Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“She’s a good baker,” the third one admits. “I’ve ordered stuff from her place in the city. But she doesn’t belong here. She’s a city girl.”
The first one nods. “She didn’t stick around the last time.”
I’ve stopped outside the bookstore, my feet glued to the sidewalk, refusing to move. They’re betting on me to fail.
My skin crawls. My stomach aches. I suck in a breath, only it feels like I can’t breathe. I try again, but inhaling is hard all of a sudden.
Is this a panic attack? I’ve never had one before, but I think it might feel like this.
Why did I think it would be okay for me to come back to Cozy Valley just because I inherited an abandoned fire station? Did I think I could welcome-wagon myself into their hearts with a cheery, Hi, I’m Mabel, and I want to sell you cookies from my firehouse-turned-bakery!
I spin around, searching for the quickest route out of sight. I still can’t catch my breath, and I don’t want anyone to see me freaking out like this.
Think fast.
Ah, there’s a slim alley next to the bookshop. I dart down it, into the shadows, and lean against the wall. It’s a mural of spines for some of the most popular romance books of the last few years. I breathe in. I breathe out. I try to slow my jackhammering pulse.
What if no one shows up on opening day? What if not enough people do? What if I’m too chaotic? Too crazed? Too obsessed with my baked goods? What if I put too much salt in a recipe? What if I pick the wrong merch, or not enough merch? What if the chairs are uncomfortable, or the decor is too pink, or it’s not pink enough?
My mind swims with too many possibilities.
I breathe again, trying to calm my wild thoughts, my racing heart.
Another breath.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
Another slow breath.
I’ll prove them wrong. That’s what I’ll do.
After a minute or two, I’ve gotten myself together enough to slip out of the alley, where I run smack into…my mother.
She’s all tweed and polish, her stick-straight brown hair cut in a bob, her horn-rimmed reading glasses perched atop her head. The strap of her leather satchel full of books rests on her shoulder.
“Oh, what a lovely surprise,” she says. “How are you?”
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out. I haven’t seen her in a few months. We’ve talked. We’ve texted. I had to tell her I was opening a bakery here. I couldn’t hide that. But I’ve been too busy to meet up. At least, that’s what I told her.
She gives me a confused look at the question. “I live here.”
“Right.” Of course, I knew that. I’m just so flustered. I jam my hands through my hair. It’s still a little sweaty from the game. “I didn’t expect to see you. I’m sorry. Was I supposed to meet you?”
“No, I’m just picking up lunch at the Green Pantry. Do you want something? We could get a bite and chat about some ideas I have for you in case things don’t work out with the bakery.”
Gritting my teeth, I heave a sigh. “You too?” Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t think I’m a loser?
“What do you mean you too?”
But I’m not about to let her know that the knitting club is placing bets on how fast I sink into business quicksand. “Nothing. I just meant…I’m sorry. I’m a little—”
She sets a cool, moisturized hand on my arm. “You’re scattered, dear. I get it. It happens. And if you don’t have time for lunch, just put this little nugget in the back of your mind. I could help you get a job at the university in the food services. They have some openings. The benefits are great. There’s a wonderful retirement plan. I know you’re determined to make this little bakery work, but sweetheart, you really need to be in a job that has benefits. It’s so important. You have to think about the future.”
The sidewalk tilts. The world is upside down. I feel small all over again for daring to think my little bakery could work.
I drag a hand down my face and say, “I’ll think about it, okay? I need to go.”
“Let’s do lunch soon,” she says.
“Right. Soon,” I say robotically, then escape down the street toward the firehouse.
I need to bake.
I need to prove I can do this.
I need to show them all I’m not a hot mess.
But when I spot a pack of strong, sturdy men carting in tables and chairs, I remember. Today, the guys from Corbin’s team are setting up the furniture we ordered from a consignment shop.
It looks like Riggs is hauling a pink chair from a pickup truck that belongs to Lake’s ranch.
I’m not sure I can face all of them. I’m not sure I can face anybody. I’m about to double back to…do what? Retreat? Like everyone expects me to?