Sweet and Salty (Marshall My Heart #1)

9. Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

L aura

I set my phone in the tripod and adjust the angle of the camera and the ring light. This darn cake. It had better look good on screen.

It’s been far too long since I filmed a video of myself baking or decorating a cake. Chris said it took time away from him, so I let my blog and social media run fallow.

Well, to heck with that. Now that I don’t have to clean up after him, I have all the time in the world.

Scrunching my nose, I inspect my setup. Cake. Camera. Lighting. Cheerful farmhouse kitchen background, courtesy of my own home. Lovely. That’s the beauty of social media, after all. Faking perfection in one’s life.

I hit the countdown on the camera timer and take up my position behind the sample Wild in Love cake. After Dr. Sieber’s party and with tourists starting to descend on the café, I haven’t had time to work on it until the weekend. Daisy Gustavson is highly specific about what she wants, so I made this one as a test. There it stands, still crumb-coated only, awaiting the big garishly-colored swirls that she waxed rhapsodic about for fifteen minutes during her consultation.

Not my wedding. Not my wedding.

The timer chirps readiness, but I take one look at the preview photo of me glowering and reset the clock. Unless I want to rename my channel Frowny Chef, that expression isn’t going to cut it.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Focus on one sense at a time. The scent of vanilla and strawberry. The weight of the piping bag in my hand. Einstein barking outside at the pigs. Einstein’s always been popular on my channel. Nothing sends a post viral like a canine photo bomb.

With calm washing through me, I open my eyes, paste on a bright smile, and hit the record button.

“Welcome back to Frosting Monkey. I’m Laura, and I’ve really missed you all.”

Two hours later, I close the video editing program and drink the last of my homemade latte. It isn’t perfect, but it’s good. Both the latte and the video.

I’ll do one more run-through later in the evening and upload it to my channels. For the first video I’ve made in a while, I left it a longer length, but I also recorded short videos of me making bagels and puff pastry. If I focus primarily on shorts, I won’t burn out trying to make epic Food Network-worthy stuff.

Not that the Food Network is going to come calling. I can’t even get a spot on America Bakes! No matter how badly I once wanted to audition. I once wanted a heck of a lot of things.

The latte backs up into my stomach and I reach for the large glass of water beside it.

I don’t have time for dreaming. I have to deal with acid reflux.

It’s late afternoon, that time of day that weighs the most heavily on my shoulders. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner, the long, lonely hours of night stretching ahead of me. I could go to the Saturday Polka Potluck, but with the influx of tourists in town, it’s undoubtedly going to be at capacity. After the week I’ve had, dodging sympathetic glances and sideways comments about why a nice girl like me can’t hold down a man–ugh–I have zero desire to put on shapewear and shove my double Ds into a bra.

I glance out the window, past the tree line. Behind there is the cabin where Jesse’s staying.

It was so sweet, the way he had added the lollipop to the bag. A tiny gesture, but it meant everything to me that day. That someone had noticed me and wanted to try to help. That despite his grumpy lumberjack vibe, he has a streak of kindness.

I wonder if he likes brownies.

Lucretia Borgia snorts and tosses her head in the paddock, and I have to agree with her.

No. Nope. Not even a snowball’s chance in hell.

Rory told me he’d invited him to my little apartment over the garage. Thank heck he refused. There’s more than enough gossip this past week about that grump. I don’t need him twenty feet away from me. Not with that salt-and-pepper grimace.

I’ll plan my next meal. That’s always worked for me. I open my refrigerator door, inspecting the contents. Kale, lemons, parmesan. A creamy, lemony pasta. Yes. Maybe Jesse likes pasta? There’s a little gauntness to his face that–

Nope. Doesn’t matter. Not thinking about him.

I’ll record it too. Nothing like stacking content to be uploaded on a schedule, especially when the café gets busy. And with summer coming, the café bustles this time of year.

Taking out all the ingredients, I lay them on the counter in a visually appealing array, stacking complimentary colors next to one another so everything pops. It feels good to get back into the groove of it all. The long-dormant dreams I squashed when everything went to hell twelve years ago bubble up below the surface. Like I’m Rip Van Winkle, waking up after a long sleep. I don’t need a liquor license for my café or babies or a man who doesn’t smell like deep-fried Oreos. Maybe I can still be an internet sensation or get a spot on a baking show. I won’t win, I don’t expect that, but it would be an honor to participate.

I just need one win. One.

I step back and look at my dinner setup. Perfect. A few tweaks to the ring light and it will look amazing, almost better than it’ll taste. Almost.

At the door, Einstein scratches at the worn yellow wood. Begging to be let in again.

“Oh, Einstein,” I chide as I open the door, his coat tawny in the glow of the kitchen lights. He sniffs all around the floor, looking for any tasty dropped bits from my earlier culinary attempts. Not that he’ll find anything. In a restaurant or bakery, cleanliness is the key to everything.

Not the key to a liquor license, but that’s because that vault is controlled by the Drydens. Not a house full of kids and laughter and a partner who cares.

Resentment curdles in my stomach like fresh ricotta. I close my eyes and repeat “it’s not worth it” over and over and over. It isn’t. What matters at the end of the day is my family and my animals, their health and safety. My dreams can change.

Really.

Einstein barks twice, and I follow the path of his gaze to the window, where Lucretia Borgia stands, eyes narrowed in her perma-scowl. “What’s wrong, pretty lady?” I ask. She, being a donkey, does not reply.

This does not assuage Einstein, who, in a rare display of frenetic energy, jumps up and down on the kitchen floor, trying to reach Cree from behind the door.

“Einstein, get down.” I cross toward him, but at the moment I lunge for his collar, he breaks left, and his massive tail sends my tripod and ring light careening to the ground with a nausea-inducing crash.

Seriously. Does fate have it in for me?

I stare at the wreckage for a beat before instinct kicks in. “Einstein, get out. You can’t cut your feet.”

He stares at me balefully, as though he isn’t sure what he’s done wrong. He doesn’t know, of course. He’s just a dog and stuff got in his way.

I lead him outside and pick up the broom from the supply closet before turning back to the remains of my ring light. I can order a new one, but while we do supposedly have overnight shipping out here, it’s entirely dependent on whether Sam Jones has the desire to drive down to the warehouse to pick up the item.

To heck with it. I’ll try Moe’s first anyway. Shop local, shop smart.

I clean up the broken pieces of ring light with the broom, following it with the vacuum so no animals will get invisible shards of plastic lightbulb in their delicate feet.

I lift the receiver and dial Moe’s number from heart. There are things a lady needs to know, living alone out in the country. Like how to fix a fence, defrost locks in the winter, knee people in the groin, and the direct number for the local hardware store.

“Tools and Trinkets,” a gruff voice says on the other end of the line.

My mouth goes completely dry. Not that Moe doesn’t have a lovely voice, but it isn’t full of gravel and sin. Also, when was the last time I heard someone call the store Tools and Trinkets? It might hang on the sign, but everyone knows that’s a fa?ade. “Um, hello. Is Moe there?”

“Sorry, no. Can I help you with something?”

Help me off with my sweater. No, no, I’m not thinking that. Sure, Chris was a more clothes-on type person, but…I’m getting derailed.

I straighten my back, trying not to picture what Jesse looks like as he answers my call on the ancient maroon wall phone behind Moe’s counter. “Yes, hi. This is Laura. Laura Marshall?”

“Hi, Laura.”

His voice drops into this deep register, filled with pleasure, and the way he says my name makes me momentarily forget it.

“Right.” I’m a strong, independent woman who does not go literally weak at the knees just because some hot grump says my name like he wants to see me. Based on our last interaction, he most definitely does not want to see me. “I know Moe keeps some podcasting and video supplies in the store.”

Jesse laughs, and if I thought his voice is sexy, that laugh is a lance of liquid heat, running straight down my spine and lodging deep in my core. “Yeah, he says it’s for all the folks trying to hitch their wagon to fast money. He says he’ll take their cash one way or the other.”

I blush, which is completely fracking ridiculous. My mouth floods with the memory of tart and sweet cherry lollipops. “Oh, that Moe.”

“Yeah.” I picture him running a hand through that thick sheaf of dark brown hair, shot through with gray at his temples, which I remember far too vividly. No. I should not picture that if I don’t want to also ask if he has spare vibrator batteries. “He said he was going fishing and I should lock up. That was eight days ago.”

“When Moe’s in the groove, he loses track of time. At least you’re there to open the shop. Before you, we’d have to wait for Moe to remember to come back.” Wait, are we having a conversation? An actual conversation and not just him refusing to answer any of my questions? Fine. Two can play this game. “I heard Rory invited you to Sunday dinner at my mom’s house.”

“Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t planning on going.”

“Oh, you should!” Why am I trying to convince him? I don’t want him around. Honestly. At the door, Einstein scratches and whines. “Not that you have to, if you have plans. But if you don’t, I usually bring dessert.”

“I always do like something sweet.”

Whew heck, why am I swooning at that? I remind myself that there are only three things I need to do: resume blogging, learn to live alone like a real adult, and not get distracted by shiny object syndrome. Or Seriously Hot New Grump syndrome.

“So what was it you needed?” he asks, his voice cutting through my resolve.

“Well, haha, turns out I’m one of those fad chasers.” Gross, I’m one hair twirl away from flirting. I stand and let Einstein in. He immediately curls around my legs, like he knows I need a little contact. “My ring light broke. You don’t happen to have one there, do you?”

“Give me a second.” Good. The hold music will give me space to tame down my raging libido. He clicks back on a moment too soon. “Not in the aisle. I’m checking the computer inventory now.”

“Moe has a computer?” Not to be ageist, but Moe refused even to buy a cell phone. He only caved after he got stranded ice fishing last year and Rory bought him one to leave in his truck for emergencies.

“Moe is surprisingly tech savvy. I thought the cash register was a piece of shit until I realized he only uses it for decorative purposes. He’s all about cashless payments.” Over the phone, I hear a few keyboard clicks. “Okay. Great. No worries. I can have it for you tomorrow morning.”

“Really?” Maybe my luck is finally turning. Heck, I’m overdue.

“Yeah.” He pauses for a moment. “I’ll drop it off at your house tomorrow. If that’s okay.”

“Oh.” My heart races in my chest. Jesse at my house? At my kitchen table? I’m not ready for that. “No. It’s fine. The bakery closes at three tomorrow. I’ll stop by afterward on my way home.”

He pauses. “Sure. Sure, sounds good. I’ll have it right here for you.”

“Thanks, Jesse.” His name tastes way too good on my tongue, like hot cinnamon and molasses tea on a February night.

“Good night, Laura.”

I’ll be replaying that good night for weeks to come.