Chapter 26

The bakery is hopping busy, a line out the door once again. The Health Department issue fizzled quickly, and the Generations of Hope event had an added benefit of making my bakery the place to go for all your baked good needs. Old and young, and every age in between, have been clamoring for Cake Culture for the last week.

Trixie and I have been baking our asses off, and Lance has been helping even more than usual. With his dad and Cody patching things up, he hasn’t been as needed at the office, nor at his secondary office at the table in the corner. I’m glad because I wouldn’t have been able to get through these last few days without his support. He’s my number-one dishwasher.

Right now, he’s in the back, though, doing his other specialty, making buttercream. It’s the tenth batch of the day, a creamy lemon sorbet frosting for the ‘Sock It To Yo Mama Sucker Punch’ cupcakes that are cooling on a rack.

As I serve up box after box, I smile and thank each customer from the bottom of my heart. They’re the ones letting me do exactly what I’ve always dreamed of doing, and I appreciate their business.

A blonde woman in a fitted dress that highlights all of her assets steps up to the case next. She looks like she’s ready to go on a date, hair and makeup perfect and high heels shaping her calf muscles. If I weren’t so damn busy, I’d feel like a frumpy-frump next to her, but luckily, I’m way too busy to care about my barely-there face or pulled-up hair. Function over frivolity has become my motto.

“How may I help you?” I ask, already grabbing a box.

She looks at the case but seems to be uncertain, her eyes darting to the tables throughout the space. Twirling a lock of stick-straight hair around her finger, she says quietly, “Uhm, there’s usually a guy here. He helps sometimes, but mostly, he sits over there.” She tilts her head like she doesn’t want to get busted pointing. “I think he’s like the owner or manager or something. Is he here?”

Trixie hip-checks me, a beaming smile on her face. “Oh, you mean Commander Cookie? He is here, but unfortunately, he’s elbows-deep in frosting at the moment. I’m sure Sweet Scarlet here can get you a delicious treat, though, and if you sit down, maybe he’ll come out to deliver some hot, fresh cookies right out of the oven.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell the woman that his name is Lance and he’s mine, mine, mine, but Trixie’s wink makes me back off. Staking my territory is a bit of a new instinct to me, but I don’t know if I’ve ever been this far gone over someone, so maybe it’s normal?

The woman nods in thanks to Trixie and asks me for a ‘Shangri-Vanil-La’ cupcake. Once she’s served, she makes her way to an open table, barely pecking at the cupcake and obviously wasting time as she waits for Lance to make an appearance.

“What the hell?” I ask Trixie, about ready to resort to the ‘licked it, he’s mine’ defense. Or is that an offensive move? Sports have never been my strong suit, so I don’t know the first thing about offensive or defensive. Hell, I’ll go for both, just to be sure.

Trixie rolls her eyes but smiles. “In case you didn’t know, while the cakes and cookies and pies are popular, we’re also famous for serving up a fair bit of eye candy to go with it. And despite our obvious assets, it’s not us.”

She pouts, but it’s fake as can be, and I can sense her desire to flip her hair around, but the messy bun at the back of her head doesn’t lend itself too much drama. She looks towards the double doors that hide Lance from the front of the shop.

“Ain’t nothing sexier than a hot man who can cook, bonus points that he can string more than three words together.”

She gestures to the line of women who are focused on the case and menus on the wall until . . .

Lance comes out from the back. “Got the next batch of zucchini bread in the oven. What’s next, Boss?”

His eyes are on me, but I can see every head in the place swivel in his direction. Jealousy squirts into my bloodstream, hot and sour, and heat rises in my cheeks.

Trixie whispers from right next to my ear, chuckling. “He’s only got eyes for you, Char. Don’t worry your pretty little head about that boy. Hook, line, and sinker, he’s done for.”

It’s not her words that soothe the beast in my belly but Lance’s smile as he comes over. “How’s it going? Need anything?”

My body, semi-functional brain included, wants to say that I need to take him upstairs and claim him. Ride him like I did before, blow him like I did before, remind him that he’s mine and everyone else can step the fuck off. But he doesn’t need the reminder. His eyes tell me that he knows exactly what’s going through my head.

He stands next to me, possessively throwing his arm over my shoulder and rubbing lightly at the skin below the short sleeve of my T-shirt. Leaning down, he whispers in my ear, “Whatever you’re thinking, I fucking love that idea. Let’s serve all these people as fast as we can, then you can slowly and with lots of adjectives tell me exactly what you have in mind.”

His cocky smirk is full of heat, but I don’t mind because it’s warranted. He’s mine, I’m his, and every woman in here is wishing he was whispering sweet nothings and dirty somethings in their ears. But he belongs to one person. Me.

“All right, Commander Cookie,” I say, lifting my brows. “Let’s get these people fed. Everyone’s starving today.”

There’s a murmur through the crowd, and I think I hear someone murmur, ‘hungry for him,’ but Lance ignores it and gets to work. He’s friendly and charming but professional, and slowly but surely, the line shrinks.

There’s only a few more people waiting when the one person I don’t want to see comes strolling in the door. Actually, scratch that, one of the two people I don’t want to see.

“Charlotte, can we talk, please?” Sabrina says haughtily.

Gesturing to the line, I tell her, “Kinda busy here. Can it wait?”

Or just never happen, I think, wishing she’d just leave.

I’m still not 100% sure she didn’t send in those anonymous complaints, even though she denied it. I’m also not 100% sure she did it. Which leaves me in a state of limbo. I don’t like her, that’s a ship that sailed long ago, but there’s a difference to who we were as kids and who we are now, as adults. Or at least, there should be. Lance taught me that with Cody, their relationship evolving and improving now that they’re talking more.

“You think I’d be here if it wasn’t important?” Sabrina hisses, her eyes narrowing. I don’t answer for a moment, trying to see what her play is here. Because there’s always a play with her.

“Fine, let’s step to the back so we don’t air our family laundry in front of everyone. Can you guys watch the front?” I ask Trixie and Lance. When they nod, I lead Sabrina to the kitchen.

“Okay, what’s up?” I ask, not wanting any small talk. Whatever she’s here for, she can speak and get the fuck out. Especially since I’m betting it’s more whining about Lance.

I cross my arms, leaning back against the table, but she paces a bit, looking at the kitchen. “This looks great,” she says, and it’s all I can do to bite back the remark about her saying the opposite on her complaint form to the Health Department.

When I don’t thank her, she sighs and says, “I’m worried about Dad.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I say, instantly scared to death that Priscilla has finally done something that will drive him into an early grave.

Sabrina shakes her head, holding up a hand. “Not like that. He’s not dying or anything. Or at least, no more than the rest of us, but he’s just . . . stressed. More than usual, and it’s wearing on him. I can tell by the worry on his face, and he’s not eating enough. I think we wear on him. Not that I think we’re ever gonna be besties, but a little less ‘at each other’s throat’ would probably help.”

It’s a ridiculous request, one I have serious doubts I could honor even if I wanted to. But he’s my dad, and he’s forgiven me for so much over the years, only asking for one thing . . . that I be kind to his family.

They’re not mine, but as much as I chose Mia and Izzy and the whole gang and would defend and support them no matter what, Dad’s chosen Priscilla and Sabrina to be a part of his family. And I can respect that, or at least I should.

The door creaks open, and Trixie’s head pops in, blonde permed hair springing from her bun. “Sorry to interrupt, but we need you for a minute.”

I nod to Trixie before turning back to Sabrina. “Can you wait one second? Let me deal with this and I’ll be right back.” I run out front, dealing with a customer who wants to order a custom cake.

It takes a little longer than I’d expected, and after a few minutes, Sabrina comes out of the kitchen. She waves as she walks by, calling out, “Check in on Dad. He’d like to hear from you.”

It irks me that she’s telling me what to do once again, but she’s only suggesting that I get closer to him, like maybe she knows he needs me. That’s oddly kind of her, which is not a descriptor I’d typically ever use for Sabrina.

When Sabrina’s gone, I go back to helping the lady who’s ordering a tiered quincea?era cake with various edible pearls, sequins, and icing designs. It’s going to be another major showcase for my decorating skills, and I’m excited about it, ready to tackle more large-scale orders.

While the line is manageable, Trixie sneaks off to the back to take the zucchini bread out of the oven, toss a batch of muffins in, and grab a tray of cookies. It feels like we successfully made it through another rush.

“What’d Sabrina want?” Trixie asks cautiously. “World War III beginning today?”

I shake my head, still not completely believing Sabrina. “Surprisingly, no. She was telling me that she’s worried about Dad and thought I should give him a call. She even said maybe we could lighten up on each other for his sake.”

Even as I repeat her missive, I can’t believe she would be so mature, not after our last near-knockdown-drag-out fight over the health inspector.

“Hmm, that is surprising—” Trixie says.

But she’s interrupted by a loud BOOM.

My eyes meet Trixie’s, whose are wide with alarm. Lance jumps into action, moving straight for the double doors to the kitchen.

But when he opens them, the wafting air from the back fills the front room, smoky and hot.

“Oh, shit, the kitchen’s on fire,” Trixie blurts out.

They say there are two types of people in crisis situations, fighters and flighters. I’m here to say that there’s a third type, freezers. Because I’m frozen in place, disbelieving my eyes.

Through the open doors, a haze of white billows near the ceiling, and flames jump from the oven. Lance grabs the fire extinguisher, quickly pulling the pin and aiming at the base of the fire as he sweeps the white foam through the chaos.

Finally, the alarm goes off, a shrill beeping tone that repeats annoyingly, then the sprinklers rain down cold water on everything. It’s the signal for people to go from ‘Oh, my God’ to ‘get me out of here’, and there’s a mad dash for the front door.

Steven pulls on my arm with a firm grip. “Miss Dunn!”

“Everyone out,” I call out, finally coming out of my shock. It feels like an eternity has gone by, but it’s only been an instant. Just an instant, but my dream is going up in smoke, in flames that are reaching the ceiling now despite Lance’s efforts. “Come on, Lance. We have to go.”

He tries to shake me off, his eyes gritted against the heat and smoke. “I can save it. I can—”

“Save you, save us. That’s all I need. Let’s get out of here,” I say, pleading with him. He lowers the near-empty extinguisher, realizing I’m right.

The three of us are the last ones out, me, Lance, and Steven busting out the door as the fire trucks are pulling up. Firefighters pull hoses, aiming for the bakery, and with a whoosh of water, they begin fighting the fire.

It’s terrifying and heartbreaking, but at the same time, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief that we’re all okay.

“What happened?” I ask, not expecting an explanation but needing to give voice to the question running on repeat in my head.

Lance shakes his head, looking at the flames. “I don’t know. The oven was completely engulfed.”

Trixie’s mouth drops open in horror. “Oh, my God, I was right there by it. I took out the bread and put muffins in. If it’d exploded a minute sooner, I would’ve been standing right there.” She’s shaking, and I gather her into my arms, patting her hair that’s gone wet and frizzy from the sprinkler water. “How did this happen?”

Ice chills my veins. This isn’t an accident. I haven’t even fully absorbed what’s happened, but I know this isn’t an accident. This is Blackwell. It has to be.

“Blackwell.”

The word galvanizes Lance and Steven, the latter grabbing his phone from his pocket, pressing one button. He starts talking to whoever he quick-dialed.

Lance puts a hand on my shoulder, careful to not disturb Trixie, who’s crying silently, tears running down her cheeks to puddle on my shirt. “We don’t know it’s him. It might’ve just been an accident.”

“We just had a clean inspection and everything was in tip-top order,” I hiss incredulously. “This wasn’t an accident.”

My vehemence catches the attention of a police officer standing nearby. He must’ve responded to the 9-1-1 call for the fire.

“You said this wasn’t an accident, ma’am?” he asks. “I’m Officer Vaughn. And who are you?”

I stand straighter but still keep Trixie and Lance at my sides for support. “I’m Charlotte Dunn. This is my bakery. Was my bakery.”

He nods sympathetically, flipping open a notebook and taking out a pen. But my announcement has also caught the attention of several customers too. Most of them lean in, as hungry for gossip as they had been for cake. One guy, in particular, comes stomping over.

“This is your bakery? We could’ve all been killed! What the hell kind of business are you running here?” He’s yelling, angry, and aggressively gesturing with his arms, but for the life of me, I can’t remember ever seeing him before.

“Sir, I’m sorry for any inconvenience, of course. Right now, we’re just glad that everyone’s okay.” I try to be reasonable, digging deep and finding a degree of customer service, even though what I really want to do is curse the sky for this disaster.

But the man is having none of it. He gets right up in my space, his long finger pointing in my face threateningly. “You’re lucky, bitch, you know that? I should sue you for almost killing us all.”

Lance tries to intervene, wanting to calm the situation. “Sir, we’re all upset, but this is not the appropriate way to treat someone who just lost their business.”

The man turns his beady eyes to Lance, and you can almost see his excitement at a new target. He moves his hand from my face, using both to push at Lance’s shoulders as he sneers. “You gonna defend your bitch here now?”

Lance is static, not stepping back at all. “Chill out, man!”

The angry customer rears back, telegraphing a punch so big that even I can see it coming. One tight fist heading straight for Lance’s jaw. Trixie and I yell out, but Lance steps in, letting the haymaker go over his head and back before lifting the man into the air. When he’s up, Lance twists, his hand planted in the man’s chest as he does a WWF-like suplex and slams him to the concrete hard and so fast that I don’t even have time to call out. He points to the man, his eyes burning in anger.

“Stay down. Last warning.”

The guy looks to Officer Vaughn, who’s been standing there, uselessly watching the whole showdown. “You saw that! I want to press charges!”

“Go ahead,” Lance growls. “You press charges, and so will I. You laid hands on me first. And my lawyers are a lot better than yours.”

Another officer helps the guy to his feet, escorting him off to the side, probably to ask the guy questions about what happened. I look around, watching in horror as I realize people are filming, typing on their phones. Great, just what I need . . . more bad press.

But bad press won’t matter, though, because the bakery is demolished.

Officer Vaughn clears his throat, getting my attention. “Ma’am? Can you tell me who has access to your ovens?”

I answer reflexively, picturing my pristine kitchen. “We all do. Me, Trixie, she’s my assistant manager, Lance, he’s my boyfriend who helps out, and Steven, who’s . . . a friend.” I don’t say that Steven is our guard because I know that’ll only lead to questions I think are best answered by Thomas, or at least if I have to answer them, I want to make sure I’m saying what Thomas wants me to since that part of the party is all his.

He scribbles something down. “Anyone else? Maintenance workers, customers, family, friends?”

“Sabrina, my stepsister,” I whisper, my stomach dropping. “She came to see me out of the blue today, we talked in the kitchen, and I left her alone to deal with a customer. But I don’t think she would know how to tamper with anything.” I’m arguing with myself even as the suggestion that she could be responsible gets written down too.

“I think we’re going to need you four to come down to the station to answer some more questions,” the officer says.

But Lance balks. “Take Charlotte and Trixie, and Steven too. I have some things I need to attend to, but I’ll be along as quick as I can to answer any questions.” It seems reasonable, but something in his eyes tells me he’s not spilling his guts, not fully. I wonder if he’s going to go after Sabrina or to talk to Thomas about the possibility of this being a Blackwell act.

Vaughn’s demeanor flips like somebody pulled his switch. “Mr. Jacobs, I said you’re all going down to the station for questioning. You, especially,” he says, lifting his chin toward the assaulting guy who’s loudly proclaiming that Lance started it. “Let’s not have an incident.”

He grabs at Lance, who steps back, calm and controlled. “On what grounds are you detaining me?” His voice is loud, drawing attention as questioning eyes look our way.

Vaughn comes at him again and they tussle, arms flailing. I can tell Lance is trying to not hurt the cop and is just defending himself.

Still, Trixie gets into the mix, throwing catfight-worthy scrabbling arms and flailing hands as she yells like a banshee, “Leave him alone! We have rights!”

Somehow, I end up trying to separate all three of them. “Stop it, all of you. Stop!”

I see a phone fall from Lance’s pocket. I drop down to pick it up, thinking I’ll hold it for him until after this weird attack by the police. But it’s not his usual phone, the one that sits on my nightstand every evening as we drift off to sleep in each other’s arms.

Why would he have two phones?

My gut drops like I’m on a roller coaster as one answer bubbles up. It’s a hoe phone. Been there, done that, burned that bridge to the ground with kerosene and matches.

Wait, that’s not funny, given the current situation.

But my heart cracks at the thought.

The screen lights up as I turn it over and the last message displays.

Blackwell—Mission is a Go. Execute.

Bile rises in my stomach at the jargon and the name attached to the message. I look up to Lance, my heart painfully shattering in my chest. It’s not another woman. It’s another man. The worst man in all of Roseboro, telling Lance to do what?

Did Lance blow up my bakery?

Hot tears flow as he calls out my name, but I shake my head. The officer grimaces and hauls Lance away, shoving him into a waiting police car.

I fall to my knees, right there on the street in front of my dream. Both of them . . . the bakery and Lance.

I thought I was finally going to get everything, that maybe happily ever afters could be true and happen to me. But I know better. It’ll always be the happily never after for me.