Page 2 of Sugar Coated Secrets

“How many?”

“Twenty.”

“Got it. Also, your cars will be there next week. I booked you a rental car at the airport. I’ll text you the details.”

The elevator doors open to the penthouse. “Alright, gotta go pack.”

“The driver is already waiting downstairs. And Ford?”

“What?”

“When you get there, don’t race this time. Public roads are not a racetrack in a rental car.”

2

DULCE

Aflurry of flour dusts the well-worn wooden table. With deft hands, I measure the last of the cocoa powder. The aroma of vanilla fills the kitchen after I place a few drops in the mixing bowl.

The door leading to the counter out front swings open, the hinges squeaking.

“That hot police officer is asking for you again, Dulce,” Katie singsongs.

I pour the flour in. “I’m busy.”

Katie started working for me part-time when she moved here from Mooresville after graduating from high school. She’s been trying to set me up on dates ever since. If she only knew my history in this town.

She leans over the counter and grabs her apron from the hook on the wall. “I can see that, but you can’t hide back here forever.”

“I’m not hiding. We have five special orders for tomorrow, and I have to finish these for today.”

She bumps into me playfully. “You could go out there and put him out of his misery and finally say yes. Go out on a date with him. Fuck him.”

I almost drop the whisk in my hand. “It’s not like that, Katie.”

“You should see the way he looks at you.”

With pity.

“I didn’t notice.”

I try to ignore her, whisking the batter by hand to avoid over mixing the dough.

“Has he asked?”

“Yes,” I reply, adding whole milk to the mixing bowl.

“How many times?”

“Eight to be exact.”

“Eight times?” she says in surprise. “Well, get out there. It looks like today is number nine.”

I drop the whisk, knowing I have to go out there to see Officer Mays. The last thing I want is to turn down the only person who has been there for the past four years. He keeps the town safe and is eye candy for the ladies with his Wayfarers and straight black hair that seems to defy gravity.

“Okay, wrap this up for me,” I instruct her, stepping aside. “They have to be in the oven in two hours to be fresh. Oh, and please get the macarons ready for me. They’re on the baking sheet. Third rack.”

She picks up the whisk. “Got it, boss.”

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