Page 37 of The Sweetest Ingredient

“Thanks, Alice. That’s kind of you to say. We worked hard on the updates.”

She nodded. “I’d like a blueberry muffin and black coffee, please.”

I served her order, and she took her items to a table by the window.

Bishop came out of the kitchen with fresh tarts and placed them in the display case.

The door chimed again. “Hello, hello!” Vivian Lark, the local reporter, sashayed inside, clad in a burgundy blouse and white slacks. Her oversized glasses sat on a dominant nose, and her bright red hair was styled into a gravity-defying beehive. “I’m here to do an article on your bakery, Bishop Caine. Ready for your close-up?”

Bishop gave her a polite nod. “Ms. Lark, welcome to my establishment.”

“Heard you implemented major changes and thought to myself, ‘self, you need to write a story on these new digs,’ to see what all the fuss is about.” Vivian didn’t waste time. She made a show of inspecting the bakery, and every once in a while she let out an exaggerated, “Mmm!” or “Aha!”

She zeroed in on a plate of croissants on the counter. “May I?” Without waiting for a reply, she took a bite, and her eyes fluttered closed. “This is a flaky piece of heaven.”

“We take pride in our ingredients and techniques,” Bishop replied.

“And what do you think of our new look?” I gestured at the surrounding décor. “Isn’t it just fabulously retro chic?”

Vivian laughed, a high-pitched and infectious sound. “Oh, darling, it screams, shouts, and belts out a ballad. So loving it!” She scribbled in her glittered notepad and snapped a few pictures with her equally bedazzled camera.

She left, and I crossed my fingers that the article would be favorable.

* * *

During a brief respite that afternoon, I wiped down the display case. The door opened and Chantel entered, wearing a flowy dress and sandals. Her dark-brown skin contrasted beautifully against the colorful fabric, and she’d styled her ebony hair into a long braid.

“Ah, my daily dose of happiness has arrived!” I waved at my best friend.

Chantel strutted up to me. “Hey, Kenzi. How’s it going?”

I smirked. “Living my best life, one sprinkle at a time.”

She glanced at Bishop, who was busy refilling the espresso machine with fresh grounds, and ignoring us.

“My shift just ended, so wait while I grab my stuff.” I untied my apron and hung it up on the hook by the door, then snatched up my purse and sweater. “See you tomorrow, Bishop.”

“Bye,” he said, not looking up.

Chantel and I strode into the midday sunshine and began ambling through town, taking in the quaint shops and charming boutiques. I slipped into my button-up sweater and swung my purse strap onto one shoulder.

Chantel lifted a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “So, how do you like working for Mr. Too-Hot-to-Handle Baker?”

“His skills with a whisk are unparalleled. And beneath that occasional gruff exterior, there’s...well, a heart of gold or possibly a hidden talent for interpretive dance.”

We both giggled.

“Or an affinity for bowties and a fondness for Austen novels?” Chantel looped her arm through mine.

“In fact, he does like Austen’s works and watches the movie adaptations with his mother.”

She laughed. “It makes sense you’ve got a thing for your boss. But really, you barely know the guy.”

I shrugged. “Seven cookies would be insufficient to make some bakers acquainted with each other, and seven cupcakes are more than enough for others.”

She shook her head. “I love you, girl, and your Austen misquotes, crack me up.”

We walked in silence for a block.

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