Page 10 of Hot Knot Summer
Megan at least has the decency to look uncomfortable. “Emma...”
“How. Long,” I push.
She drops her gaze. “Three months.”
Three months. I’m sick to my stomach. A quarter of my relationship with Chad was spent in complete ignorance while my supposed friend was with him behind my back. Every girls’ night when she asked about him, every sympathetic nod when I confessed my concerns, everyyou two are so cute together—all lies. The shop is spinning with me.
“Were you ever actually my friend?” I ask, hating the catch in my voice, and I feel my chest tightening.
Something flickers across her face. “Of course I was. I am. This... it just happened.”
“Things don’t just happen, Megan. You make choices. Both of you made choices.”
“Like you’ve never made a mistake,” she snaps, her own anger finally surfacing. “You’ve always been so perfect, so special. Emma, the successful author. Emma, with her talent, her career, and her life together. Maybe if you’d paid more attention to Chad instead of your precious books, he wouldn’t have looked elsewhere.”
My mouth drops open.
The old woman watching us gasps audibly. I’m momentarily speechless, blindsided by the venom in her words.
“So, it’s my fault,” I say slowly. “I was too successful, too focused on my career, so naturally, the appropriate response was for him to cheat with my friend.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“No, I think that’s exactly what you meant.” I set my basket on the floor, suddenly exhausted. “You know what? Have him. Have this trip. Have all of it. I don’t need either of you in my life.”
I turn to leave, but Megan grabs my arm. “Emma, wait. I didn’t come here to meet Chad. I’m here for work. The Tideline Tribune sent me to cover the literary panel at the festival for the local paper. I had no idea you’d be here.”
I blink at her, ripping my arm free while processing this new information. Megan has been the features editor at our hometown magazine in Moonshell Bay for three years now. It’s the kind of publication that covers artisanal coffee shops and beach cleanups withequal enthusiasm, quintessentially small-town but with aspirations of cosmopolitan relevance. Exactly the sort of place where everyone knows everyone’s business, which is why I’d been so careful to keep my breakup quiet.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her, feeling myself shaking, and I’m surprised to realize I mean it. “Even if you’re telling the truth, it doesn’t change what you did. What you both did.”
Her expression shifts to something almost pleading. “Can we at least talk? Properly? Maybe over coffee?”
“Fuck no.” The words come out firm and final. “I don’t have anything else to say to you.”
I walk away, leaving my abandoned basket and a speechless Megan behind. The elderly woman who’s been watching our exchange gives me an approving nod as I pass. My hands are trembling, and my chest feels tight, as though I might either cry or scream, possibly both.
Outside the grocery store, the cheerful bustle of Main Street is jarring against my inner turmoil. I need somewhere quiet, somewhere I can process what just happened. And I need sugar to drown in, immediately, in whatever form I can get it.
Across the street, a storefront catches my eye. A cozy-looking bakery with an old-fashioned sign reading Flour & Fable Bakery. Perfect. If I can’t drown my sorrows in wine yet, cake is an acceptable substitute.
The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and the scent of sugar, butter, and vanilla wraps around me like a hug. The bakery is busy but not packed. A long glass case displays an array of pastries and cakes.
I stop dead in my tracks. This place is nothing like the chain bakeries back home. Copper pendant lights hang from exposed wooden beams, making everything glow with a warm, honey-colored light that makes even the most decadent pastries look somehow healthy. The entire shop is smaller than I expected, with just the counter and display cases taking up most of the space, clearly designed for grab-and-go rather than lingering.
Behind the counter stands an Alpha who could double as a surfing magazine cover model, his tanned forearms flexing as he boxes up pastries. Two women work alongside him, one piping something that looks like edible art onto a wedding cake and a younger woman ringing up customers, smiling despite the busy crowd.
I clutch my purse a little tighter as I join the line, suddenly self-conscious about the wrinkled state of my travel dress. Nothing in Moonshell Bay comes close to this level of Instagram-worthy perfection, not the bakery and definitely not the staff.
The entire left wall of the bakery is hidden behind a floor-to-ceiling tarp, with the wordsExpanding Our Story, New Chapter Coming Soon!painted in whimsical lettering across it. The occasional muffled thump and drill whir suggest active renovationshappening just out of sight, though somehow the construction noise only adds to the charm rather than disrupting it.
I’ve never seen anything like this place. It’s like someone reached into my imagination and built my perfect escape. Even the pastries seem a little magical. I eye the chocolate cake that’s basically calling my name with siren-like intensity.
When it’s my turn, the young woman behind the counter looks up with a smile that dims just a little when she catches my face. She’s shorter than me, with soft curves and dark curls that frame her face. Her golden-brown eyes flick over me like she’s used to reading people before they speak.
“How can I help you?” she asks, her voice warm and slightly husky.
“I need to drown in cake,” I reply honestly. “Preferably chocolate. And maybe a coffee chaser.”
