Page 33 of Frosting and Flames

She pats my arm. “You’re a dear. Thank you. Now I have to get home to Dolly. She must be worried sick.”

Pretty sure her dog is glad for the moment’s respite, but what do I know? Maybe Dolly enjoys the codependent relationship, too.

When I walk in the front door of the bakery a minute later, I’m startled for a moment by the sight of an unfamiliar high-school aged girl. I don’t think there’s a secret fourth Blackwell sister I’m not aware of.

“Hi,” the girl says. “Did you want to buy something?”

Oh, right. I’m standing here like a bump on a log.

“I actually need to talk to Rachel.”

The girl’s gaze flicks over me. “Who are you?”

I’m thrown off by her once-over, especially since I don’t know how I measure up. “Nick.”

I’m about to say I’ll text Rachel when the girl says, “I’ll go get her,” and abandons the cash register.

Sticking my hands in my pockets, I stare longingly at the raspberry danishes in the glass case. I said I’d be back to get one, and I still haven’t. And some sugary goodness would definitely help keep me awake after a mostly sleepless night…

The double doors to the back open and the girl hitches a thumb behind her. “She said you can go back there.”

Oh. I wasn’t expecting that. Then again, every time I’m here, I end up visiting the back for one reason or another.

As I push open the doors, a buzzing, almost frantic energy overtakes me. Every available surface is laden with ingredients, trays, tools, and baked goods.

“Where are Mrs. Johnson’s cupcakes?” Rachel calls out, standing at a whiteboard filled top to bottom with what looks like orders. “The ones that look like pink and yellow flowers.”

“Here,” Hailey says, frosting a cupcake. Her movements are hurried, yet still precise as she swirls the frosting around to create petals. “I ran out of clean piping tips, so I’m a little behind.”

“That’s fine,” Rachel assures her. “She’s not coming until nine, so we have some wiggle room.”

“Who took my rolling pin?” Sydney shouts from the far end of the kitchen. “I swear to—Oh, there it is.”

Rachel rolls her eyes, then spots me, hovering awkwardly near the doors. What did I walk into?

“What’s up?” she asks as she moves to a workstation and stacks discarded pans into a pile.

“Um…” I make my way over to her and nearly slip on a glob of frosting on the floor. “What’s going on?”

“Tomorrow’s Mother’s Day. Super busy.”

Right. Not a holiday I’ve celebrated in a long time.

“I talked to Chief about our ideas.”

“Hey, Nick,” Sydney interrupts. “How’d you like to be conscripted again?”

With the way she’s waving her rolling pin in the air, it seems more a threat than a suggestion.

“Ignore her,” Rachel says, carrying the stack of pans over to a sink area with an excessive amount of batter-laden mixing bowls and dirty utensils. “What’d he say?”

“I’m being serious,” Sydney continues. “We’re getting our asses kicked. Every goddamn person in this town had the bright idea of getting something for their mom tomorrow. This isdouble our orders from last year. And we had Mom and Dad’s help then.”

Rachel plugs the sink and turns on the water to let it fill, squirting in a generous amount of dish soap. “That’s because I advertised.”

Sydney sets down her rolling pin. Good. She was giving me anxiety with that thing. “What?”

“I put an ad in the paper. It ran earlier this week.”

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