Page 2 of The Icing on the Cake
Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark-blond hair tousled perfectly like he just rolled out of bed, but in that annoyingly attractive way that would take me forty-five minutes and three different hair products to achieve. He wears a worn, flannel shirt that hugs his frame like it was custom-made for him. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing a tiny tattoo on an arm that looks like it could chop firewood before breakfast. His ice-blue eyes scan the bookshop before they finally land on me, and suddenly my brain crashes like my laptop when I have twenty-three tabs open while trying to download a new program.
He’s definitely not from around here. I’d remember a face like that. So what’s a guy like him doing in a town like this?
“Did you hear me, Neesha?” Mrs. Nelson repeats, pulling my attention back to her.
“What?” I blink once.
“Did you hear about the emergency town hall meeting last night?” She shoots me an impatient look.
I was too busy baking to attend the meeting, but I knew I’d hear the gossip in the cafe this morning.
“The town is in an uproar,” she continues, not waiting for my answer. “Apparently, there’s a man claiming he owns some land around Maple Falls, including the land under the hockey arena parking lot, and part of downtown, including Falling for Books.”
I glance at Mary-Ellen, the town’s most notorious gossip, as she nods in agreement. “I heard it’s some rich outsider named Alexander MacDonald who claims to be a long-lost heir to one of the early settlers in our town.” She loves gossip almost as much as her homemade pumpkin pie. “Says he’s going to bulldoze whatever’s on his land and develop it so he can make more money. It’s what these developers always do—come in, destroy what makes a place special, then leave.”
So that’s why Maple Falls is in full pitchfork mode this morning, spreading the town villain’s origin story.
“He won’t get far if we band together and stop him,” Mrs. Nelson huffs. “Maybe we can get a few hockey players to help us, since it’s threatening their arena.”
The stranger’s mouth quirks. He’s eavesdropping—and clearly entertained by our small-town drama.
Mrs. Nelson watches me with a frown. “How much longer until the coffee is ready?”
I paste on a weary smile. “I’ll have your latte ready just as soon as the machine starts working.”
I unplug it and try again. No hiss. No drip. Just dead silence.
This is bad.Six customers, one semi-functional brain, and zero espresso. There’s about to be an in-store riot over more than Alexander MacDonald, but this time, their pitchforks will be pointed at me.
I whirl around and channel every ounce of customer service enthusiasm I possess. “Okay, the espresso machine is being uncooperative. Free, brewed coffee and your choice of a cupcake—on the house!”
I hand out cups and consolation cupcakes, even though those treats represent hours of work and ingredients I paid for. At least no one’s mad at me now for keeping them from their caffeine addiction.
The bell jingles again, and in walks the last person I want to see this morning: Brittany Beeson, the girl who ran off with my hockey-player ex-boyfriend before I could break up with him.
Of course she’d stop in today, just as Emmy predicted. Because that’s how my life has been going lately—if the other shoe’s going to drop, it smacks me directly on my head.
“Where’s my drink?” Brittany demands, marching straight past the line of waiting customers to the counter. She waves her phone at me. “I ordered on the app twenty minutes ago. It should be ready.”
Brittany’s one of those customers who thinks mobile ordering means instant gratification. She knows I’m the only one working in the cafe. Looking at her perfect face reminds me why some people have a talent for making you feel invisible—like you’re not worth noticing, even when you’re standing right in front of them.
“Be there in a minute,” I say, whipping together her maple café au lait with regular coffee, maple syrup, and oat milk. My hands knock over an empty cup—from stress with the broken machine or barely controlled irritation, I’m not sure.
When I finally finish her drink, she takes a sip and crinkles her nose in disgust.
“This isnotwhat I ordered.” She holds her drink away like it’s a disgrace to coffee.
“You asked for a maple café au lait with oat milk and one pump of syrup.” I motion toward my dead espresso machine. “Since this isn’t working, I used our house blend.”
She puckers her mouth in disgust. “Ew, this tastes like gas station coffee. Worse than engine oil.”
I cross my arms. “Oh, really? You’ve tasted engine oil before?”
Her eyes narrow. “No. But I’m sure it’s that bad.”
I clamp my mouth shut and remind myself that assault charges would definitely affect my Seattle bakery fund.
“I’ll make you another drink,” I say, barely containing my frustration. “What will it be?” I grab a new cup, mostly to avoid launching a cupcake at her head.
