Page 26 of The Sweetest Ingredient

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Of course, I can’t confirm any of this,” Maxwell said. “It’s merely what people are saying.”

The way the sunlight bounced off Maxwell’s too-polished smile gave me that same unsettling feeling as realizing my shirt was on inside out.

I reminded myself to take everything he said with a grain of salt—or in this case, maybe a whole tablespoon. Still, the fact that these rumors even existed troubled me. Was there any truth to the gossip, or was Maxwell really good at stirring the pot?

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for any substandard flour in the storeroom.”

“Good to hear,” Maxwell replied smoothly.

“But you didn’t answer my question. What has Bishop ever done to you?”

A frown tugged at his lips. “If you must know, we were practically raised together, more like brothers than cousins,” Maxwell said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “And when our grandfather passed away, Bishop cheated me out of my inheritance. He received the bakery that should’ve been mine, forcing me to open my own.”

I stepped back, the force of his revelation grounding me to the porch. “Bishop never struck me as the conniving type. Why would he do that?”

Maxwell shrugged. “It’s really about control. Bishop has always wanted complete autonomy over everything in his life, including his relatives.” He shook his head before continuing, “Not that he even cares how cheating me out of my birthright hurt me and my family.”

“Sounds like you two have a complicated past.”

He raked a hand through his hair with a hesitant nod. “We certainly do. After losing my inheritance, I had to take out a loan to pursue my dream of opening my own bakery. And Bishop? He hasn’t a smidgen of remorse.”

“Wow,” I murmured, trying to reconcile this version of Bishop with the honest man I knew. “I never would’ve guessed he’d do something so horrible.”

A part of me wanted nothing more than to rush to the bakery and confront Bishop, but this was between him and his family and none of my business.

Maxwell studied me for a moment, then said, “I could really use someone with your creativity and design expertise at my bakery. I’d like to offer you a full-time marketing position, and I’ll double your pay.”

“That’s very generous…but I don’t know. I mean, I want to get back into design, but I feel like I’d be betraying Bishop.”

It would solve all of my problems. I wouldn’t have to lie to Bishop anymore, and I could afford to pay for Bree’s school tuition. Though tempted by the idea of financial security, I hesitated.

I groaned. “I don’t think I can accept your offer.”

“Think it over,” Maxwell pressed. “I doubt Bishop appreciates your talents, not like I would. And I know money has been tight for you since your parents...” He left the implication hanging.

I bit my lip, feeling conflicted. The chance to use my design skills and earn more money was extremely appealing. Could I really abandon the bakery and work for Bishop’s rival? Then again, the pay increase would support my family. But, but I liked working for Bishop. My stomach churned with indecision.

“I should discuss it with my family first.” I backed away. “Enjoy the cake, Mr. Turner.”

“Good day, Miss Middleton,” he said. “Do give my regards to Bishop. And remember, if he ever needs any advice on how to keep up with the times, my door is always open.”

I climbed onto my bicycle and pedaled away from Maxwell’s house. Despite the mild breeze, a coldness settled around me. As much as I liked Bishop, he could be incredibly stubborn.

Suddenly, I questioned not only my loyalties but also my own feelings toward the man I was friends with. Yet, the doubts over Maxwell’s story left a bitter taste in my mouth that not even the sweetest chocolate could wash away.

Chapter Eleven

On my day off, my sister and I baked in our small kitchen, the counters cluttered with mixing bowls and baking sheets. The rich aroma of cinnamon, chocolate and nutmeg enveloped us, seeping into our hair and clothes as we shuffled around each other, maneuvering in the cramped space. Bree, with her freckled cheeks and curly brown hair tied in a ponytail, was elbow-deep in a mixing bowl. Mochi sat nearby, watching every move we made.

“What else do we need for Grandma’s chocolate chip cookies?” I turned my attention to the cookbook sprawled open on the kitchen table. I flipped the pages, halting on a healthy pet treat entry, before backtracking to the cookie recipe.

Bree bounced on her toes. “More vanilla extract.”

“Check the top shelf of the cabinet.”

“Found it,” she said, retrieving the small bottle.

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