Page 61 of Whisking It All

“They didn’t come for your baked goods.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, a thin layer of armor.

He paused in his pointless cleaning, pressing his hands to the edge of the counter and leaning towards her, though they were still separated by the expanse of the metal workstation. “I’m sure the pastries were delicious, but they didn’t come because they had a desperate desire for donuts.” He shook his head like she was out of her mind and started wiping down the counter again. “Though I suspect they’ll be back now that they’ve gotten a taste for those raspberry rosé jelly ones.”

“Then why did they come?” She braced herself for him to confirm her worst suspicion.

They didn’t come for your food—they came to gawk and see for themselves if you’re really as much of an embarrassment as they always thought.

He dropped the side towel into the laundry bag at the end of the counter. He leaned his hip against the workstation, crossing his own arms over his chest, and met her eyes. “To support you.”

“To support Ethan,” she corrected him.

“That too. But also you, Tessa. All those people are so glad you’re here.”

“Glad for new gossip, maybe.” She moved to the sink, ready to start in on the pots and pans that had piled up during their sprint to restock. This reprieve wouldn’t last, and she needed to come up with a new game plan for getting through the day that didn’t involve relying on Jamie coming to her rescue.

“I had four elderly women track me down in my office to scold me for not being here when you unlocked the doors. That’s not about gossip,” he continued.

She closed her eyes. Of course, he had come out of some misguided sense of obligation, some guilt trip that had compelled him to leave his own kitchen and come work in hers. She began aggressively scrubbing the nearest stock pot as embarrassment flooded her system. Why had she ever thought that he was there because he might actually care about her? He had told her in no uncertain terms that he could not—would not—be her friend, never mind anything more than that. Just because they’d splashed around on the beach and had a couple laughs didn’t mean he’d changed his mind.

“The people of this town love you,” he continued.

“They love you,” she shot back, her tone sharper than he deserved. “They’re just curious about me.”

“You’re wrong.”

“The only reason anyone missed my mom and me at all was because they didn’t have new dirt on us so they couldn’t talk about us behind our backs anymore,” she continued, slamming the pot in the drainer tray and moving on the large stainless-steel bowl. “I should have known nothing would be different. She’s dead,” she said, her voice catching on the word, “and they’re still lined up around the block to watch me fail.”

“Tessa—”

“Even my own grandparents wanted us to leave!”

She blinked back the stinging in her nose, determined not to cry about this in front of Jamie. She knew she’d always be a curiosity to the people of Aster Bay, living proof of the cautionary tale they told their children. She’d known that when she agreed to come back and open the bakery in the first place.

She supposed she should be grateful for the reminder that this was exactly why she couldn’t stay in Aster Bay, not long term anyway, no matter how many mixed signals Jamie sent her or how many festivals the townspeople roped her into co-chairing. She didn’t belong there, and everyone knew it.

She startled when his hands landed on her biceps, the heat of him warming her back. “Tessa, stop,” he said softly, sliding one hand down her arm to still her hand in its hostile scrubbing.

She set the pan down and he shut off the water before pushing gently on her arms until she turned around to face him. He was so close she had to look up to meet his eyes.

“Your grandparents were devastated when you two left town.” She looked away, shaking her head, and he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her eyes back to his. “I was there, Tess. Everyone was devastated.”

“I wish I could believe that,” she said.

He dropped his hands and took a step back, his lips pressed together. She missed his touch immediately.

“Maybe this will help,” he said, reaching for the long-forgotten box that he’d brought with him when he arrived.

He held it out to her, and she smoothed her finger over the gold satin ribbon. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” he said, urging her on with a tilt of his chin.

She carefully undid the ribbon and removed the lid of the box to reveal a stack of yellowed, weathered notecards. She recognized the handwriting as her grandmother’s—she had a similar stack of notecards with her recipes from the bakery. But these were different: shepherd’s pie and Salisbury steak, chicken cacciatore and tamale casserole. She flipped through them, noting the staining on the chicken pot pie card and the slight tear in the card for Sunday ragu.

“Those were your grandmother’s, all her favorite recipes for Sunday family dinners.” Tessa continued flipping as Jamie spoke—pot roast and sausage with peppers, lasagna and meatballs. “You might not remember, but your grandparents used to host dinner every Sunday for the whole family. Including your mom and you. And me.”

“I remember,” she murmured, running her finger over the ingredients list for her grandmother’s dinner rolls.

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