by Melody Grace
Sure, it was old and dirty, and there were empty boxes piled everywhere, and the counter was broken, and the shelves on the wall were sagging, and the orange striped wallpaper was straight out of 1972 . . .
“It’s perfect,” she sighed happily.
Grayson cleared his throat. “We seem to have different definitions of the word,” he said dryly.
He obviously thought she was crazy, but Summer knew the real test was still to come. The kitchen. She held her breath as she followed Grayson into the back. Some things could be fixed with a lick of paint and some detergent, but the appliances were non-negotiable, so when Summer saw the old range—eight burners, gas, double-oven!—she could have kissed it. Or him. The range was probably safer.
“Maytag,” she said, almost hugging the stainless steel. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”
“You think it’ll work?” Grayson sounded dubious.
“With a bit of TLC. They’re workhorses,” she explained. “Madame Celine was running one from the fifties, and it still worked just fine. And there’s a walk-in cooler, too!” She looked around in delight, taking in the open door and the big farmhouse sink under the window. “What was this place before? It must have been a restaurant or something.”
“Pie shop, I think,” Grayson said, running his fingertip over a counter and shaking the dust away. “Old Cornish pasties, or something like that. When the lease was up, they decided to move to Boston.”
Oh right. The lease.
She turned to him with her prettiest, most landlord-friendly smile. “So what are you asking for rent? I mean, it is out of the way here, and not exactly in great shape. But I’d be willing to take it on for you.”
Grayson smiled. “That’s very generous,” he replied, looking amused.
Summer grinned. “I’m very considerate like that. Plus, it doesn’t look like people are lining up to rent.”
“I don’t know . . .” Grayson said, looking around. “Now that I’ve seen the place, I can think of a few people who might be interested. You’re right, it would be perfect for a café or food vendor.”
Drat. Summer narrowed her eyes. “But they’d want it all clean and ready,” she pointed out. “I’d do all the work myself. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger, or worry about a thing. And with strangers, you’d never know who you were going to get.”
“I don’t know you,” he pointed out, with a teasing edge to his smile.
“Sure you do,” Summer shot back. “I’m Summer Bloom. I make great wedding cake and have excellent taste in scotch.”
Grayson paused. “You made the cake for the Kenmores?” She nodded. “That was damn good cake,” he admitted.
Yes!
“And there’s plenty more where that came from,” Summer said temptingly. “If you agree to let me take the lease.”
Grayson looked at her like he was sizing her up. Summer tried to look respectable and virtuous, but she wasn’t sure she managed, what with the aforementioned bird’s nest and her dress strap slipping lower.
“Fine,” he said finally, and named an amount that would have bought her exactly fifty square feet in Brooklyn.
Summer wanted to cheer, but if she’d learned one thing from her mother, it was that the first offer was always just the start of negotiations.
“How about half that?” she countered. “And I’ll cover the cost of repairs myself.”
He chuckled. “You think I’m going to practically give you this place?”
“Yes.” She smiled back at him. “Because I can give you something no other tenant can.”
Grayson raised an eyebrow, and suddenly, the kitchen didn’t seem so spacious. Summer felt the temperature go up a notch as his eyes skimmed over her body again.
“And what’s that?” he asked, his voice low and sultry.
Summer remembered to breathe. “What every man really wants.” His nearness was intoxicating, but she wasn’t about to lose sight of her prize. “Fresh-baked scones, every day of the week.”
She gave him an impish grin, and he laughed.
“Tempting.” Grayson paused, then suddenly shrugged, as if to say, What the hell? “Go on, then. Take it. But there are ground rules,” he added sternly, as she bounced in delight on the spot.
“Anything,” Summer vowed, resisting the urge to fling her arms around his neck and . . . celebrate. It was hers! She couldn’t believe it, one more piece of the puzzle falling perfectly into place.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Grayson warned her. “No drama, no stress, no late-night emergencies or special favors, or anything to disrupt my life, you understand?”
Summer nodded enthusiastically. “You won’t even know I’m here,” she promised. “Except for the line stretching out the door, and the delicious smells wafting in the air.”
“And the scones,” Grayson added, that smile quirking on his lips again. “Don’t forget about the scones.”
How could she? Grayson could have asked for a six-layer chocolate cake delivered twice daily and she would have happily agreed. She spun around, already picturing the ovens full of baking croissants, and the counters gleaming, stacked with plates and cake boxes and all her favorite bake-ware.
And Grayson, sitting right there in the sunshine, tasting her favorite recipes . . .
Clothing optional.
The image popped into her mind, and Summer tried not to blush. Her new landlord may have just made all her dreams come true, but that little speech about drama and distraction had made it perfectly clear he didn’t want anything more. Plus, she’d learned the hard way that bringing romance into the kitchen always ended in tears.
That was fine with her. Love could wait.
She had baking to do.
6
“. . . And I can have little bistro tables out front, just like the ones in Paris, and serve lemonade and tea to go with the pastries. Ooh, and fresh milk. You can’t have cookies without milk.”
Three days later, Summer had signed the lease, taken possession of the keys, and was gleefully showing Poppy around her new kingdom. It wasn’t just the bakery—she’d been so caught up with her visions for the downstairs space she hadn’t even looked past the kitchen, but it turned out there was an upstairs apartment too, complete with a small bedroom, bathroom, and living area overlooking the wilderness gardens.
“It definitely . . . needs some work.” Poppy looked around at the dust and terrible orange striped wallpaper with a dubious expression. Whoever had lived here before clearly had a thing for crazy patterns, because it looked like the seventies had thrown up all over the walls.
“It’s a mess,” Summer agreed. “But it’s still five times the size of my place back in New York. And I have a garden!” She threw open the back windows—and coughed as a cloud of dust rose up from the untouched window ledge.
Poppy laughed. “If anyone’s got the vision, it’s you,” she agreed. “But . . . are you sure about this? Not just the bakery, but Sweetbriar Cove.” Poppy’s expression turned cautious. “I’m thrilled to have you here, but it’s a big move. We’re a long way from New York. You always said your dream was to be the hottest chef in the city, and this . . . Well, I love Sweetbriar, but it’s not exactly the West Village on a Friday night. Their idea of a party here is when Franny sneaks her elderflower home brew into a town meeting,” she added with a grin.
Summer smiled. “I know. It isn’t what I planned, but it’s here, now. I could have spent another ten years working away to make it on my own in the city,” she explained. “And what kind of life would that have been? You know what that schedule was doing to me,” she added, feeling her shoulders tense up just at the thought. “The late nights and constant stress. I didn’t have time for dating or fun or . . . anything! Now I get to take a breath, and actually be a person again. I’ll be able to stay in bed past 6 a.m., and bake what I want, and oh my god, I could actually have a day off once in a while!”
Poppy laughed, and gave her a hug. “Then I’m on
board. Anything you need, just say the word.”
Summer hugged back. “Thank you. But loaning me your man is more than enough.”
“He does have his uses.” Poppy grinned. Cooper was downstairs, poking around the kitchen to put together a list of repairs. “And you won’t have to worry about getting ripped off by a shady contractor, he’ll take care of whatever you need.”
“You guys are a lifesaver,” Summer said with real relief. “There’s so much to do to get ready. I want to be up and running ASAP for the summer tourist season—I figure that’s the best time to launch, but they won’t be lining up around the block for my morning buns if they come with a side of damp and roaches.”
“I don’t know about that. I’d fight off roaches for those morning buns any day.”
“Spoken like a true friend.”
A call came from downstairs. “Summer?”
“Coming!”
She thundered down the old wooden staircase, emerging in the small room just off to the side of the kitchen. It had been a dining room originally, she guessed, but now it was piled with old junk and boxes that she maneuvered around to meet Cooper in the front of the shop. “What’s the verdict?” she asked with a tremor of nerves. “Tell me it doesn’t need a new roof or plumbing.” She’d promised Grayson she’d take on the cost of repairs, but her budget wouldn’t stretch for anything major.
To her relief, Cooper shook his head. “All good there. It’s actually in pretty good shape. Needs some of the electrical wiring replaced, but mainly it’s cosmetic: paint, sand the floors, maybe repair some of the window frames.”
“Yes!” Summer high-fived him as Poppy joined them.
“Good news?” she asked.
“The best.” Summer beamed. “I might even have some money left for my dream gallon stand mixer by the time it’s done.”
“That’s great.” Poppy slipped her arm around Cooper’s waist and glanced at his notebook. “What’s that?”
Cooper looked down. “Oh, I was just thinking, it would be great to restore these built-ins, maybe extend them up to the ceiling.” Cooper showed them some sketches. “And if you really wanted the space to work, I would even knock through the wall in the back here, open up the whole space into the kitchen.”
“That would be amazing,” Summer said longingly, looking around. That dining room was awkward, and she could see how opening everything up would give her double the space to work with. “But would it be expensive?”
Cooper shook his head. “It’s not a load-bearing wall, so I could get the permits, no problem. As soon as Grayson signs off, we’re good to go.”
Summer came back down to earth with a bump. She’d promised her new landlord no mess and no fuss, and she was pretty sure knocking walls through qualified as both. “You think he’d go for it, if you asked nicely?” she said hopefully, but Cooper just chuckled.
“Nice try, but this is on you.”
She sighed. “Any advice? You’re friends with the guy.”
“Grayson is . . . a rational man,” Cooper said, sounding diplomatic. “Give him warning, lay out the plans, be reasonable, and you shouldn’t have a problem.”
“In other words, he’s a stick-in-the-mud with no soul,” Summer translated, remembering his cool detachment.
Poppy shook her head. “He seems like a decent guy, just . . . quiet, that’s all. You’ll win him over. After all, you’ve got plenty of weapons in your arsenal,” she added with a wicked gleam in her eye.
Cooper snorted, and Poppy hit him lightly on the arm. “I was talking about her cakes!”
Cooper left her with the sketches and his list of repairs, and then Summer locked up and strolled into town. It was a warm, bright day, with the salty ocean breeze rippling the trees, and Summer couldn’t keep the smile from her face as she walked the leafy country lane. Trees! And sunlight! She could hardly believe she was here instead of sweating in Andre’s kitchen, trying to avoid his latest meltdown. Summer imagined the rest of them, scurrying around the restaurant like panicked rats. Right about now, she would have been prepping for lunch service, following someone else’s recipes she’d made a hundred times before. But now, she was suddenly hundreds of miles away with a whole new life taking shape. It was exhilarating, exciting . . .
And just a little terrifying, too.
Summer thought about how she’d just sunk every cent she’d ever worked for into this bakery plan, and she felt her stomach lurch. This was it, no second chances now. Either she made it a success, or she’d be hulling strawberries for someone else forever.
And she could only imagine what her mother would say.
Summer pushed away that unpleasant thought and reminded herself to stay calm. She just had to stick to the plan. She’d learned all about running a bakery from Madame Celine, and (as the woman herself would insist), she’d learned from the best. Not to mention her apprenticeships at restaurants all over New York City. From business plans to cash flow to inventory—Summer had spent years soaking in every last piece of information in preparation for the day she would finally strike out on her own. She had the knowledge, the passion, and now the perfect location too.
And in the end, it was the baking that mattered most of all.
Speaking of which . . . Summer arrived in the Sweetbriar town square and looked around with new eyes. She planned to go talk to Grayson about the renovations, but first, she needed coffee—and some research into her local market. She didn’t want to tread on any toes, or get involved in a bake-off with a beloved local, so she carefully toured the few charming streets, making a note of any potential competition. Luckily, Sweetbriar was well-stocked with gift shops and cute little galleries, but aside from a meager selection of snacks at the coffee shop, there didn’t seem to be anywhere to get a decadent slice of cake or a life-changing éclair. One look at the lackluster muffins on sale, and Summer’s worries were laid to rest.
This town needed her croissants, and they needed her, bad.
She ordered a latte, her spirits high again—until her phone began to ring, and she checked the caller ID. Her mom. Summer flinched, and shoved her phone deeper into her pocket, letting it go to voicemail.
She’d been avoiding her mother’s calls for the past few days. Eve was still bugging her about that TV appearance, and Summer knew the moment she told her about the bakery, it would be nothing but “You’re not ready for this, sweetie” and “You’re making a mistake.” She didn’t want to spoil her new adventure with Eve’s doom and gloom—especially when they came served with a side of judgment and a dash of passive-aggression.
So, avoidance. It wasn’t like she didn’t have practice. But the ring started again, almost as soon as she’d left the shop, so Summer dug her phone out with a sigh and braced herself. “Hello?”
But instead of Eve’s brisk voice, it was Lana from the restaurant. “Summer? Oh thank god, you have to help me,” she exclaimed in a rush. “Andre told me to make the almond macarons for dessert and I’m going crazy, they keep sinking, and if I don’t have them right by service he’s going to fire me, I swear.”
Summer could hear the panic in her voice; she knew it well. “Calm down,” she said. “Have you got the recipe?”
“Yes, I’ve been following the damn thing to the letter.”
“What about the oven?” she tried. “It gets too hot at the top, you have to use the lowest rack.”
Lana swore. “The oven! Thanks Summer. I owe you a drink when you’re back.”
Summer paused. “You know I’m not coming back. I quit.”
She heard Lana laugh. “That’s what you said, but come on, this is all just to show Andre he can’t live without you, right? We’re all betting how long it takes for him to come crawling and offer you co-executive chef, or maybe a satellite restaurant. He’s been talking about opening a spin-off location.”
“No, Lana, this isn’t a game.” Summer frowned. “I’m really done. I have my own thing now.”
“Sure you do.” Lana
sounded distracted. “But if you are coming back, make it July. I have twenty bucks in the pool.”
She rang off, and Summer lowered the phone. She couldn’t blame Lana for having her doubts: in the whirlwind of the kitchen, it was hard to imagine any other kind of life existed out there. Some people thrived on that panicked adrenaline, and Summer had too, for a while. But now that she’d had a taste of freedom, she knew there was no turning back.
And freedom right now meant strolling the Sweetbriar town square, savoring her coffee with the morning calm. Poppy had given her directions to Grayson’s bookstore, and she found it down a side street, almost hidden by some overgrown rose bushes and a peeling white-painted gate. Summer looked through the front window and saw Grayson lounging with his feet up on the desk, reading a thick novel. He was wearing another faded button-down and a pair of black-rimmed glasses.
Damn, she was a sucker for a man in glasses.
She pushed the door open, and was heralded by a ding! from the bell above the door.
Grayson didn’t look up. “We’re closed.”
“The sign says open,” Summer pointed out.
He glanced up at the sound of her voice, and she thought she caught the hint of a smile.
“The sign lies.”
Summer looked around. “This is your place? I like it. Very . . . vintage.” The shelves were crammed with old, second-hand books, and the narrow rooms fed into each other, inviting you to browse. “Do you have any cookbooks? I have a collection. Well, addiction, really. Not as bad as Poppy and her romance novels, but still . . .”
OK, she was babbling, but Grayson was still watching her with that inscrutable stare of his, and it set her pulse beating just a little faster.
What did he think of her?
“I heard you’re getting started fixing up the bakery.”
“Yes!” Summer turned back to him. “I actually wanted to talk to you about the plans.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled out Cooper’s notes. “There’s a few things I need to run by you—”
“Then let’s make an appointment to talk.” Grayson cut her off. “Later.”