Page 19

The urge to reach for my mints is strong, but I remember my saliva-covered hand and curl it into a fist at my side, itching to push past Willa and wash it off.

“Oh,” Willa says, seemingly surprised at the question. “I use the kitchen for my business.”

“Which is?”

Her cheeks flush, turning the same rosy pink as the frilly apron she wears. “I’m a baker.” Her tone of voice is defensive.

“And you bake what, exactly?”

“Cookies,” she says, sounding even more defensive. She’s even clutching a rolling pin now, like she’s prepared in case she needs to use it as a weapon.

I hold back from any remarks I might otherwise make about cookies as a business, not wanting to risk her taking a swing at me.

Instead, I cross the kitchen to the sink, washing away the remnants of my canine namesake. While I’m scrubbing, I make note of the cookie cutters, bowls, and baking sheets piled high in the deep sink.

Cookie baking, indeed.

I turn off the water, only to realize there are no towels of any kind. With dripping hands, I glance around the kitchen.

“Here.” Willa thrusts a towel at me. It’s white with pink cursive writing which reads,Let’s Get Our Bake On!

“Thank you,” I say, drying my hands. “I had an … encounter with a large dog who greeted me with his mouth.”

“Let me guess—Archibald?” Willa smirks. “He’s very cute, but his bad manners won’t be cute when he’s a hundred and fifty pounds of untrained, hairy beast.”

One hundred and fifty pounds?

The horror must be evident on my face because she says, “Don’t worry—Sara just enrolled him in obedience school.”

“Let’s hope he makes the honor roll.”

Willa laughs. “Wow. You just made a joke. I didn’t think you were the type.”

Neither did I. Without thinking, I’ve folded the towel into a neat square. “Here.” I hold it out. “Thanks, Willa the Person.”

She laughs again, and our fingers brush. The same icy zip I felt last night moves up my arm. My pulse quickens, far too much for such a small touch. I walk away, putting the crowded prep counter between us. Apparently, I need the barrier.

Willa stares at the neat square like it’s the first time she’s ever seen a folded towel. I get the sneaking suspicion she’s the kind of woman who keeps all her clothes shoved into drawers. Or maybe lives out of her laundry basket and never puts anything away.

As though to prove my point, Willa rumples the towel a little before tossing it on the counter. I can feel her gaze on me and need somewhere to look. But everywhere, there is justmess.

“Does this kitchen hold the necessary permits for commercial baking?” I ask, reaching out to push a cookie cutter back into line with others.

“Yes. See for yourself.” Willa’s tone is clipped as she points to the wall, where an official looking document is hanging in a cheap frame. Indeed, it’s a city of Serendipity Springs inspection for the kitchen.

And, I can’t help but notice, it expires in exactly ten days.

“Did you and Galentine have a contract for you to rent this space?”

There is a long moment of silence, which is at least a partial answer to my question.

“I had an agreement with Galentine to use the space.” Willa shifts. “But we didn’t—she didn’t ask me to sign anything. We had a verbal agreement. A verbalcontractabout the appropriate use of the space.”

Clearly, she’s grasping for legal terms. Trying to justify the free use of this kitchen for her business without a written contract or rental agreement. Unless it’s in writing, it won’t hold up in court. As I consider how to explain this to Willa, she sighs and picks up the measuring cup she dropped earlier.

“Want to help?” she asks, not looking up as she levels what I realize is powdered sugar, not flour, into the cup.

“What?”