How to Stir a Baker's Heart

by Candice Sue Patterson

  Olivia, rebellious? Reckless? Interesting.

  “All right. What about the winery?” He wouldn’t point out she’d said the words “for today.”

  She relaxed against her chair. “Mandy and Austin are already booking reservations for wine-making classes. Mandy said they draw quite a crowd during tourist season since they’re right off the highway, and they’d like to help route that traffic to us as well as Kristport. They’ve suggested we put together a tour or trail from the winery to Stone Harbor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something that lists each business, like a flier or booklet, and when a person visits a business, they get a stamp. Once they receive all the stamps, they win a prize or something. I don’t know. An incentive to get people’s attention that we’re still here.”

  We’re. She said it as if she’d decided she was one of them and was settling in for the long haul. Blake sipped his coffee. “It could work. Where will they redeem their prize?”

  “The last place they get a stamp?”

  “What’ll they win?”

  Olivia propped her chin on her fist and looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “What if each business prints coupons for a free item? I could offer one dessert of choice. Then we combine the coupons in a bowl or something and the winner can randomly choose one. What they draw is what they get.”

  “And each business has one of these bowls?”

  She nodded.

  Blake shrugged. “We’d have to come up with a way to void their stamps once they’ve been redeemed. But if you think it’ll work, go for it.”

  “I think it’ll work.” Her pen raced across the paper.

  Blake looked around the shop. “Is that the space you’re wanting to remodel?” He pointed to the corner behind him.

  Her gaze followed his finger. “Yes.”

  She rose and walked to that side of the dining room. His chair scraped against the floor as he moved to follow. She explained her vision for a built-in book shelf, comfortable seating, Wi-Fi, and a small area for kids with a sand table, shovels, and buckets. A family atmosphere.

  Blake tucked his hands into his pockets. “I’m not an artist, but I’ll sketch it up after some measurements and get started if you approve.”

  Olivia crossed her arms. “All of us are benefiting from these changes, except you.”

  “You’re buying my blueberries.”

  “We both know I’m not buying enough to compensate for all this work. What else can I do?”

  Blake refrained from suggesting she go on a date with him. She’d probably deck him. “Help pick blueberries during harvest.”

  “That might be feasible for a day or two, but I have a business to run. What else?”

  She really didn’t want to be indebted to him, did she?

  “I believe you mentioned you attended cooking school?”

  Deadpan.

  “A home-cooked meal is a great bargaining chip to a single guy.”

  The familiar seasick hue crept back into her face. She crossed her arms. Shifted. “Oh, I…”

  When it was apparent she wasn’t going to finish the sentence, he took over. “I’m not asking you to eat the meal with me, Livi.”

  She swallowed. “Only my parents call me Livi.”

  He hadn’t meant to, it’d just come out. But Blake liked the way it sounded. “What do you say? A home-cooked meal once a week for a while?”

  “All right. It still doesn’t seem like a fair exchange.”

  Blake patted his gut. “Trust me. It is.”

  Her gaze lingered in the place his hand had just been. As soon as he noticed, she looked away. “Do Saturdays work?”

  “Perfect.”

  Olivia hugged herself tighter. “I’ll see you Saturday then.”

  8

  Heat from the foil pan permeated Olivia’s oven mitts as she soaked in every detail of Blake’s Victorian farmhouse: the intricate gingerbreading, the baroque porch spindles, the stained-glass transom above the entrance. Though tattered in places, the house possessed an old-era charm, beckoning her inside.

  “Where are we?” Grandma asked from the passenger seat.

  “Paradise.” Beyond the manicured ground surrounding the home and barn, blueberry bushes stretched every inch as far as her eyes could see. Dotted white, like a canopy of freshly fallen snow, the fields gently rolled, broken only by an occasional stack of yellow boxes. Had Olivia ever seen such an amazing sight?

  “Where are we?” Grandma fiddled with the button of her seatbelt.

  Olivia had explained the agreement between herself and Blake before they’d left the house, but Grandma continued to ask questions as if Olivia hadn’t. “We’re dropping this food off to a…friend, then we’ll go back home. Would you mind carrying the basket in the backseat, please?”

  Olivia bumped the car door with her hip and walked around to the other side. Once Grandma had the basket secured in the crook of her arm, they made their way to the front door. The closer they got, the more stunned Olivia was that Blake didn’t live in a log cabin or a pole-barn with attached living quarters. This delicate restoration-in-progress didn’t match his earthy, rugged aura.

  Blake rounded the corner of the house and raised a hand in greeting. The brown-and-cream flannel he wore over a chocolate T-shirt conceded her last thought.

  “Welcome.” He gestured for them to climb the porch steps, then reached for the pan.

  Olivia stepped back. “It’s hot.”

  He glanced at her oven mitts and turned to Grandma with a smile. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Hudson. May I help you inside?”

  His smile and the gentleness of his words made Olivia’s heart speed. Even her normally cautious grandmother couldn’t resist him, for Grandma gripped his offered elbow. The trek up the porch steps took patience, but Blake didn’t seem to mind. So far, the man was as sickeningly perfect as Sheriff Miller—and every other person in Stone Harbor—had described him.

  The screen door, as intricately designed as the gingerbreading, squealed when Blake opened it. Olivia crossed the threshold onto a solid oak floor. To her left, a long staircase led to the second story, the railing made of vintage, stained boat oars.

  “The kitchen’s to your right.” Blake’s deep timbre, so close behind her, sent a zing up her spine.

  Olivia followed his directions, and when she stepped into the big room beyond the hall, all air escaped her lungs. What appeared to be the original cabinets ran the length of one wall, adorned by unique knobs and latches. Modern granite countertops had been added on both sides of the hammered copper farmhouse sink. But what captivated her more than anything was the treasure tucked in the rear corner. “A Mayflower cook stove,” she breathed.

  Blake scratched his head. “Is that what that thing is?”

  Was he serious? Olivia set the pan on the counter and removed the oven mitts. She practically ran to the cast-iron relic and rubbed her hand over the smooth surface, amazed at its near pristine condition. “Does it work?”

  Blake approached. “I don’t know, haven’t tried it. I took it apart, piece by piece. It cleaned up pretty well.”

  Olivia swallowed. She was in love.

  With the cook stove, of course. These were the things turn-of-the-century baking dreams were made of. And she was jealous it didn’t belong to her. If she had her own place, she’d offer to buy it. But she didn’t and…oh, my goodness I have to have this stove.

  Grandma joined them, and together she and Olivia opened every door and warming compartment. Turned every knob. It wasn’t until after they’d explored every inch that Olivia realized how rude she’d been in taking liberties with Blake’s things. Her cheeks warmed. “Sorry to lose my head, but she’s gorgeous.”

  Blake chuckled, rich and deep. “And to think I almost hauled her out of here when I bought the place.”

  “You can’t get rid of this.” She blinked at her bossy tone and softened her voice. “I mean, you shouldn’t get rid of it. A Victori
an-era cook stove of this caliber is rare. You should definitely keep it.” Or give it to me.

  A corner of his mouth twisted upward. Dark eyes studied her with interest and a fiery spark of attraction. Shoot. She’d been doing so well, keeping distant so he wouldn’t get any ideas. Then she had to go and fawn over his kitchen appliances.

  Blake tucked his hands in his pockets. “I guess I’ll keep it then.”

  Because it was valuable or because she adored it? Her gut clenched. She was torn between wanting to scout the house for more antiques and wanting to flee his heated gaze. She was flattered. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t be? Then again, she hadn’t exactly been in her right mind for a while.

  Blake glanced down at his boots, and when their gazes met again, the spark was gone. “I remember you saying you loved old houses. You’re welcome to look around.”

  “Oh, we should probably get going. I don’t want your dinner to get cold.” Olivia took the basket still resting on Grandma’s arm and unloaded the breadsticks and salad next to the foil pan of lasagna. Next came the pecan pie, which had seemed like a good idea this morning, since that’s what he’d been after at the bakery the day of their meeting.

  No, it didn’t go with the Italian theme and, yes, she’d made it special to honor their deal. Now she couldn’t shake the awkward vibe in the room. Was it suffocating everyone else, or just her?

  Blake ushered them into the hallway that led to the living room. “Dinner will keep. You know you’re dying to see it. Go on.”

  Was she that transparent? Either way, Blake was right. She desperately wanted to explore every inch of this house.

  Brown leather furniture rested against two walls adjacent to each other separated by a floor lamp. A lovely, well-worn rug covered most of the wood flooring. Logs waited in the fireplace for the next chilly night. No shelves, pictures, or knick-knacks. Only the big screen television for a focal point.

  Blake cupped Grandma’s elbow. “Watch your step on the rug.”

  Grandma glowed under his attention. It was hard not to. Blake possessed the kind of charm that sneaked up on a girl, spoiled her, made her feel like the most important person in the world.

  Since Olivia refused to be captivated, she walked to the fireplace and imagined how cozy this room would be with a few pillar candles and framed photos adorning the mantel.

  “I tackled this last fall.” Blake tapped the mantel, startling her from her decorating daydream.

  “What a nightmare,” he said. “Part of the chimney’s lining had crumbled and had to be completely reconstructed. It’s great to have around in the winter though. That first year here, I thought I was going to freeze to death. Not much insulation in these old places.”

  “That explains your obsession with flannel.”

  His deep rumble escaped again, wrapping around Olivia like a warm blanket. She’d always enjoyed a good spar but hadn’t had it in her for a long time. Something about Blake managed to resurrect her feisty attitude.

  “Live here long enough, and it’ll become your best friend.”

  “Not likely. What room is the balcony attached to?”

  “The master bedroom. It’s got a great view. You’re welcome to go upstairs if you want. Don’t mind the mess. I’ve been expecting an email, so I’m gonna check my messages. Take your time.”

  Before Olivia could confer with Grandma, the woman picked up a copy of Co-Op Weekly, dropped onto the couch’s middle cushion, and stretched her legs in front of her. Olivia glanced at Blake. He winked his approval, sending another round of aggravating warmth into Olivia’s cheeks.

  She climbed the stairs, determined to relax and enjoy the tour since this would be the only time she’d allow herself to stay and visit. From here on out, she’d drop his food off at the door and leave.

  No sparring. No winking. No flirting.

  The house enchanted her more with every room she explored. The spare bedrooms were cold and had yet to be tackled. Decades-old wallpaper still clung to the plaster walls she wished could reveal their secrets.

  Justin, amazing architect that he was, could design a place like this, but he’d never be able to build it. In fact, she doubted if he’d ever picked up a hammer. Maybe that’s why he’d run at the first sign of difficulty. He could design his idea of marriage but wasn’t capable of building it on a strong foundation, of restoring the broken pieces.

  Blake, however, made a living with his hands, farming and building. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, there was something extremely appealing about such qualities. Of course, that didn’t mean Blake used them in his relationships. After all, the man was single. There was probably a good reason why.

  The next door opened to a finished bathroom restored to a perfect combination of white walls, slate floor tiles, and gray-stained trim. Keeping with the bachelor theme, the only objects in the room were simple lighting, a mirror, a laundry hamper, and a towel hanging from the wall hook. The replicated claw-foot tub held shower plumbing as well, and she suspected the tub had only been added for a touch of authenticity.

  The last room was Blake’s. She hesitated in the doorway. Going in seemed intimate somehow, which was silly since he was downstairs. It was just a room. The balcony view he’d boasted about eventually won out, and she stepped inside.

  The scent of his cologne wrapped around her—sunshine, ocean water, and man. Ignoring the trigger it pulled in her brain, she flipped the light switch and covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

  Flannel bedsheets. The man had a serious obsession.

  If she hadn’t experienced the mind-numbing cold of a Maine winter herself, she might question the man’s faculties. However, the fabric served a purpose and combined with the fireplace across the room, no doubt he stayed warmer at night than she did.

  A set of heavy French doors offered access to the balcony. She opened them to a vision of blueberry bushes stretching to the edge of the plateau, beyond which a sliver of ocean was visible in the distance. A strange sensation flooded her body—a tingle, like circulation flowing through a once-pinched limb.

  This house. It whispered to her. The idea of lovingly restoring an object that was once vibrant but had fallen into shambles filled her with yearning so strong it brought tears to her eyes. Was it possible for a person to feel a connection to a house that wasn’t hers? Maybe she was crazier than she thought.

  A dog barked.

  Olivia shook away the complicated feelings, realizing that for the first time in a long time, the numbness had faded and she was feeling. In some ways, it was almost painful. She stepped off the balcony, closed the doors, crossed the room, and rushed down the stairs, afraid if she took any longer, Blake would think she’d decided to move in.

  Olivia found Blake and Grandma on the front porch.

  A decrepit golden retriever lumbered up the steps and sat next to Grandma’s feet.

  “Dog,” Grandma said.

  Blake smiled, his white teeth contrasting against his five-o-clock shadow. “This is Scooby.”

  Olivia reached out so the dog could sniff her hand. “As in the cartoon mystery crime-fighter?”

  He nodded. “I had Velma, too, but she passed away five years ago. The old boy hasn’t been the same since.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Methuselah, in dog years.

  “Hey, Scoob.” Olivia patted his head.

  Grandma smiled like a kid on Christmas and joined in the dog loving.

  Scooby dropped to his side for a belly rub and moaned.

  “Now he’ll expect you to do that every time you come over.” Blake leaned against the porch railing, crossing his arms and ankles.

  Her next visit would go much differently. “We should get going.” Olivia stood. “We’ve kept you from dinner long enough.”

  Blake’s smile dimmed.

  “Come on, Grandma.” Olivia helped her up, linked their arms, and they slowly made their way down the steps.

&n
bsp; When their feet hit grass, Grandma turned and waved. Not to Blake, but to Scooby.

  Blake raised a hand and watched them all the way to the car.

  Olivia knew this because she was also watching him from her peripheral vision. Once inside the car, Olivia checked Grandma’s seatbelt then started the engine. Hand poised over the shifter, Olivia stopped when Grandma grabbed her wrist. “That man.”

  The same words Grandma had used to describe Blake the night he’d found her walking. Only this time her eyes were absent of fear.

  Olivia stared at Blake through the windshield. He hadn’t moved from his spot on the porch, arms and ankles crossed. That man, indeed.

  9

  Blake waved as Olivia’s car angled toward the road and drove away. Minus the crickets warming up for their nightly symphony, a depressing silence hovered over him. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there staring at the barren driveway. The thump of Scooby’s tail against the floor reined him in. Blake knelt and rubbed the dog’s thick neck. “Hey, boy.”

  Scooby sneezed, shooting dog spray on Blake’s hand. Just as well. He needed to wash up and eat his dinner before it turned cold. It smelled amazing, and Blake had wanted to dive in as soon as Olivia arrived, but female company took precedence over food. Blake stood, and Scooby padded to his bed by the swing, eased down, and sighed.

  With one last look toward the road, Blake noted the dry, dead stalks of rose bushes that lined the porch. The ones he’d planted for Madison. The ones she’d never tended. The ones that had never bloomed. Why hadn’t he yanked them up before now? Why was he still hanging on to a dead idea two years later? Madison wasn’t coming back. He didn’t want her back. He wanted to move on, find the right woman to marry, and share this big house. Enough time had passed.

  No woman since had captured his interest the way Olivia had in the last month. He knew virtually nothing about her except that she could go from a day at the beach to a blizzard in two point five seconds. Something about her tugged at his heart. It was clear as the blue of her eyes she’d been wounded. Deeply. Blake was determined to find out how and see if there was anything real in that spark between them.