Page 8 of The Sweetest Ingredient

I laughed, then frowned as a thought occurred to me. “Chantel, there wasn’t anyone else at the bakery when I was there. Did Walter stand me up?”

“He could’ve got cold feet. What time did you get to Sweet Sensations?”

“Oh, no.” I clamped a hand over my mouth. “I went to Doughy Desires.”

“You dork! Well, like I said, I think meeting the baker was fated, instead of amiable sixty-year-old Walter.” Chantel winked.

I swatted her on the arm. “What? You said he was fifty!”

She shrugged. “Age is just a number.”

“Sixty is so old,” Bree mumbled.

I elbowed my teenaged sister. “You think I’m old.”

Bree lifted a brow. “Because you are.”

“Please tell him I’m sorry,” I said to Chantel. “And if my bakery career doesn’t work out, I guess I can always marry Walter.”

As we indulged in a reality TV binge, I couldn’t wait to work alongside Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody.

Chapter Four

On my first official day at work, I stood outside Doughy Desires—the place that was about to become my new happy place, or so I hoped—at four in the morning and stifled a yawn.

Geez, bakers got up early.

“All right, Kenzi, you’ve got this,” I muttered, adjusting my graphic tee with a ‘Team Darcy’ logo, paired with my favorite cropped jeans and high-top sneakers.

Yet I hesitated. A nagging feeling of unease tugged at the edge of my confidence. If I was being honest with myself, I’d never professionally baked a day in my life. Sure, I’d baked brownies and cookies from a box, and as long as I didn’t accidentally poison anyone or burn the place down, everything would be peachy.

Pushing open the door, I stepped into the bakery, inhaling the irresistible aroma of cinnamon-spiced air. Someone must’ve gotten here earlier than me. I yawned and silently prayed that my new job included a crash course in coffee IV drips.

My hands fumbled as I shrugged off my jacket and it hit the floor like a discarded napkin. “Smooth, real smooth.”

Grasping my jacket, I hung it up. Maybe I was more nervous than I thought. I crossed the room, going behind the counter, and into the kitchen.

I took a deep breath, blowing it out. This was it, my first day as a fake-it-till-you-make-it baker. I plastered on a smile, hoping my expression radiated confidence rather than fear.

“Morning, everyone!” I announced, stepping into the large kitchen.

Two people looked up from different counters while working on intricate pastry designs. The yellow light from the overhead lamps glinted off shiny stainless steel countertops and appliances.

“Hi, I’m Jordan Hayes, junior baker.” The twenty-year-old halted the electric mixer mid-whir and shot me a grin. Standing lean and tall, his reddish-brown hair contrasted with his pale, freckled skin. Smudges of chocolate adorned his casual tee and apron, like badges of culinary honor. “You must be Kenzi, the new assistant baker.”

“Yep, that’s me. I think...”

To my left, a massive industrial food processor churned butter with a rhythmic hum, while trays of cookies, scones, and doughnuts lined the cooling shelves along one wall. To my right, an enormous oven radiated heat, its glass doors revealing muffins turning a nice golden brown.

Jordan clapped a flour-covered hand on my shoulder. “This is our senior baker, Lucia Garcia.”

He gestured toward a Hispanic woman, old enough to be my mother, wearing a floral apron over her green, ankle-length dress. She offered me a taut smile, more defensive than welcoming.

“Nice to meet you, Lucia.” I extended a hand to Lucia, who looked at it as if it were a questionable pastry.

“Likewise,” she replied curtly, not bothering to shake my hand. “Be prepared to work hard. We don’t tolerate slackers here, young lady.”

I lowered my arm. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here to do my very best and rise to the occasion.”

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