Page 3 of Cakewalk

“No, I was recently widowed,” she said, reciting her practiced response. “There wasn't much left for me with my husband gone, so I decided to start over somewhere new.”

“What’s in Montreal?” The blonde’s smile was bright and cheerful, and she seemed genuinely curious. Gigi didn’t know why, but she liked these women, even though they’d barely had a conversation.

“Nothing specific. I’ve just always wanted to go.”

“Then why not stay here? We need a cake person, and obviously you were just dropped in our laps for a reason.”

Gigi was taken aback by the suggestion. Stay here? In Vermont?

“I don’t have anywhere to stay,” she told them, not sure if it was an excuse or a plea.

“We’ll help you get settled!” Audrey said. “Just say yes—I want these pretty cakes for the Busy Bean.”

Gigi’s head was spinning. Could she really just stay right here? She didn’t even know the name of the town, and it seemed awfully small. But maybe that was just what she needed. A small town in the middle of nowhere Vermont where she could be anything she wanted. The people here knew nothing about her or her history, so they wouldn’t question her story about being a widow. These women were offering her a job and to help her find a place to live, so she was already off to a better start than she would be in Montreal.

“Okay, deal.”

“Wonderful! You can bake and decorate out of our kitchen here to start since you don’t have a place of your own yet. If you want, you can start tomorrow. Kirk is our morning barista and Roderick runs the kitchen, so we can have them train you on how the whole place works. We should have most of the basics you need to bake, but if there is anything special you need, just let us know and we’ll get it ordered for you!”

“Great! Thank you so much!”

Gigi couldn’t believe that had just happened. Was it really that easy? The more she thought about it, the happier she was. She had a plan. There was just one problem.

She didn’t actually know how to bake…

2

Holden

Holden St. James tapped the screen of his phone currently strapped to his arm, skipping the song that had just started playing as he pushed into mile three of his daily run. He wasn't in the mood for classical today. He needed something that was going to inspire him. Today I’m actually going to write, he told himself.

Of course, he’d said that every day for the last six years, and yet his manuscript still sat there, barely touched. He had some basic notes and ideas, even a half-decent start on chapter one. But nothing that one could actually call a book. He’d spent hours just staring at the blank page and that stupid blinking cursor, trying to find the words to write, but they never came. They were gone. Gone and had never come back.

Just like Hannah.

He shook his head and sucked in a deep breath of crisp, cool morning air, trying to center his thoughts again. It was the perfect fall morning—bright and clear, crisp but not bone-chilling cold yet, and the leaves were still their fantastical fall colors. He knew this wouldn’t last for long—soon enough all those glorious leaves would fall, they’d see less and less of the sun, and the cold would settle in for the long haul. These were the kinds of mornings that were perfect for running. That led to the kind of run that almost made him miss playing professional soccer.

It’d been six years since he stepped away from the pitch…and the world. Six years since the most important thing in the world had been ripped away from him. Since he’d walked into his London apartment after celebrating winning the championship with his team to find the front door wide open, house ransacked, and his wife and unborn child murdered. He’d loved the game, but he’d loved his wife more, and losing her and their daughter, especially like that, was more than he could handle. Walking away from it all after her death was the easy part—it was the picking up the pieces that he was still struggling with. He knew that he couldn’t keep letting himself think of Hannah and the baby girl they planned to name Hermione after Hannah's favorite Harry Potter character, yet he just couldn’t stop. His brain’s default setting was always right there with his girls, reminding him that he hadn’t been there when they’d needed him. That they were dead because of that.

It’s not that he hadn’t tried. He’d gone to therapy. Twice. Both of the therapists he’d seen had told him that he needed to find his passion again, to find something to pour himself into. Which is why he’d finally tried to start that novel he’d always talked about writing. Professional sports had never been his plan, but when he was recruited out of college, it was an opportunity he couldn’t say no to. But as the son of a literature professor and a special education teacher who’d majored in creative writing, sports were always just going to be a means to an end. Maybe even inspire a few characters or stories. A year later when Chelsea FC came calling, he knew his novel would just have to wait a few more years, so he and Hannah packed up and moved to London.

“It’ll be an adventure!” Hannah had said when his agent called with the offer. “Think about it. The home of Dickens and Jack the Ripper! Paddington Bear!”

“You did not just lump Jack the Ripper and Paddington Bear in the same category,” Holden laughed.

“You know what I mean!” she responded with a playful smack. “We can do weekends in Paris when you’re not playing, and explore all sorts of new things. Maybe you’ll even find the object that you’ll base your best-selling book series off of. Who knows what could happen!”

If he’d only known what would happen, he would have stuck to his original plan and just become a teacher.

Come on, slow poke, pick up the pace. Coffee awaits us, he thought as he pushed himself up a slight hill.

Up until moving to Vermont, he’d never been a morning runner. He’d always preferred the evenings, watching the sunset and the day wind down. However, five years ago, after more than a year of him almost never leaving the house, his housekeeper, Mrs. Welch, told him that he wasn’t allowed to be home anymore while she cleaned his house. Well, not his house, exactly. It technically belonged to his godfather, but Holden had been living there since he’d walked away from his professional soccer career in London six years ago, and his godfather had moved to Florida to be closer to Holden’s parents. Mrs. Welch had been taking care of the 1850s Victorian home for as long as Holden could remember, and so when she informed him he was to get out, he did as he was told.

Rounding the corner into town, he passed Speakeasy, the new taproom that was exactly the kind of place that Holden and his buddies would have hit up. Now, however, there wasn’t anyone in his life to do that with. Not that his old teammates from Chelsea or even the US Men’s National Team wouldn’t come visit if he asked, but he didn’t plan on asking. He enjoyed his life of solitude. The quiet and privacy of the big old house allowed him to wallow in his own self-pity. And it wasn’t like he was a recluse—he did get out. He ran the five miles into town every day to get his coffee at the Busy Bean and catch up on the news. So what if he didn’t actually talk to anyone? You didn’t need to actually speak to people in order for it to be socializing. Slowing down, he ducked off the side of the road and into the parking lot of the taproom. He slowed to a walk by the time he’d hit the wooded area in between the two buildings, allowing him to take it all in.

A lady carrying a to-go carrier of coffee about knocked Holden over as he opened the door to the Busy Bean. She was in so much of a rush she barely paused long enough to throw him a dirty look, as if her not watching was his fault. He responded with a forced smile, knowing that if he stopped to engage, all it would do is delay him getting his own coffee. She was lucky she hadn’t spilled on him though. Then he probably wouldn’t have been quite as understanding.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” he heard a sweet, southern-sounding voice say. It was light and melodic and, for some strange reason, kind of reminded him of home. Looking around, he couldn’t quite tell where the voice had come from until his eyes caught sight of the strawberry-blonde beauty behind the counter.