Page 11 of The Sweetest Ingredient

“I’m glad you like it. You can clean up and go home now.” Bishop’s gaze lingered on me briefly, a gold ring around his pupils glimmering. “Good work today, Kenzi.”

“Sorry about the icing apocalypse earlier.”

Bishop’s fingers encircled my wrist as he led me to a quiet corner, away from the others. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, sending goosebumps rippling over my skin. “Look, I knew you weren’t the next Julia Child when I hired you. But there’s a genuineness about you, Kenzi, that I think my customers will appreciate. Lucia is an excellent baker, but has horrible customer service skills, and Jordan’s only here part-time.”

My pulse quickened at his close proximity. “Thanks for taking a chance on me. I’ll do my best.”

“See you tomorrow,” he said, letting go of my arm.

As the door closed behind me, I realized that my biggest challenge wasn’t mastering recipes, but resisting the attraction to a certain handsome baker.

Chapter Five

Yawning, I shuffled into the bakery at an ungodly hour. While I hated getting up so early, I liked seeing Bishop every day.

Who knew Mr. Pensive could be such a morning person motivator?

In the kitchen, I started folding the dough for croissants. My fingers felt coated in adhesive, and my delicate folds resembled puckered origami gone awry. Perhaps I should’ve added more flour.

“Kenzi, how’s it going over there?” Lucia adjusted her floral apron while eyeing me like a hawk. With years of baking experience, she could probably spot an amateur from a mile away.

“Fantastic.” I flashed a grin that was more of a grimace.

Lucia shook her head. I knew I couldn’t keep up this facade for too long, especially with her scrutinizing my every move.

I lifted the tray of pastries. “Time to put these in the oven.” I tried to sound breezy, as if I had done this a million times before.

But it was only a matter of time before my secret would become glaringly obvious. And then what? My job, my paycheck, and my connection to Bishop, all gone in a puff of powdered sugar.

“Kenzi.” Lucia’s sharp tone cut through the air like a cake knife. “I tried searching for you online, but all I could find was your expertise in graphic design. Nothing on past baking positions.”

My grip on the tray faltered. It tipped sideways in a slow-motion descent, sending pastries flying as if catapulted into zero-gravity. They soared in the air, casting floury shadows before splattering in a disarray of doughy carnage on the counter and floor.

Heat flooded my cheeks. “Oops.”

“You call this an oops?” Her cheeks reddened, and I swear I saw steam billowing from her ears. “You are destroying our kitchen with your clumsiness!” Her harsh words were like a hard pinch, but Lucia’s frustration was warranted.

I crouched to scoop up remnants of dough stuck to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

Lucia shook her head. “I don’t know what Bishop was thinking when he hired you.” She pointed at the doorway. “You’re banned from the kitchen. Go help customers at the front counter.”

“Sure thing.” Relieved to be out of the firing line, I brushed off my clothes and left the room.

Cash registers were much easier to handle than bakery kitchens, and I had plenty of retail experience from the part-time jobs that I’d had while in college.

I greeted the first customer with a big grin plastered on my face. “Hi! How can I help you?”

The woman appeared taken aback by my eagerness, but ordered a dozen assorted cookies. I quickly rang up the order and wished her a great day.

When the morning rush subsided, the sun’s rays highlighted the drab tablecloths, dull beige walls, and lack of customers. I wiped down the counters and ensured that each pastry looked appetizing within the countertop display case, then refilled the coffee grounds and napkin dispensers.

Ten o’clock that morning, Bishop walked in—and goodness, was he a welcome sight. The classic black shirt he wore accentuated his broad shoulders, and those dark denim jeans showed off long legs. It was always a challenge not to ogle him.

Bishop stopped in front of me. “Lucia got you working the counter?” He watched me with an intensity that set my skin aflame, and I hoped it didn’t look like I’d just stuck my face in one of the ovens.

“Yeah.” I tried my best to sound casual and not like someone whose heart rate had hit marathon levels. “She thinks I need the full experience. Perhaps next week, I’ll brave the espresso machine.”

“You can return to the kitchen now that it’s slowed down.”

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