Page 27 of Simply Yours

Jason chuckled, shaking his head as he climbed into the truck. Today was going to be interesting.

Seven

CAITLIN

Founder’s Day.

The small town’s annual festival was a bustling, vibrant affair—a mix of nostalgia, opportunity, and pure chaos. It was the one day a year when permits were tossed aside in favor of old-fashioned entrepreneurial spirit. If you had something to sell, all you needed was a table, a dream, and enough determination to make people stop long enough to consider buying whatever it was you had to offer.

For Caitlin, this day was a potential goldmine.

It was a chance to gather second-hand treasures to decorate her tiny place—odds and ends that carried the weight of someone else’s memories but could find new life with her. It was a chance to indulge in the small, simple pleasures she used to love, like honey-dipped spoons for her tea, the same way she had as a child. There were silent auctions, food trucks offering everything from deep-fried absurdities to homemade preserves, a dunking booth—always a crowd favorite—and, of course…

More.

That infamous, unspecifiedmore.

And wouldn’t you know it?

Her table—meticulously arranged with freshly baked loaves of sourdough, wrapped in waxed cloths she'd stitched herself—was right next to the kissing booth.

For charity, of course.

Because nothing screamed wholesome fundraising quite like swapping spit with strangers in the middle of town square.

Caitlin groaned internally as Matthew Baird swaggered toward her, his easy grin plastered across his face like he’d just stumbled upon the best joke of the century. He had that glint in his eye—the one that meant trouble—and she knew, without a doubt, that whatever had put that look on his face was about to becomeherproblem.

Matthewwas always up to something.

And she knew him. Had known him since he was nine. Knew the exact brand of mischief that brewed behind that smirk and the way his mind worked when it got stuck on an idea he found particularly amusing.

No.

No, no, no.

She had worked too hard to let him—or whatever scheme he was cooking up—ruin her perfect day.

Caitlin refocused on her table, pushing Matthew’s impending nonsense aside. She had spent days baking, kneading dough until her arms ached, coaxing it into something beautiful. The loaves were rustic, golden-crusted, and carefully wrapped—designed to catch the eye and hopefully, the wallets of passersby. If she could sell enough, she could finally splurge on some much-needed tools.

A new dough scraper. A proper sourdough whisk. An earthenware mixing bowl that would hold warmth and allow the dough to rise properly.

And, if she dared dream big enough, a banneton basket for proofing. Maybe even a fancy cutter for intricate designs instead of the razor blade she currently used.

Not to mention the colored additives she had been itching to experiment with?—

Beet powder? A deep, rich pink loaf.

Butterfly pea powder? Blue—blue! Maybe with a hint of purple.

Matcha? A delicate green.

Rainbow bread.

For Easter, maybe? She could braid it like a challah, but with sourdough…

She exhaled dreamily, picturing the swirls of color, the delight on a child’s face when they tore into a loaf that looked like a sunrise?—

“Earth to Caitlin?”

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