Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
I grin. “Deal.”
CHAPTER 8
Penny
I step into Sweet Cakes, and the smell alone ought to come with a warning label. Sugar, cinnamon, butter, vanilla—all the scents when put together feel like a warm hug. It’s a dangerous combination when I’m supposed to be on a twenty-minute break from the café because whatever pastry I’m about to talk myself into will require a strong cup of coffee to go with. And coffee is meant to be savored, hopefully alongside good conversation.
Larkin’s little bakery is one of my favorite places in Whynot. It’s cozy, sunlit, and just a little too cute to be real. The front windows glow with late-morning light that filters through lace curtains, landing on glass cases filled with pastries so perfect they could’ve been airbrushed.
Behind the counter, Larkin Mancinkus Locke is in her element, as evidenced by the flour covering her pink apron like she’s been marked by the baking gods. Her head lifts, the piping bag of blue icing in her hand hovering over a tray of blank cupcakes.
“Look what the biscuit fairy dragged in.” She grins, setting the bag down. Her Southern accent is the sweetest, matching her bubbly personality.
“Hey yourself,” I say, dropping my tote onto one of the small wrought iron tables. “Central’s finally running smoothly enough I thought I’d risk a coffee break.”
Larkin cocks an eyebrow. “You have excellent coffee there.”
“Fine,” I say with exasperation. “I want something sweet and since you’re the best baker I know, here I am.”
Larkin laughs. “What would you like?”
She pours coffee—a cup for her and a cup for me—while I peruse the glass case. I point at a chocolate croissant and when it’s warmed up, she joins me at the table to take a break.
“You look halfway alive, so I’m glad to see that the restaurant isn’t wearing you down.”
“High praise,” I mutter, but I’m smiling. “It’s going good. Luckily, Muriel has long-term, dedicated staff. They’re all busting their butts to make this work. Today’s been near perfect—everyone showed up on time, nobody set anything on fire, and I only threatened homicide once before ten a.m.”
Larkin laughs, the sound warm and easy. “That’s progress.”
“It is,” I admit, waving my croissant at her. “I’ve got a crew I trust now. Muriel trained them well, and I think they were just waiting for someone to steer the ship again.”
“Look at you,” she teases. “Coming in here all competent and managerial.”
“Don’t make it sound too glamorous. I still go home smelling like bacon grease.” I take a delicate bite of the croissant and almost die from pleasure. “The best part of things rolling along means I don’t have to live at the diner anymore and can take time for myself to hang with my bestie.”
Larkin sips her coffee. “You’ve done something amazing, Penny. I know Muriel is so proud of you. I saw her two days ago and she’s just gushing. It means a lot, you doing this for her.”
I smile down at the steam rising from my cup. “Well, I wouldn’t be what I am without her, so it was the only thing I could do.”
Muriel was the one who pushed me to chase my dreams. She was the one who pushed me out of Whynot while everyone else—including my parents—wanted me to stay. They wanted me to work a reasonable job, get married, have babies. My parents never saw my potential past the boundaries of this town, and while I love them beyond measure, they didn’t want me to grow.
But I did, and now I’m back, sitting here with one of my favorite people in the world. The coffee’s rich and slightly sweet, and the chocolate croissant is perfection. For the first time in weeks, I let myself be still. No orders waiting, no invoices stacked up, no stress about my job in DC or what comes next.
Larkin fixes me with that slow, catlike smile that says she’s been sitting on a question and can’t hold it anymore.
“So…,” she starts, drawing out the word until it’s practically a song, “you gonna tell me what’s going on with you and Sam Rochelle?”
I almost choke on my coffee. “What makes you think anything’s going on?”
She arches a brow, amusement written all over her face. “Honey, Whynot’s got three reliable sources of information—Facebook, the prayer chain, and the gossip mill. But I’m not relying on any of that. I saw it when he came into the diner the other day. The way he looked at you like he wanted to eat you up gave me the shivers.”
Gave me the shivers too, but I don’t admit that. “He came in for breakfast. He was just being friendly.”
She cackles and slaps the table. “Oh, sweet Lord, I needed that,” she says, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. “You’re really gonna sit there and tell me that with a straight face?”