What’s going on?”
“I just wanted to say your cupcake tower looked great.” Her voice is surprisingly free of the anxious edge it usually carries when she’s talking about my business.
But I don’t have time to relish that because—“I’m sorry, Mom. My what tower?”
“Your Winter Wonderland cupcake tower,” she says. “The photo in theBangor Daily. Very ambitious.”
I laugh, baffled, thinking back to the gingerbread contest and wondering if the paper used an old photo since my house was demolished before they could get one for the article. “I’ve never made a Winter Wonderland cupcake tower.” The thought slips out before I remember who I’m talking to.
“Well, that’s odd.” Paper rustles in the background. “Because it saysMaking Whoopieright here under the picture. White chocolate trees, sugared cranberries—lovely presentation.” A beat. “Oh.” There’s the anxious tone I know so well. “It says below to contact Margery for your baking inquiries.”
As the judgment in her silence stretches, I wind the phone cord around my hand and cross to the pile of unopened mail, flipping through bills until I find the newspaper, scattering pages until I land on the food section.
Making Whoopie Wins Blue Ribbon at Bangor Winter Sweets Showcase.
Only it isn’tmyMaking Whoopie. It’s the other bakery. Two bakers I don’t know—but one who I’m guessing isMargery—beaming behind a glittering tower of cupcakes crowned in spun-sugar snowflakes.
The floor tilts under me.
“That’s the other bakery.” My voice comes out strained. “The one using my name.”
Silence stretches, then Mom clears her throat. “Audrey, what does that mean for your bakery if someone else is winning awards in Maine under the same name?”
I have no good answer. “It means…” Spinning on my heel, I clutch the receiver. “It means I have to get back to closing up.” The words tumble fast. “Love you, Mom.”
I hang up before she can say more, palms sweaty against the receiver.
When I turn, leaning my back against the wall, I find Jack watching me, his laptop closed. He must’ve ended his call early.
“What happened?” His eyes flick to the paper spread across the counter. Picking it up, he skims the headline and swears under his breath.
“Unbelievable.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “Not only are they still using your name after I proved prior use, but now they’re plastering it across the state paper?” He looks at me, hard but not unkind. “Don’t worry, Audrey. I’ll take care of it. They want to push? Fine.” He slaps the paper back on the table. “I’ll push harder.” He cradles my face in his hand, eyes drilling into mine. “You don’t need to carry this.” He kisses my forehead like it’s settled, case closed.
“Okay.” I force a smile. “If you say so.”
On the outside, I’m sure I look calm, full of confidence in him and his ability to handle this.
On the inside? I’m unraveling. And whereas just fiveminutes ago, before my mother’s call and before the article in the paper, that unraveling felt freeing—like the tightly wound ball of anxiety and nerves that’s kept my business and me going these past two years finally wasn’t needed?—
Now? Now the loose threads feel like nooses wrapping around my neck, choking back the happiness Jack seems to think I’ve earned.
“Sam.” Jack’s on his cell, his voice, sharper now than on his Hollywood call, echoing in the tiled kitchen. “I need your help with something.”
