Leaving him to it, I pick up my towel once more, rewiping already clean counters and absentmindedly polishing circles into nothing.
Maybe Jack was wrong. Maybe I haven’t earned it. Maybe while I’ve been busy with him sneaking kisses behind the counter, I’ve been letting the one thing I built for myself slip away.
Jack
My balls will never bethe same.
Not after—hopefully—surviving their first cold winter since dropping at the ripe age of twelve, late bloomer that I was.
That’s the errant thought that hits me justas the sharp salt-and-pine tang drifts up from the harbor as I turn off Hideaway’s Main Street toward the square, the cold air clouding in front of me.
Another day in Hideaway where shop windows glow with strands of lights, the whole street already dressed for December like it’s auditioning for a postcard. Another day spent in Making Whoopie—only this one not as easygoing as yesterday’s. Before Audrey’s phone call from her mother. Before the article in the paper.
Having volunteered to bring the Sweet as Honey Corny as Sin whoopie pies—cornbread cakes filled with honey cream cheese icing—that Audrey made for the Chowder House Rules restaurant for Clam Chowder and Cornbread Appreciation Day, I took a detour on the walk back to the bakery to clear my head.
Skippy found me two steps in, as if waiting for me like our walk was preplanned.
He trots a few paces ahead of me, nose buried in every snowbank like he’s on an FBI sweep. Calling it a walk is generous—I’m mostly following him around while he zigzags from lamppost to mailbox.
My mind’s not on him anyway. It’s not even really on my testicles, cold under the dress slacks I wore because my locally bought flannel-lined jeans are in the wash. Audrey’s wash. And while my mind should be on the new client and their contract negotiations, along with the potential wave of income it would bring to my agency, it’s not.
Instead, my mind is back in the bakery. Back to yesterday afternoon, to Audrey’s expression when she was on the phone. Her voice, brittle, uncertain.“That’s the other bakery. The one using my name.”
I hate it. Hate that she thinks she’s slipping, hate that someone else is muddying what she built. Hate that it feels like my fault.
Maybe it is.
Since then I’ve already redrafted the cease and desist in my head multiple times before having a colleague in Maine send one out this morning. The guy laughed when I mentionedMaking Whoopie,but he agreed to put it on his letterhead, make it official. Then I stopped by the Post Office to give Audrey an extra sense of security.
All of it should’ve felt like a win. Instead it feels like bailing water from a sinking boat with a thimble. Not when Audrey’s confidence is unraveling. Not when she’s looking at me like maybe I’m part of the problem.
“Afternoon, Lourd!”
I glance up as Mayor Locke barrels out of Town Hall, scarf trailing, cheeks red from the cold. He claps me on the back like we’ve been neighbors for years. His laugh echoes across the street, loud enough to make Skippy jump, tail dropping.
“Didn’t expect to see you still here.” The mayor’s grin widens. “Hideaway Harbor must be working its magic.” He eyes me up and down, from the top of my windblown business cut to the tips of my Cole Haans. “We locals—we need to be less judgmental. Because I’ll admit, not a single one of us would’ve bet a Hollywood man could settle in here. We all thought you were too polished, too temporary.” He steps back, gesturing at everything he just assessed. “But look at you now—working cases for Bennett, helping out at the bakery”—he points to Skippy retaliating from his scare by marking Town Hall’s shrubberyas his own—“dog in tow. Guess that’ll teach us to keep our mouths shut, huh?”
I force a laugh, keeping it light. “I’ve just answered a few legal questions and wiped down a counter or two.”
Skippy trots back to me, and without thinking, I dig into my pocket for the bakery scraps I’ve started keeping there.
The mayor chuckles like I’ve just proven his point. “Mm-hm. You keep telling yourself that.”
Feeling an odd need to clarify something even I’m not sure of, I add, “Besides, I’m not even licensed to work in Maine.”
“That’s easily taken care of.” He tips his head knowingly. “I know a lawyer in Portland. If you partnered with him, Maine allows you to practice here without taking the bar exam again.”
“Maine also allows you to apply for reciprocity if you’ve been practicing out of state long enough,” I state, more to myself than to him.
The mayor grins like I’ve just confessed something. “See? I knew you were already thinking about it.” With a wink and another clap on my back, he stomps off toward the diner.
Leaving me standing there, snow soaking into my shoes, the word echoing like a hammer blow.
Yes, I’ve looked into becoming legal in Maine. But in my head it was for Amanda. For business. Hollywood business.
But was it?
Pictures flash too easily in my mind—Audrey dusted in flour, me sitting at the tiny wood table in the corner. Daily chats with the locals. Seasons changing along with theflavors of her whoopie pies. Quintessential small-town life. Audrey’s dream come true.
