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I grip the dish in my hand so hard I almost drop it back into the soapy water. "I don't think so. I only just got confident in my new solo business. You won't believe how much food I had to toss out just to make enough room for the cakes. If I go and see what kind of equipment they got at some new place, I'll—"
"Oh my gosh, Denise," she says, cutting me off as she spots something else on her phone. "Please, just look at it."
She holds the screen up so I can see the picture of the bakery that Sheila's sent her. It has its charms, I'll admit. The glossy windows are framed with bamboo shutters, and the siding is a wonderful sunny yellow color.
Opening my mouth, I start to tell Lisa that yeah, it looks fine. Nothing to get excited about. But suddenly, the logo catches my eye. It's not just familiar. It's something Imade. It looks exactly like the sugar sun I made for the top of Tinsley Simon's cake. The similarity is undeniable.
I lean in closer to read the name of the place. Initially, it's a bit unclear, as the picture is small for my eyes. But finally, it becomes clear.
Desserts by Denise.
What the hell?
Lisa grins again. "You still don't want to go?" she asks teasingly.
"Grab your purse," I respond, rushing to dry my hands. "We're getting in the car."
On the drive over, my mind is reeling. What the hell was this owner thinking? Is this some kind of practical joke? Stealing not just the little bit of clout that I have in the world of baking, but my ownnameas well? If this is Austin again, I'm going to give him a real piece of my mind.
And this time, it will be far more than a simple slap.
As we pull into the parking lot, I realize it's a location I recognize. A few days ago, this place was a rundown restaurant, its faux brick exterior crumbling away and a large "For Sale" sign slapped in its window. Almost overnight, it's had a full, cheery makeover.
I peer up at the awning, the words "Desserts by Denise" printed in curling letters. A fire fueled by pride bursts into life in my gut. Who the hell thinks this is okay?
Sheila meets us in the parking lot with her arms crossed over her chest as she leans against her car. To my surprise, she smiles at me as I approach, like she thinks the whole thing is very funny.
"I'm not laughing, Sheila," I tell her.
"Wait until you see the inside," she says, ignoring my point. Looking at Lisa, she asks, "Did you tell her about the hot guy behind the counter?"
To my frustration, Lisa giggles. "I tried, but she didn't care. She's too angry about the whole identity theft."
"Well, I'm sure Mr. Hottie would like to hear all her complaints. Let's go inside."
Sweeping past her, I storm up to the doors and push my way inside. Despite this supposedly being a "friends and family" meet-and-greet before the grand opening, there's only one man in here, stuffing his face with a cookie by one of the display cases.
An empty display case, I suddenly realize. Not one of the glass shelves in the entire place has any pastry on it. Even the chalkboards behind the counter are completely blank, not a speck of chalk dust on them. The place is empty, a large blank slate. Not a business ready for opening.
Stepping forward, I spy the cookie in the man's hand, recognizing it instantly as a Crescent Moon. But before I can open my mouth to protest, the man turns around, and my heart skips a beat as I realize I recognize him too.
"Hey, Denise," Bash says, a smear of chocolate in the corner of his mouth. He raises the cookie for me to see, nodding to it. "These are delicious. Though I bet they're even better when you make them."
"I… what…?" is all I can manage to say. My confusion has turned my tongue into a roadblock for speech.
And then, out from a swinging door to the back room comes….
Oh.
Oh, he's even more gorgeous than I remembered.
He holds a tray of freshly baked Crescent Moons, setting them gently on the counter before removing his oven mitts. He's wearing an apron so much like the one I made him wear once, a cream-colored base and a prancing unicorn across the chest. He knows exactly what he's doing to me. He must.
His sleeves are rolled up, showing off the thickness of his arms and the sureness of his hands. He's still dressed in his tailored suit pants and button-up shirt, though he's let a few of the buttons stay loose, showing the top of his wonderful chest.
Finally—nervously—I bring my gaze up to meet his face.
He's smiling, a brilliant, white smile that makes my heart melt instantly. That jaw, that stubble my fingers have missed the feel of. That dark hair with the curling ends at the base of the neck. That brow still strong but much less serious than when I first saw it at The Silver Coop all those weeks ago.
