Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Tallula

T his is the first morning since arriving in Hogwash that my sneaky niece and nephew haven't abruptly woken me up, or that I've actually wanted to get out of bed.

It's not like I'm depressed. More like displaced.

But I'm excited even without a shot of espresso. As soon as I arrive at the Coffee Loft, I float the beignet buns sales idea to Mara. "I'll start with the classic recipe and if they're a hit, I can expand to some specialty flavors."

"I didn't know you could bake." She shrugs. "Sure. Have at it."

I'm surprised she's so hands-off. But her hands are full with the kids and the house remodel.

My thoughts drift to what prompted the fridge forage, as Jesse called it. But I pause on the memory of him in the kitchen last night—looking a little rumpled in his pajamas and dark hair sticking up at odd angles. But his eyes were bright, alert. His sideways smile at the ready. It's like nothing gets past him...and I can't help but notice the way he looks at me.

In a way Peter never did.

There's affection there, but appreciation too. As if he sees beyond the surface and my appearance.

What brought me to the kitchen last night was an ill-advised trip down social media lane. The online chatter was loud and divided into two camps. Most people side squarely with Peter, which is totally unfair.

I was the woman scorned!

But he's a Hollywood heartthrob who just landed the Donny Wicks role in the latest action franchise, so of course, everyone is ready to camp out in Peterville.

I make the beignet bun dough, trying to meditate as I knead—a self-improvement guru once told me that this is a great exercise to come fully present in a moment and break free from my "Monkey mind."

I scoff. Looking back, the woman didn't look like she'd ever eaten a piece of bread, never mind kneaded one. Not like I had recently either until last night.

Suffice it to say, my monkey mind grabs a vine and brings me back to Peter. He's been texting me, stating I made a big mistake. That my career was over and that he was going to help me get it back. Oh, and that he saw the writing on the wall, and I'll be paying for it.

Can't do that since he has all my money except for the $1.89 in the tip jar. Twenty-five cents of that is leftover from yesterday.

"Tally, are you okay?" Mara's voice pulls me from what feels like a pit of darkness.

"Huh? Yeah. Fine."

"Looks like you're trying to murder that dough."

I grunt.

"Did you break your good girl habits and go full bad girl? Should I be concerned or proud?"

"Neither," I mutter because I'm not too sure myself.

Having left Hogwash for Hollywood, I thought I'd let go of my vicious grip on holding everything together—my parents' marriage, my social life, myself... Acting allowed me to temporarily forget my roles and embody another where there were no real consequences. Nothing at stake.

"It's okay to let go," Mara says, letting the invitation settle before speaking again. "I have to go pick up the urchins. Be back in a few hours."

It takes me a moment to realize by urchins my sister means her children. But the other thing about letting go makes me think she was reading my mind again.

How can I let go when I feel so discouraged, stuck, and frustrated? I was the one who upended my perfect little life in Los Angeles and left. Meanwhile, Peter is celebrated like a hero and gets to stay.

Stewing with indignation as I stir the cinnamon and sugar together, I grab my phone and click on my social media account. Then I hit record.

I say some things about happy people and miserable people. I call out the trolls. But I also rant, using some harsh, ugly words.

I expect my tirade to bring relief with each passing second. As I holler into my phone, I expect my breathing to become easier. But the weight of the betrayal broke every good girl bone in my body. Nothing that will come out of my mouth will relieve the deep ache, but that doesn't stop the words from pouring forth.

"I'd done everything right. I created the life that everyone dreams of. I was the perfect wife. This is the thanks I get?"

No sooner do I click publish do I want to delete the video. But it's too late. This social media platform does not have a back button. There is no erasing the history. My outburst will exist forever.

Probably it'll get legs and wander back into my life when I least expect it. Eventually, the masses will forget about what happened, Peter will do something stupid and fall out of favor—or get old and ugly—and I'll make a grand comeback. My return will delight everyone and I'll rise to sweetheart status.

Then this dumb video of me being a dumb butt will surface.

A theatrical groan escapes and my stomach feels all hard inside. Why have I let this happen? But that same smug self-help lady floats into my mind then my granny's wisdom flies past her. I could think about this as a setback or try to find something to be grateful for. There's a lesson in this experience—patience, resilience, self-acceptance?

I'm not entirely sure, but I think it'll reveal itself when I resolve to move on. Forget about Peter and social media and fans who take sides.

If only it were that easy .

My phone beeps every ten seconds with post-rant response notifications. Those intervals turn into one long stream of bleeps. I toss it into the flour bin.

Thankfully, the door jingles with a customer.

Deputy Lawson wears a tan uniform that complements his fit figure. I can't stop thinking about his hands when we kneaded the dough or his soft and expectant gaze when our eyes met. Or the way he caught me when I almost fell. The hug that we shared when he suggested I make the beignet buns for the Coffee Loft. It's like each time we touched and every minute that passed, mended something inside. Except I didn't realize it until he sent his sideways smile in my direction.

Jesse makes a great distraction.

"Hello, Tallula. You look..." He pauses as if thinking of the right word. "Like pure sunshine."

If only I didn't feel like I got struck by lightning. I sigh because he has a way of pushing past my perfect good girl fa?ade and shining a spotlight on the truth. Maybe it's the badge. "Have you ever done something you regret?"

He laughs out loud. "Uh, yeah. Lots of things. Where would I even begin?"

"Something that you can't undo?"

"Like burn beignet buns?"

The beeping from my phone had melded in my mind with the beeping of the kitchen timer. I yelp and hurry over to the oven. "They're okay. Thank you for saving the day. "

He lifts his hat in his hand like police officers do in the movies. "Just doing my job, miss."

Is he flirting or is this the Jesse Lawson 2.0? His big comeback after terrorizing our town? Whatever the case, I am here for it.

But I shouldn't be. Not at all. Men are off the menu. Social media too...starting now.

I have to be stronger. After the breakup, I told Mara I'd take a break from posting. I'd been doing good until now. Being lied to is the worst, but lying to myself carves out a hole inside. Not even a jumbo beignet bun could fill it up. But I'm not sure what else I've been lying to myself about.

I told Jesse that my career had hit a dry patch. More like a desert.

But it's not just that. There's something I want or don't want...I'm just not sure what. Other than not to have flown off the handle and told social media. I wanted Peter to feel as bad as I do, but now my emotions are all over the place and I feel worse. The internet will not issue an apology. Neither will Peter. So, what is it I want?

Then I meet a pair of deep brown eyes. The little digital red heart inside lights up, taking rational thought with it.

He points to the tray of beignet buns that are slightly darker than usual. "Are you going to put drizzle on those? If so, I'd like to buy one, fresh out of the oven."

"You got it and it's on the house."

"That's mighty kind, but are you authorized to do that?" His smile is flirty.

I waggle my eyebrows. "Mara left me in charge. There's no telling what'll happen." Like me going rogue and screaming into the void of my phone.

After preparing the beignet buns, I give one to Jesse.

His eyes get big. "I've been dreaming of these since last night. Twice in twelve hours might become a dangerous habit." He pats his stomach.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about." Wait? Am I flirting too?

I lean in, anticipating Jesse taking a bite. His eyes close briefly. "Mmm. This is divine. I am impressed all over again. These are heavenly."

"You really think so?"

"They're perfect."

"I'm worried about what people in Hogwash will think about them."

Jesse's lips tug into that wicked side grin and he says, "Princess, you don't have anything to worry about."

If only that were true.

His lips part as if he's going to say more, then a commotion comes from the back door off the kitchen.

"What is that smell?" It's my sister. As per usual, I can't read her mood other than her usual setting which is sharp, sarcastic, and sassy.

The kids bustle in behind her and crowd around the tray of beignet buns.

"Can I cut one for you?"

"I recommend two," Jesse calls.

"Hello, Deputy. Has the Coffee Loft officially become your regular spot?" Mara asks.

"The best game in town."

"Just be sure you're not scaring away customers."

"Just lowlifes and nosy nellies."

"Hi, Deputy Lawson," Jedediah says, standing tall and uncharacteristically still as if he wants to make a good impression on the police officer.

"Hey there, Deputy Junior." The two of them chat for a moment while I watch for my sister's reaction.

Mara takes a big bite. "Where have you been hiding this recipe?

My little baby sister heart beams at Mara complimenting me on something I did. "I started making them for high school bake sales after you graduated."

"Of course you did, our little goodie two shoes, always contributing."

She hasn't seen the new thing I contributed to the internet yet. Mara will not approve.

"We'll run a special this week. Buy a jumbo beignet bun, get a free small coffee," she says.

"Is tea included?" Jesse asks.

Please say yes, please say yes. Anything to entice him to come in.

Mara wears a certain smile and nods. "Sure, I'd do anything for my lil' sis."

Wrapped up in her accolades along with the kids, I don't see Jesse slip out the door. In his place, I feel a beignet buns-shaped hole, complete with a big splotch of frosting.

Word about the jumbo beignet buns and coffee combo spreads fast. In the coming week, we sell out of the beignet buns before ten a.m. and have more than doubled the coffee sales. Once people taste it, they can't quit. I double the baking batches and we still sell out by lunchtime. Seven days in, and we're taking specialty orders.

Passing me a clean Coffee Loft apron, Mara says, "I was going over sales from this week and your beignet buns are like magic. I knew it would take a while to build the business because we're in such a small town, but I have you to thank."

"It could also be the free coffee. It's literally the best."

"True, the Coffee Loft brew sells itself, but you got people in the door. I built it, you made it better."

I like the idea of my sister and I doing something together when so often we were at odds growing up. I have a feeling she wanted to see our parents split and be done with all the quietly simmering hostility while I held onto their marriage with a death grip.

"Glad I can help." I just wish I could save some money and get back to my real job. My stay in Hogwash is only temporary. I left my agent a message the other day and am waiting to hear back on a reading I did shortly before I left to play a single mom in Too Cute for Christmas .

The phone rings, but it's not mine. Mara answers and jots something down. "More orders. Three dozen beignet buns for the church brunch next weekend."

"I got this."

"You can handle it?"

"I'll just come in extra early. I already have an idea for a new tip jar sign. It'll say Tips, Please. I Knead The Dough ."

Mara laughs and salutes me before taking her leave.

The beignet bun orders increase and continue throughout the week. Coming in at five a.m. turns into me having to get up at four a.m. and then three in the morning to have everything ready on time.

On the third day of that brutal schedule, I think I have everything under control, but when the fitting on the stand mixer decides not to cooperate and sprays flour everywhere, I rush around, flustered.

Even though I know the beignet bun recipe by heart, and the business is keeping me stocked with supplies and ingredients, this is the episode when the small-town baker is in over her head. Which means it's time to turn up the music.

I wouldn't object to spontaneously busting a move, cueing the love interest to appear and we'd dance together in a perfectly choreographed number.

I've always wanted to be in a musical film.

I grab the broom and sing along into the handle as I clean up the mess. As I belt out the chorus to a popular love song, I feel like I'm being watched.

"Eat your heart out, Peter!" I holler.

Then someone knocks on the door. I spy the silhouette of a man with broad shoulders, a thick utility belt, and a specific kind of gait.

My cheeks match the little internal heart "like" icon that flashes warm whenever I see, speak to, or think about Jesse.

"Hey, Princess. I'm on the night shift. Saw the light on back there. Just making sure everything is okay." He wears that wicked side grin like he saw me streaking past the doorway to the kitchen with my broom microphone.

"What? You didn't see anything."

His eyes crinkle at the corners and he chuckles as if to say he rather liked my little song and dance.