Page 12

"My only weapon is a wooden broom."

Beth Bowen

“Hey! There you are!” Marissa greets me as she marches into the shop the next day. “Smells good in here.”

“Thanks.” I step out from the back, my apron firmly secured. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came in early to test a few new recipes.”

“Wow.” Her eyes widen as she steps behind the counter. “You’re on fire.”

I glance over my shoulder at the small back room, now filled with trays of muffins, brownies, and pies covering every surface.

I tend to bake when I have something on my mind.

Images of yesterday keep flashing in front of my eyes, and I can’t seem to get rid of them.

They robbed me of my sleep—and apparently my mental health, if we go by the number of pastries scattered around this place.

I don’t know what it is about James wearing glasses, but that did it for me.

It makes him look so different, yet somehow, even more handsome.

But most of all, for once, I think I just saw the real him.

Not the cocky player who entertains the crowd and makes flirty comments—well, aside from that underwear remark—but the caring man who visits the retirement home where his grandma used to live, giving hours of his precious time to bring joy to the remaining residents.

“Thanks,” I say, shaking my head into focus. “I thought we could try some new pastries for the fall. I made apple crumble, pumpkin pie, apple spice muffins with caramel glaze, and caramel apple brownies.”

“Wow,” she breathes, her eyes sparkling. “Those look incredible, and tempting. But I need to watch my weight.”

“Oh, come on, Marissa,” I say , wiping my hands on a towel. She’s always had insecurities about her body. “You look fantastic.”

“You’re sweet,” she says with a small shake of her head, signaling that she doesn’t fully agree.

I scan the baked goods again. “I’m going to start on a couple of batches of pecan pie brownies. Can you handle the front?”

“Absolutely,” she says, turning on the faucet to wash her hands. “By the way, my dad invited the three of us over for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, that’s thoughtful of him,” I say, grabbing another bag of flour from the cupboard.

“But I think I’ll stay in, if that’s okay.

I just want a quiet night at home. We’ve been going out almost every day this week, and at this point, I just want to curl up in front of the TV.

” Not to mention I’ve been intruding on their private lives enough.

I’m not going to join their family dinners too.

“Sure. I get that. Well, my first choice would be a book, but . . .” She shrugs, placing all the pastries I made in the display case.

The bell on the door announces the first customer of the day. No surprise, it’s Emma.

“Hey, guys,” she groans, her face still stuck in its pre-coffee setting. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Emz,” we both call back . “Your coffee is almost ready,” Marissa adds, grabbing a cup. “Can we tempt you with some fresh pastries as well?”

She leans forward to check out the display. “Wow, you guys are killing it with these.”

“It’s all Beth,” Marissa corrects her, turning to me.

“Give me two muffins, two brownies, and a slice of pumpkin pie. I’ll share with the girls.”

“Great. Make sure you spread the word to anyone else you come across as well,” Marissa says. “Just in case a school bus of hungry teenagers doesn’t stop by today.”

Emma snickers. “Right. This might be going a bit overboard for Warlington Lane. But with your claim to fame, anything’s possible.”

“Exactly,” I say. “That’s the spirit.”

“And if you’re stuck with any leftovers,” Emma adds, “do consider your wonderful neighbors across the street.”

It’s half past five, and to our delight, we don’t have a lot of pastries left. All our customers complimented them, and a few regulars even circled back around to grab some more. I’m glad the festive treats were a hit, and I’m already excited for tomorrow. I have a few more recipes up my sleeve.

“You should head out,” I tell Marissa, who’s clearing the two tables we have for eat-in customers. “I can close and finish cleaning up.”

“But you opened,” she says, throwing the towel over her shoulder. “And you made all of those pastries. It’s the least I can do.”

I appreciate her trying to balance the scales.

It is important when you’re in business with a friend—something the girls from No Shelf Control taught us.

But unlike Marissa, I have no plans tonight.

“Pff, that was nothing. Just doing my part. But you should go get ready for tonight. Take the rest of the pastries too, for dessert.”

“All right. Dad and Aaron will love that,” she says with a chuckle. She places the remaining pastries into a kraft bag and hugs me goodbye. “See you later, or tomorrow.”

“Have a great night.”

Once she leaves, I finish wiping the counter, then decide to scrub both ovens as well.

With all the baking I did today, they definitely need it.

I’m just finishing sweeping the floor when the bell on the door jingles.

Shoot. I must have forgotten to lock the door.

I spin around. “Sorry, we’re clos—oh! It’s you. ”

Standing in the middle of the shop is Lucas, wearing his Sharks tracksuit. “Hey, Beth. How are you?”

“Lucas, what are you doing here ?” I ask, still holding the broom.

“It’s time we end this stupid game, don’t you think?” he says, his eyes darkening. “When are you coming home?”

I blink back. Is he serious right now? “It’s over, Lucas. I’m done.”

He scoffs, looking around. “Sure. Just like every other time.”

“Exactly.” I clutch the broom so hard, my knuckles are turning white. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“You don’t leave me, Beth. Don’t you get that?” He slams the wall with his open palm, causing the frame that’s hanging there to shift.

The sound startles me, and he smiles apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he says, straightening the frame. “But let’s end this stupid break. I know you still love me. Let’s just pick up where we left off.”

I take a step back. “I’m not interested.”

He grins, stalking toward me. “Oh, come on. We were great together.”

“I’m seeing someone else!” I blurt out, not sure how else to get out of this mess. He’s a two-hundred-pound hockey player, and my only weapon is a wooden broom.

He snickers, leaning against the wall. “Really? That’s the best you got?”

“Yes, really,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You know him, actually. James Adler.”

His face turns white, and he sputters in response. I know I shouldn’t be lying, but I also knew that fib would catch him off guard. All because of that stupid rivalry. As the two New York teams, you’d think they’d want to help each other out. Guys make no sense sometimes.

“You’re lying,” he finally says, defying me with his gaze as he towers over me.

“I’m not. And I’m done talking to you,” I say before spinning on my heel. But before I can leave, Lucas grabs me by the wrist.

“You’re lying,” he says again.

“I told you, I’m not. Stop,” I yell, trying to pull my hand back, but he only squeezes harder. “You’re hurting me. Leave me alone.”

He yanks me toward him, and I defend myself in the only way I can—with a strong kick to the crotch before I shove him away and whack him with my broom.