Page 19 of The Sweetest Ingredient

“I suppose you identify with the haughty and prideful Mr. Darcy.” I pranced away, moving on to dust the glass bakery case filled with perfectly iced cupcakes.

“Mmmm.” The edge of Bishop’s mouth twitched upwards for a split second before resuming its standard stern line. Progress. My boss walked over with his cleaning rag and spray. He stood on the opposite side of the case, raising an eyebrow at me. “Perhaps I do. And I suppose you fancy yourself the sassy Elizabeth Bennet?”

I smirked at him across the cookies and tarts separating us. “Touche.”

After finishing up our cleaning, I grabbed a lemon tart from the case and hopped up to sit on the counter. Bishop shot me a look, but didn’t say anything.

Bishop crossed his arms, leaning back against the opposite counter. “The first time I read Pride and Prejudice, I was kinda insulted by the way Mr. Darcy professed his love for Elizabeth by listing all her family’s faults and mediocre social standing.”

I took a big bite of the tart and the taste of lemon custard mixed with the buttery sweetness of the shortbread crust melted over my tongue. “That wasn’t a confession of love. Darcy was just struggling between his feelings and what society expected of him. That letter he wrote Lizzy later on, though, now that was him opening up and spilling his heart.”

“But Persuasion has a superior romantic hero in Captain Wentworth.”

Swallowing another bite, I dramatically placed my free hand over my chest. “Ah, but does Captain Wentworth deliver one of literature’s most romantic lines? ‘You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’ No, he does not.”

Bishop grunted. “Fine, you make a fair point.”

“I know.” I finished the last bite.

Bishop walked over, leaning in close, his face inches from mine as he reached around me to grab a napkin. Gently, he dabbed at the corner of my mouth, wiping away a smidge of powdered sugar left from the lemon tart. My heart stuttered and skipped several beats.

“But I still think Persuasion is better,” he whispered unevenly.

“Oh? And why is that?”

Bishop’s stare searched mine, his face so close I could see a ring of gold around his irises. “Anne Elliot’s got this amazing depth and maturity. Her reserved behavior makes her yearning for Captain Wentworth so much more touching than Lizzy’s lively banter with Darcy.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but personally, I find Lizzy’s witty exchanges with Darcy way more interesting than Anne’s silent longing.”

Bishop smiled slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “What can I say? You can be very persuasive in your arguments.”

I slid off the counter. “Well, as Jane Austen might’ve said, ‘It is a universally acknowledged truth that a single argument in favor of Persuasion, in the presence of such passionate debate, must be in want of a counterargument for Pride and Prejudice.’”

When the door chimed, signaling the arrival of customers and effectively ending our Austenian debate, a twinge of disappointment swept over me. I realized our verbal showdown wasn’t just about the books; it was our unique way of bonding, proof of our evolving friendship.

Who knew Jane Austen could be such an effective matchmaker?

“If this were a Jane Austen novel, I’d say you’re quite the Mr. Darcy, but with better baking skills,” I said brightly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

Bishop nodded, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And you, Miss Middleton, navigate your wit and charm with the finesse of Elizabeth Bennet, though I dare say she never wielded a feather duster quite like you.”

“Ahhh, you’re too kind, Mr. Caine.”

Glancing at the clock on the wall, he said, “Excuse me, Kenzi. I need to make a call.” He walked into his office.

After helping the patrons, I reached for a tray of plump blueberry muffins left out to restock the display case. But in my haste, I set down the overflowing tray without looking and missed the counter by a mile. The tray tipped in slow motion, and I flailed wildly to catch the avalanche of muffins making a break for freedom.

After a brief juggling act, I managed to rescue one renegade muffin, clutching it to my chest. But the rest evaded capture, bouncing across the bakery floor with abandon, rolling under tables and chairs. I cringed at the runaway pastries.

Leave it to me to unleash complete confectionery bedlam, and I giggled amidst the muffin mutiny.

“Dash it all. It’s a Mansfield Park kind of day!” I said, referencing one of Austen’s less optimistic works.

Lucia walked into the dining area with a scowl. “Good heavens, what a mess!”

If anyone could make me feel worse about my muffin mishap, it was Lucia. From now on, I would be careful to avoid potential pastry avalanches.

Lucia approached the front counter. “It’s unacceptable how incompetent you are with basic tasks, Kenzi. How can someone supposedly trained make such amateur mistakes?”

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