Page 57 of The Sweetest Ingredient

It felt like justice after all underhanded deeds that Maxwell did, or at least the prelude to it. Especially after calling me a fraud in front of Bishop.

“Let the crumbs fall where they may.” A grin curled my lips as Sweet Sensations came into view. It stood there innocently enough, but soon, its facade would collapse like a poorly constructed gingerbread house—and I was here for it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Two days later, I decided to prove my sincerity to Bishop one more time. After all, actions spoke louder than words.

My heart ached whenever I thought about the way Bishop’s eyes crinkled when he fought a smile, our good-natured debates on Austen, and the timbre of his voice when he spoke about the bakery—the images lingering in my mind like the aftertaste of a delicious pastry.

After showering and getting dressed in a faded T-shirt, my favorite skinny jeans, and a pair of worn flip-flops, I went straight to the kitchen. Bree was at school until this afternoon, so it was only Mochi and me.

I tightened my apron strings. “I’m baking an apology apple pie for Bishop.”

My cute dog wagged her fluffy tail and plopped down on the doggy bed in the corner, while I worked on the pie crust.

“Let’s see if my improved culinary skills paid off, shall we?”

As I baked, I remembered Bishop’s stern expression the last time I’d seen him, and how much it had hurt when he walked away. Once finished, I slid the pie into the oven and I sat at the table to write a letter.

Dear Bishop,

I want you to know how truly sorry I am. My intention was never to hurt you and I never should’ve lied to you, and for that, I deeply regret my choices. Really, I didn’t mean to turn our relationship into a plot twist worthy of an Austen novel.

When I first stepped into Doughy Desires, I honestly thought it was a blind date that my best friend had setup with a senior citizen named Walter, not that that’s important, but I never meant to lie in an interview. It was a misunderstanding that led to a job that I desperately needed at the time.

I know asking for forgiveness is a lot, like expecting someone to choose just one pastry at Doughy Desires (impossible, right?). Even ever optimistic Anne Elliot would struggle here!

But please know that every word I write comes from a place of genuine remorse and a deep longing to mend the rift between us.

With all my love,

Kenzi

When the pie finished baking, I placed it into a plastic container, then folded the letter and taped it to the top.

Dessert in hand, or more accurately, pie precariously perched in my bike basket, I set out for Bishop’s house. The mission? Operation Pie Drop. The objective? To win the heart of the unsuspecting Bishop, one baked good at a time.

When I arrived, I parked my bike near the tall bushes lining his driveway like silent, verdant sentinels.

Heart pounding, I tiptoed to his doorstep, the pie now feeling like a ticking time bomb of affection in my hands. With the stealth of a ninja, I deposited the pie on the porch and blew out a breath.

After ringing the doorbell, I executed a tactical retreat to my bushy hideout. Crouched among the foliage, I peered through the leaves with bated breath, my heart performing acrobatics in my chest. This was it, the moment of truth.

Would Bishop be wooed by my pastry prowess?

As I waited for the door to open, I nervously wondered if Operation Pie Drop would be a recipe for romance or a half-baked disaster. But either way, I was ready for the reveal, armed with nothing but my hope, my pie, and an overzealous amount of whipped cream.

“Bishop, please give me another chance,” I muttered, my fingers crossed.

The door opened, and Bishop appeared. His gaze scanned the porch until it landed on the pie and the letter. Stubble peppered his jaw and deep shadows had nestled beneath his eyes. He sighed deeply as he picked up the letter.

I held my breath, watching his expression for any sign of compassion and understanding, but seeing none.

“Kenzi!” he exclaimed, his voice sounding strained. “I know you’re here. Please come out.”

I emerged from my leafy refuge, my steps faltering. Smoothing my hair with shaky fingers, I crept forward, my flip-flops slapping against the driveway pavement.

“Hello,” I said, trying to muster a smile, but my lips only trembled. “I thought a pie could say sorry better than words. Guess it’s more of a flaky apology though, huh?”

---