Fated Shot

Chapter 5

Mia

The drive back to Wyndham after the game was bittersweet. The feeling of being out of the city, roads starting to wind, buildings getting further spaced apart, and trees cluttering the view is one of my favorites. Taking the usual exit, I pull to a stop at the light, looking at the town ahead of me. The end of summer is always hard, knowing I’m leaving my favorite corner of the world. I try to shake off the thoughts of saying goodbye to Wyndham, though.

“It’s going to be great,” I state as if saying it out loud would convince me. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. Another new city where my only friends are my parents and Bean, awesome and not at all sad and pathetic.

I have one final weekend at the cottage, and I’m determined to enjoy it. I’ve already started to pack up the boat house, as Bean has been living his cardboard box dream. The sun is setting, showcasing the pier, still flooded with people. The few restaurants in town have back patios overlooking the lake and are usually filled to the brim in the evenings. I love seeing our little town come to life, but very few get a chance to experience it in its true beauty, while it’s sleepy and tranquil. I continue driving across the one-lane bridge that traverses the small channel looping through Main Street. The orange glow of the sky deepens as the sun dips below the treeline, and after a few minutes, my headlights are the only thing illuminating the remaining route as I make the final turn on our street.

The porch lights are on and illuminating my path, though the inside of the main house remains dark. I definitely beat them home. The second I popped off the ice, I hugged my parents and nearly ran out of the rink, saying that I wanted to get home to Bean. Definitely was not running from a handsome, heroic stranger with life-saving reflexes. I stopped for a tank of gas, grabbed a snack and lemonade, and continued to power through the drive. Pulling past the house, I continue navigating ahead to the shining beacon in the distance, thanking myself for leaving all the lights on for Bean when I left early this morning. It’s been a long day. It hits me the moment I walk inside and flop onto the couch next to my snuggled-up kitty. Looking around my little studio space, all the packing I’m going to have to do over the next few days floods my thoughts. I don’t dare to get a head start, though. Instead, I zap my leftovers in the microwave, flip on the TV, and fall asleep to Brooklyn Nine-Nine.

When my morning alarm goes off, Bean sleepily opens one eye to stare at me until I hit the End button that lights up my phone screen. He stretches, circles once, and sinks his head back down to fall asleep.

I love mornings. Springing off the couch, I head to the kitchen island and open my laptop. It takes just a moment to pull up the backend of my website. Saturdays are when I release the weekly menu for Cookie & Co. After hitting publish and waiting for the notification that it’s live, I enable the pre-orders.

Less than a minute later, a caching sound rings out, which is the first order of the day. Smiling like a goof at my screen, I still can’t believe this is my life. With a degree in Business Administration specializing in Marketing, I had envisioned joining the corporate world after graduating. Instead, I spend my Saturdays launching my new menu, my Wednesdays and Thursdays baking, and Fridays shipping orders.

I appreciate the routine, and there is nothing more that I love doing. In university, orders would come in around the clock, and it became hard to keep up, but I managed, knowing I just had to hustle until I had a steady stream of loyal customers.

This summer, I decided, was the perfect time to try out a new business model. The boat house is functional but certainly is not a professional kitchen, and I’d felt bad at the thought of taking over Mom and Dad’s space every time a new order came in and I needed a full kitchen.

I still remember back to the first time I posted about converting to weekly releases. I was a wreck the entire morning of the first pre-order opening, sitting in my booth at Cordelia’s. Descending into the chaos and worry that is my brain, I was writing down a few ideas for an apology post that would retract my dumb new business model, fully expecting to crash and burn. A ding rang out across the café, notifying me that we’d sold out. I’m pretty sure I squealed in excitement, out loud.

To start, I’d arranged for the possibility of forty boxes of cookies filled with a variety of my weekly menu to be available to purchase. Since then, I’ve upped my availability to eighty boxes weekly, and with the double ovens at the big house, I’m able to get everything prepped, baked, and packaged in two days, just in time to make it to the post office and ship them off. I’ve never felt more fulfilled, and with my minimal costs, I was actually able to afford a semi-decent place in the city.

Two more cachings ring out before I carefully shut my laptop, grab my apron, and make my way to the big house. I let myself in through the back door knowing both Mom and Dad would have come in late last night and are probably getting some much-needed rest before the day ahead .

My contribution to the big Bev and Doug Cameron Barbecue Bash is, of course, cookies. I loop the apron over my head and tie the string carefully around my waist as I begin prepping. By the time I finish up the dough for the four flavors—Mocha Chocolate Chip, Red Velvet, Oreo Overload, and Funfetti—I'm really hoping there's something for everyone. With only two dozen of each flavor, and the bowls now resting in the fridge, I've got plenty of time to head into town for a coffee.

As the bell above me dings, I walk into Cordelia’s, greeted with a huge smile from Harold. My eyes drift over to my available booth, the café looking more empty than usual. The cottage season is coming to a close, I guess. As I wait for my order, I can’t stop myself from thinking back to meeting Jack. I wonder if he’s coming tonight? A flutter starts in my stomach and I command myself to chill out. A cute guy looked at me during a hockey game and just so happened to save me from falling on my butt in front of an entire hockey team and their friends and family. Crazier things happen every day. But there was definitely a moment, right? We had a moment… I think.

I now can’t freaking get his gorgeous face, massive arms, and six-foot-something body out of my mind. It’s the oldest story in the book, the coach’s daughter falls for one of the players on the team. I have to physically hold myself back from rolling my own eyes. Earth to Mia, you are not in a romance novel. A professional hockey player is not going to fall head over heels in love with you. He looked at you once, and your antisocial, awkward butt said one word. Well, not even a word really, your own name, then thanked him for catching you and then proceeded to flee the scene. Smooth as always.

That seems to get my own attention, and I focus back on the café. Harold and I chat for a little while I wait for my latte.

“See you tonight?” I ask while I reach for the coffee cup Harold is offering ahead of me .

“Yep, I’ll be the grumpy old guy in the corner.” I laugh, heading out the door with a wave.

By the time I return to the big house, Mom is already pouring coffee while Dad reads the paper at the breakfast nook. When she asks if I’d like some, I simply lift my Cordelia’s cup. “All set, Mom, thanks. Wanted to get an early start.”

I love how my parents give me space to do my thing. The kitchen is my zone, my little world. With the ovens preheating, I grab the stack of metal bowls from the fridge and start shaping five ounce dough balls, spreading them across four baking sheets. Soon, the cookies are baking away, and in less than two hours, they’re all done. I neatly arrange them on the trays Mom set out, cover them, and decide my work here is done.

As I step back from my baking, I can already sense the subtle shift in the house's atmosphere—the telltale signs that Mom is in full host mode.

Bev Cameron is a social butterfly, perfect housewife, and host extraordinaire. As such, I learned to steer clear of her any day we have guests over, which is often. She’s a flurry of preparation, cleaning, cooking, cleaning, decorating, and more cleaning. I’m more than happy to take a step back and let her do her thing, but I always offer to help in case pigs begin to fly and she decides to exit her one-woman wonder hosting zone.

On my way out the back door, I spot my dad in the pantry, hiding. He’s holding up the cereal, seemingly studying the ingredient list in great detail.

“Look alive, Coach,” I shout out, causing him to drop the box. Chuckling, I give him a sympathetic look as I try to casually close the door a few inches more, hiding him from sight, like the good daughter I am. If there is anything that scares big bad Douglas Cameron, it’s his wife in a hosting day frenzy.

After an hour chilling in his catio, as I lounge on the dock soaking in the sun, Bean and I head inside. I check my computer, and I smile when I see the SOLD OUT notification. It looks like it’s going to be another busy week. Shutting it again, I make my way to the couch, enjoying a few more hours of peace.

After an everything shower and blowing out my hair, I throw on my blue floral sundress. Taking an extra five minutes, I add a bit of blush, a coat of mascara, and some tinted lip oil. I gave up trying to cover my freckles a long time ago, no amount of foundation was successful in hiding them, so I decided to just embrace the spots.

Giving Bean a kiss, I flick the porch lights on, lock the boat house, and make my way up the gravel path to the main house.

I’m fashionably late, I’ve decided. I was definitely not trying to avoid joining the party. Throwing on a pleasant smile, I try to not so obviously anxiously scan the already lively crowd for a familiar face. Thankfully, I spot my mom quickly, perks of her illuminating presence and sun-kissed hair. I all but skip over, relief sweeping across my face. Mom wastes no time grabbing my hand and happily toting me around the room, continuing to introduce me to those I didn’t meet on Friday.

After a little while of polite socializing and at least thirty minutes of staying glued to Harold’s side, I grab a water and take in the scene around me. The back deck looks incredible, with fairy lights strewn across our railing, the firepit roaring, and tables of food lining the back wall. As I continue observing, a gorgeous girl, maybe a few years older, stops beside me. “Amelia?”

I look at her, confused, “Yes?”

“Oh my gosh, I knew it, you look just like your mom!” Her smile is contagious and before I can say anything else, she wraps me in a hug. I return the gesture, albeit a little confused, getting a whiff of her Chanel perfume.

Still beaming, she continues, “Your mom has been telling us so much about you! I’ve been dying to meet you. I’m Camille. ”

Bev strikes again, never missing an opportunity to talk about her favorite daughter. “Oh wow, it’s great to meet you! I love your romper.” I remark, her petite figure perfectly accentuated by a square-neck black romper flowing halfway to her knees.

“Thanks! It has pockets!” She shoves her hands in them to show me.

I laugh at the quirky gesture, “Love that, I missed the memo clearly, and now I’m stuck holding my phone all night.” I’m genuinely starting to rethink my entire wardrobe decision, but I try focusing back on the stunning brunette. “So, how did you meet my mom?”

“A Tundra game, silly!” Which I should have guessed. The supermodel in front of me most definitely could score a professional hockey player, even then, they might be punching above their station. “You have to meet my hubby! Let me see if I can find him.” I scan the crowd with her as I wait for her to identify which of the drop-dead gorgeous, athletic men now standing in my backyard is hers.

Bingo. She stops her search. “Scottie!—Scott!” I watch as she starts yelling at a big, burly man standing by the barbecue next to my dad. He looks toward us as Camille motions for him to come. With a small chuckle, he puts down his beer and makes his way over to join us. With a thick beard framing his face, he looks more mature than the other players, like he has some added years under his belt. When he reaches us, he leans down and pops an adorable kiss on Camille’s forehead before turning to face me.

“Amelia, we meet at last. I’m Scott.” His voice as burly as you’d expect from a towering lumberjack.

“Hey, Scott,” I say warmly. I’m trying to muster every ounce of socialization skills I can.

“Hun, did you know Amelia made the cookies?” He directs to his wife .

“YOU’RE KIDDING.” With a playful squeal, she slaps my arm like I’ve been holding out on her. “I’ve had three already,” she admits with a giggle.

I can’t help but smile, if there’s one thing I can talk about for hours, it’s baking. “I’m so glad you liked them! I’ll be sure to send some home with you at the end of the night.”

“I don’t think there will be any left,” Scott remarks, nodding his head over to a table filled with snacks. The eight dozen cookies I made this morning are nowhere to be seen. Instead, I count only five remaining. Note to self: hockey players eat like vacuums, and I desperately need to get them on my customer list.

“Next time, I’m grabbing five,” Camille mentions decidedly. “Uh, where exactly is our child, Scott?” a bit of playful concern in her tone.

“Kaia is playing with Uncle Brody,” he says unphased, tilting his head toward the lounge chairs beside the pool.

My heart nearly puddles at my feet as I take in the view. Jack, seated upright on the lounger chair, is holding up a chunky baby above him with both arms extended. I hear the baby's soft coos and a full-bellied laugh from him as he pulls her close, nestling her perfectly into his side. He then proceeds to stick his tongue out, to the baby’s delight.

I feel a little flutter in my stomach—okay, let’s be real, probably my ovaries—but nope, not happening. I refuse. I force myself to look back at Camille. “Wow, she’s so precious. I can’t believe you’ve had a baby. You look fantastic.”

“Seriously?” It’s impossible to miss the sincerity in her eyes as she grabs both my hands, searching for any ounce of falsity.

“Seriously. You look ridiculously amazing.” I would have never guessed that this toned, put-together girl had given birth that recently .

“Thank you so much for saying that.” She pulls me in for another hug. What do you know? Even Victoria’s Secret models get insecure. “I’m going to grab some food, wanna come?”

Before I know it, she's grabbed my hand and we’re headed to the barbeque to grab some burgers. We talked for a little while before Scott brought Kaia over to come join us, happily babbling while Camille and I continued to chat. I was finally settling into the evening, letting my antisocial guard down. After a little while though, Scott and Camille excused themselves from the party as they were driving back to the city tonight. I watched as they thanked my parents for having them, and I gave them all a wave as they ducked behind the house.

Less than a minute later, before I have time to plan my escape, I hear the clinking of a glass. Dad has made his way to the drinks table, where he’s tapping his champagne flute with a plastic knife. Effective? Not so much, but people start gathering around him regardless. My mom meanders over too, grabbing his free hand to join him at the front of the now-gathered crowd.

“We just wanted to take a moment to thank you all for being here. I know a lot of you took time to make the drive out, and we appreciate you joining us. We know it’s going to be a great season—” cheers erupt from the group, “—and an even better year ahead!” Glasses raise in acknowledgement of the statement.

“As some of you may know, this year, our little Amelia decided to move to Toron to, and we couldn’t be happier to have her home with us.” Some ‘awws’ break out from the crowd as I smile at my dad. “I have a little surprise for you, Amelia, come on and join us up here.”

My heart starts pounding in my chest immediately as my feet stay anchored to the ground. I feel multiple eyes on me, but continue struggling to move. Closing my eyes ever so briefly, mustering every ounce of courage that must be hiding deep, deep, deep down in my soul, I begrudgingly step forward to join my parents. Facing the crowd ahead of me, I get the distinct feeling that I’m going to pass out. It’s a feeling I’m all to familiar with every time a million eyes are on me. I stand like a deer in the headlights as I wait for my dad to continue.

“Seb, come on and bring it out,” he calls.

What did he just say? Seb? Did he just say, Seb? My concern is immediately justified as emerging from the sliding glass door is none other than Sebastian Brown, holding a three-tiered birthday cake. The group starts singing Happy Birthday as he approaches.

What is happening right now? This has to be some kind of nightmare, but I am painfully wide awake. My heartbeat quickens as he closes the distance between us. He’s clearly not at all phased by the attention, grinning ear to ear. My shaky hands reach out to hold the cake platter steady as I blow out the candles shaped like twenty-two, wishing for nothing more than this moment to end.

I pretty much check out, as one does when ambushed by their ex. Somewhere between the hugs from my parents, birthday wishes from a few guests, and Sebastian’s arm over my shoulder, my soul seems to return to my body, shock wearing off. I continue to maintain the plastered-on smile, but I take off, nearly running into the big house. Prickles of uneasiness crawl up my neck, a lump forms in my throat, and a burning sensation spreads through my gut.

I drop the facade the moment I make it inside only to realize I’m now storming through the kitchen. My sandals slap on the hardwood, echoing throughout the house as I grab the boathouse keys hanging on the wall by the side door. Before I have the chance to reach for the door handle, someone grabs my arm. Whipping around, I shake off the grasp on me, taking two steps away. The shock has moved on, leaving nothing but anger bubbling through me.

“What the heck was that?” I hiss.