Page 5 of Sweet Southern Heat

Throwing off the covers, I climbed out of bed and padded down the hall. I drew to a halt outside her bedroom door and gently pressed my fingertips to the cool wood, hoping I could feel her there. It was the one room I couldn’t bring myself to enter when I took possession of the house. I wasn’t ready to see the spot where she had taken her final breath. I wasn’t sure I ever would be.

Once I was showered and ready for the day, I grabbed my notebook and flipped it to my to-do list. There was one thing I’d been putting off, but I couldn’t ignore it any longer. It was the next task on my list to tackle. I needed to go to the bakery.

Sugar & Sage was the place I felt most at home, beside Nan’s house of course. It was where she taught me how to make a sourdough starter, pipe frosting onto a cupcake, and create perfectly round cookies every time. Memories assaulted me as I walked inside, the bell above the front door chiming with a familiar tinkling sound. The scent of vanilla and buttercream still permeated the air.

I moved gingerly through the front of the shop, taking in every detail. Not much had changed in the years since I’d worked here. The glass display case was the same one I’d filled with donuts on Saturday mornings. The swiveling stool that I sat in after school every afternoon still had three cracks on the vinylseat. Soft pink paint and cupcake border still covered the walls, creating a fun and inviting space.

My chin quivered, and tears stung the backs of my eyes as I slowly turned to take in the room. This was where my love for baking was born. I cherished every moment I’d spent here with my nan. The decor might have been outdated, and the space needed some repairs, but beneath all that laid beautiful memories and precious moments spent with the person I’d loved most in this world. I might have received my training at an elite school in New York and served as an apprentice to a world-renowned pastry chef in Paris. But I’d trade all that for one more day with my grandmother in her small town bakery.

Holding my breath, I entered the kitchen. I could picture Nan standing at the mixer, carefully pouring flour into the bowl, the white powder coating her apron. She was always covered in a light dusting of it. At times I wondered if the streaks of gray in her hair were natural or just remnants of a long day of baking.

Glancing around, I located the hook where her apron hung and crossed the room. I clutched it in my hand, bringing the fabric to my nose and inhaling. It smelled like her, a mixture of the lavender soap she used and sugar. Slipping it over my head, I tied the strings at the back and smoothed my hands down the front. It was my apron now. No matter what happened to this bakery, I would keep this worn and stained piece of fabric. I would wear it every time I baked in my kitchen at home until there was nothing left but scraps.

I went to the fridge and pulled out butter and eggs. Locating the flour and sugar, I gathered all my ingredients on the stainless steel surface and measured them out precisely before adding them to the industrial-sized mixer. Despite the lackluster state of the shop, the kitchen was pristine. My grandmother kept it in tip-top shape, and one of her employees, Mina, came in yesterday to give it a thorough cleaning. Every surface wassparkling clean, and it appeared some of the appliances had been updated recently. That would make selling the bakery quicker and easier, if that was the route I decided to take.

I wasn’t sure yet what I would do. Truthfully, I hadn’t granted myself much time to think about it. It hurt too much, but I needed to come to terms with reality. I either needed to sell it and let someone else take on the task of running Magnolia Grove’s only bakery, or figure out a way to keep it and run the business from Atlanta. I would need a remarkable manager to carry out the day to day tasks, because I wouldn’t be able to do it from five hours away.

The alternative?—

staying here to run it myself—wasn’t an option. The mere thought was inconceivable. I’d built something for myself in the city. I had a reputation, a name that might have only been known in the culinary world, but it was something I was proud of. It was something I'd accomplished all on my own through hard work and determination. I couldn’t just give that up to run a bakery in a small town where no one knew the difference between a macaron and a macaroon.

Could I?

Shaking those thoughts away, I scooped out cookie dough, placing the baking sheet into the oven once it was preheated. I dropped my bowl and scoop into the sink and squirted some dish soap into it. The running water drowned out all other sound. When I shut off the faucet, I heard something from the front of the shop. It stopped, and I stood motionless to see if it would happen again. A few seconds later came an incessant knocking. Someone was at the front door. I wanted to ignore it. The sign on the door clearly read closed, but whoever it was wouldn’t be deterred. The knocking continued until I made my way to the front and saw Mrs. Pettigrew through the glass. Her hands were cupped around her forehead to block out the sun,and her face was pressed close enough to the window that her breaths fogged it up. I grumbled internally but pasted on a smile as I unlocked the front door and cracked it open.

“Oh, good,” she said breathlessly. “I saw your car here and hoped you would open today.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pettigrew, we’re still closed.” She frowned as a crease formed between her brows.

“But you’re wearing Odette’s apron, and you’re covered in flour.” She lifted her nose and sniffed the air like a bloodhound catching the scent of a rabbit. “And I smell cookies.” She sniffed again. “Chocolate chip, if I’m not mistaken.” I gritted my teeth and smoothed my expression.

“Like I said,” I began with all the kindness I could muster, “we’re still closed. I’m only making a batch of cookies because there were supplies in the fridge that would go bad if I didn’t use them soon. I plan to take the cookies to the shelter on my way home.” That wasn’t a lie, exactly. I hadn’t known until that moment what I’d do with the cookies, but donating them seemed like a noble cause she wouldn’t question. It worked.

“Oh,” she replied, looking properly chastised. “That’s so kind of you.”

“It’s what my grandmother would’ve wanted.” Her face softened for a moment, and she gave me a sad smile.

“You’re right, dear. Your grandmother was a kind and generous woman.” My eyes burned with unshed emotion, and I nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” With that, she turned and walked away. I quickly shut and locked the door, pressing my back to it as I let out a shaky sigh. I would have to be stealthier to avoid detection next time I came to the bakery so no one would know I was here. They would be beating down the door if they thought I'd even considered opening. But I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I ever would be.

Guilt twisted my stomach. Nan had clearly left the bakery to me in the hopes I would stay here and run it. That wasn’t what I wanted, but how could I deny her final wishes? She wanted me to carry on her legacy. I wanted to run from this town just like I had six years ago.

Either way, the bakery needed work. Now that the late morning light shone brightly into the shop, I could see even more imperfections that needed to be fixed. Not to mention, there was an awkward half wall dividing the space that served no purpose from what I could tell. The drywall had small holes and dents, and the outdated tile was cracked. There was no way I could sell it in this shape.

Even if I decided to keep it, I couldn’t leave it in this condition. Magnolia Grove’s patrons would have supported Odette Duprey’s business even if she ran it out of a shack, but they held no such loyalty to me. I would have to spruce the place up a bit.

Sullivan & Sons was the town’s only contractor, and I would have to contact them as soon as possible. They were coming up on their busy season, and if I wanted out from under this mess anytime soon, I needed to act fast.

I pulled my phone from my pocket to look up their contact info and noticed I had a text message. It was a notification from Murphy’s Garage that my car was finished. I nearly jumped for joy, shocked and elated they were able to get it done so quickly. My grandmother’s Buick was bulky and hard to maneuver, especially since I was used to driving a car half its size. All that was left now was to figure out what to do with Sugar & Sage.

Chapter 6

Landon

My phone buzzedfrom my nightstand, and I reached over to slap at it, hoping to make it stop. No such luck. I picked it up and squinted at the screen, bolting upright in bed when I saw who it was. With a swipe of my finger, I answered the call and pressed it to my ear.

“Hello?” My voice came out scratchy and strained, belying the late hour of my slumber.

“Landon,” Dean Sullivan boomed on the other end of the line.

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