Page 74 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
I can’t see into the shop from here, but I picture Paige in my head, moving behind the counter with a smile on her face. The kind that says she’s proud of her own success.
“Boss,” Mark says quietly, like he knows where my head just went and has decided to gently tug me back to the room. “We’re getting bodies.”
I move. It’s still too early for lunch, but people seem to be eager to take advantage of the discount that comes with a purchase next door.
The special does exactly what we thought it would. Blue boxes walk in and out all morning.
At noon, Charlotte swings in with a braid and an expression that says she will not accept today being less than perfect. “I grabbed two boxes on my way in,” she hisses like she’s handing me contraband. “Put them by the office so Mark can’t steal them.”
“Mark’s been over there twice already today,” I say.
She raises both eyebrows. “Oh, we’re in a generous mood.”
I decide to take that as a compliment and not a dig.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Paige
The bell over the door rings again, and the sound is starting to blur in my head into one continuous chime.
Sweet Confessions is a thrum of voices and clinking tongs and the hiss of milk steaming; the floor drums under my feet like it’s alive. We opened an hour ago. It feels like six.
“Four-pack of lemon kisses, two cinnamon rolls, one blackberry galette,” I call over my shoulder, already reaching for boxes. “And a vanilla cream cold brew—light ice!”
“Got it!” Mom answers brightly, her hands already halfway into the case with a sheet of parchment. She’s wearing one ofmy aprons over a soft sweater and her hair’s scooped up, and somehow she looks like she’s floating while the rest of us sprint.
I slide a clean box onto the scale to check size by muscle memory, grab a ribbon, then pivot to pour cold brew over the clink of ice.
Syrup pumps, vanilla and brown sugar. The steamer kicks on behind me for someone else’s latte. My stomach blips in that now-familiar way—annoying little wave—but it passes. Ginger chew tucked in my cheek, compression socks doing their work.
I’m fine. I am, actually.
“Paige, where do you want the new stack of small boxes?” Jason’s voice shoots from somewhere above a bus tub. He’s already sweating through a T-shirt, grinning like a kid playing restaurant.
“Under the counter next to the parchment,” I say, snapping a lid on the cold brew. “No—other side. Left. Other left.”
He laughs, swings the bin around, and nearly collides with Dad, who is mid–handshake with a retired teacher I recognize from third grade. Dad’s voice is in tour-guide mode, talking with all of the customers.
“Donovan,” the retired teacher says, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “You must be proud.”
“I am,” Dad says, and the pride is so naked it makes my chest hitch. “Now try the lemon cookies. It’s an order.”
“Paige?” Mom’s voice, gentle, pointed. She’s holding up a box of lemon kisses. “Twine?”
“Right.” I slide around her, flicking the ribbon flat, looping, tugging.
I thumb the label onto the top—SWEET CONFESSIONS in small gold letters—and slide the whole thing toward the woman waiting at the end of the counter, her hands already outstretched.
“Those are the ones that made me cry at the tasting,” she confesses, laughing at herself.
“Best review I’ve ever gotten,” I say, and she laughs again, bright, and shoulders her way toward the door with the box like it’s a small treasure.
The line snakes to the entrance and curls.
I clock faces in flashes: a couple I don’t know, hand in hand. Mrs. Patel from the market with her tote bag, standing on tiptoe to better see the pecan sticky buns.
A cluster of teenagers doing the rapid-fire whisper math of how many cookies their pooled cash can buy. Two tourists in ball caps studying the menu. The air is warm with sugar and butter and cinnamon and the zip of coffee.
