Page 6 of Blood Sugar

Groaning, I dropped back onto my pillow, pressing my hand to my forehead. The only person I wanted to see was that gorgeous blonde vampire.

Sadie.

The weight of my family’s business pressed into my chest. It was worse now that Amelie had moved on. I couldn’t do this alone.

After a few minutes of measured breathing, my body relaxed. It would be okay. I could handle this.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I forced myself to sit back up. I had a busy evening of baking and vetting the new employee. Daydreams about Sadie would have to wait.

Grumbling, I rolled out of bed and trudged into the bathroom, hoping a shower would help me feel alive. My hand rubbed at the spot Sadie had sunk her teeth into. It felt entirely normal, and I couldn’t help wishing she’d left a mark on me.

Forty-five minutes later, I clutched a Red Eye from Enchantresso in one hand as the other swiped over the door of Wicked Whisk and I muttered the unlocking spell under my breath. The lock clicked and the door swung open, the lights magically flickering on.

The familiar scent of caramelized sugar and browning flour surrounded me, instantly soothing the anxiety in my mind. My dad once asked why I wanted to take over Grandma’s bakery, and the answer was simple: this was my favorite place to be.

All of my best childhood memories took place in this brick building with its peeling floral wallpaper—vines of flowers and pumpkins, of course—and the warm, wooden bakery cases. My grandfather taught me to count while working the register, and my grandmother taught me patience and precision as we baked together back in the kitchen.

My exhale was audible as the door closed and the bell quieted. The shop was tidy, just as I’d left it when I closed up Sunday afternoon.

Sunday was my night off, hence the evening at the bar and my lucky encounter with Sadie. The bakery was closed Monday, but if I didn’t bake tonight, we’d have nothing to sell for Tuesday. And after missing their sweet treats for a day, our neighbors would be ravenous.

Rolling my shoulders, I headed to the back. The Pumpkin Festival was a little over a week away, so anything I could do to prepare would save me a lot of trouble in the days leading up to the huge event.

Even when I was exhausted and stressed out, baking made everything better. A snap of my fingers started up music—showtunes tonight—and I hummed along as I reviewed the schedule and wrote out tonight’s tasks on the whiteboard.

With a plan in place, I got to work.

First, I needed to replenish the cookies and shortbreads. The three industrial mixers along the wall churned to life as I measured out sugar and butter onto a scale and then dumped them in.

By the time I added pumpkin to one of the mixers, I was singing Hamilton under my breath. The oven beeped that it was ready to go just as I scooped the last triple-chocolate cookie onto the final tray. Sliding them in the oven, I closed the door and started cleaning up.

The light pouring in the window was turning pink and gold. Sighing, I looked out at the view of Enchantresso. I needed more coffee, and to go over the pastry order for next month with the tea shop’s owner, Marigold.

I’d go later. Right now, I needed to get the puff pastry out of the fridge and start on the croissants. I set out baking trays and muttered a cooling spell over the area. If the puff pastry got too warm before going into the oven, the layers would melt together and it would be ruined.

Singing along to Epic, I used my rolling pizza cutter to shape the pastries, doling out the fillings—chocolate, pumpkin, hazelnut, and the new seasonal flavor: caramel apple. They were finished in time for my alarm to beep.

Grabbing a pumpkin-print quilted oven mitt, I made quick work of pulling out all of the cookies and replacing them with croissants. The quick breads would still need a few minutes, and I jiggled one of them to check on their bake. They looked perfect.

The rhythm of prep and baking was a dance that I excelled at. Every time something came out of the oven and its replacement was ready to go, I got a little hit of dopamine.

Just as I was cutting butter into the flour for scones, the bell chimed. I froze, my eyes flicking to the clock. We were closed, so it had to be Mercedes Corvin.

A sense of dread settled in my gut. That wasn’t a good sign.

Shaking my head, I moved to wash my hands and brush the flour off my orange apron.

“Anyone here?” The soft voice wafted from the front room, sounding younger than I expected.

Squaring my shoulders, I strode to the door and put on my best welcoming smile. “Hi, you must be our new—”

My words died on my lips. A petite blonde woman stood in the middle of my bakery, her wide fuchsia eyes full of worry. She looked a bit like a puppy who expected to be smacked with a newspaper.

My beautiful vampire.

How was she here? Was she looking for me? I’d never told her that I ran the Wicked Whisk.

My heart rate picked up. Smiling, I crossed to the counter. “Sadie, it’s nice to see you again.”