Page 1 of Sweet Somethings

One

Juliette Adams had been at work in her bakery for over an hour when the sun came up over Fairhope, Alabama a little past seven on Thursday morning, the second of February. Her kitchen smelled like cinnamon and sugar, and the heat from the ovens had put a red flush on her cheeks. While she loved serving her customers, there was nothing better than the actual baking: kneading the dough, whipping the cream, layering the pastry—all of it, really.

Her father said she'd been born to bake, and she'd always believed that. Nothing had ever made her happier than early mornings in the kitchen like this—except maybe the mornings when her dad had been the baker and she'd been his trusted assistant. In those quiet and dark hours before dawn, they'd shared their dreams, their triumphs, even a few fallen cakes, but it had all been so special—until it had ended painfully and abruptly.

She drew in a breath as her thoughts moved in a negative direction, and it took all of her will to force them out of her head.

Wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron, she popped the last tray of her Valentine's Day Wish cookies into the oven. Starting every February first her father had made the special batch of cookies in honor of the season of love. According to town lore, dozens of people had found their heart's desire after eating one of the magical cookies.

Now it was up to her to continue the tradition—to give love and fate a little help.

Her cookies were good, but were they the same? Were they magical?

She hoped so. It wasn't just the cookies she wanted to recreate; it was the wonderful life she'd had in Fairhope before her parents died, before she had to move away to New York, before she had to start completely over.

But her big city days were behind her now. She'd been back in the idyllic small coastal town of Fairhope for five months, and she was feeling pretty good about most things.

Her bakery business was growing rapidly, and she'd found a second sales outlet at Donavan's, the popular coffee shop across the street. Between the two locations, she was beginning to show a profit, which would eventually bring her closer to her long-term goal—to buy the house she'd grown up in.

The old Victorian on Primrose Lane called to her every time she walked down the street. The house had changed hands a couple of times since her parents had died, but one day she hoped to make it hers, the way it should have been.

Most of her New York friends—make that all of them—had thought she was out of her mind to leave one of the most exciting cities in the world to go back to small-town life, to consider buying a house before she was thirty or married or living with someone. But they didn't understand that while she'd enjoyed New York and spending time with them, there was still a hole in her heart, and she couldn't seem to fill it no matter how hard she tried.

Maybe she'd have the same problem here; she hoped not, but only time would tell.

As the oven timer went off, she quickly retrieved two trays of cookies and put them on a cooling rack. Then she went into the front of the bakery and refilled the display cases she'd emptied the night before.

Her storefront was small but cozy. She had a twelve-foot glass display case that ran most of the length of the room, showcasing her pastries, cookies, cakes and pies. On the wooded shelf behind the case and against the wall, she featured her homemade breads: rye, seven grain, white, wheat and the occasional sourdough.

In front of the display case was a coffee stand with a large stainless-steel canister for Donavan's dark roast, coffee beans provided by Donavan's Coffee Shop. For the fancier coffee drinks, customers would have to go across the street.

Next to the coffee offerings were two small red café tables for those customers who liked to linger.

As her gaze moved to the window, she caught sight of a man standing outside. His presence startled her—not just his presence, actually, but the dark, compelling gaze that seemed to hold a hint of yearning that she found oddly unsettling.

He straightened when her gaze met his. He gave her a slight nod and then took off.

She walked over to the window and saw him jogging down the street. He wore dark track pants and a hoodie sweatshirt, and he moved with the athletic ease of a long-time runner.

It wasn't uncommon for some of the before-dawn workout crowd to hit up her shop before they went to work, but she'd never seen him before.

Had he just been hungry or had there been something else in his eyes?

Shrugging that odd question out of her head, she turned away from the window and went back to her display case. She'd just finished that task when her assistant manager came in the door.

Susan Montgomery was a fifty-year-old woman whose only daughter had gone off to college in the fall, leaving Susan with time on her hands. She'd been the first person Juliette had interviewed, and she'd known instantly that the perpetually cheerful and dedicated woman would make the perfect assistant manager.

"Morning," she said.

"It sure smells good in here." Susan took off her coat and hung it on a hook by the door leading into the kitchen. "I know I should expect it by now, but every day I'm still a little surprised by the delicious aroma. Oh, and George said to tell you he's gained ten pounds since I started working here and bringing him home extra treats, so I better be more careful about that." She laughed, adding, "We're not going to talk about how many pounds I've gained."

"One of the dangers of working in a bakery," she said.

"Not for you, Juliette. I don't know how you never gain an ounce. Actually, that's not true; I do know. You never stop working long enough to eat."

"I do enough tasting, believe me. I get plenty of calories in. I want you to try my latest Wish cookie."

Susan tied her apron on. "How early did you start today?"

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