4. Maeve

FOUR

MAEVE

My week has gone from bad to worse. My creativity is no longer flowing, and I'm left with nothing but worry. I was able to do my usual recipes, ones I know like the back of my hand. Anything new and exciting? Zilch, nada, absolutely nothing. Maybe I'm experiencing what authors describe as writers's block. Baker's block.

"Ugh, I should just start day drinking. Surely, that would help. Or get a pet to keep me company." Whisked Away has been so quiet, the few teenagers I've hired here and there aren't needed. I've sadly had to let them know hours will be limited and even went as far as telling them to please find another job that is able to give them what they deserve. Another chink in my armor, like a sword hitting right in my chest.

Instead of baking to get ahead for tomorrow, I'm taking things off the wall, moving chairs, and readjusting the tables. Since Whisked Away is currently staying afloat with no extras, I'm doing other things to help until maybe Madison can get the reviews taken down. So far, every time she takes one down, five more appear. She even tried tracking the IP address, but apparently, they are using some kind of sophisticated system that my sister can't crack. Michelle piped up again and said to use my in with the Johnsons to see if Fletcher Wild could pull some kind of strings. The sister eyes came at me one after the other. There was no beating around the bush with those two.

Michelle and Madison knew about my date with Clayton. But they weren't aware JW had made an appearance or the way he'd snubbed me. The staredown through the phone had me spilling my guts. Our phone call was well over two hours long, and the only reason we hung up is because Michelle had to do the mom and wife thing. You know, cook dinner, kiss her husband, and help her daughter with homework. I had already taken up enough of Madison's time, yet she's still trying to work through the kinks.

Fortunately, I still had a few regulars throughout the day to go along with my usual orders. The tourists who come through town is what I've lost. A shitty situation because everyone knows when you're on vacation, there's no such thing as a budget. Dropping forty, fifty, or sixty dollars on donuts, croissants, and cake is a drop in the bucket.

I've heard a few before talking and laughing about spending eighty dollars on candy only for them to do similar here at Whisked Away. When you do the math, five customers dropping around that amount in a day adds up quickly. Those extra funds allow me to pocket some money into the just-in-case fund, add new appliances when needed, and to work on new recipes.

I really am going to have a panic attack if my storefront has to be shut down. I'd heard the rumors, the comments beneath their breath as they walked by during opening week. She's too young. How will she be able to survive? I'd never open a bakery here.

Am I young? Yes, I'm twenty-one years old. I also went to my parents with a solid game plan. And I built my clientele up during and after high school. Each of us Oliver girls had money set aside. I've worked my ass off to get to where I am today, and now, because of some disgruntled piece of shit, everything could blow up in my face. Those rumors that I once heard will become a reality, and I'll be back to working solely in a kitchen without a storefront.

"Goddamn stupid son of a bitch motherfucker trucker." The hammer I'm using to knock the nail into the wall misses the head and smashes my thumb. I pull away rather quickly, shoving my thumb in my mouth and making the chair I'm standing on wobble. Rearranging the front of the store also meant moving artwork from one wall to the other. The black and white prints varied in design. Some of them are pictures of my family baking in the kitchen, a few are landscapes I've snapped pictures of on my rare days off, and then there's my favorite that I'll always keep in the center of the gallery wall: my dad, the craftsman he is, designing the store name in wood and iron.

"That's quite a mouth you've got on you, baby girl." I didn't even hear the chime on the door when he entered. Maybe the bell is stuck and needs to be replaced. Nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for his voice. Deep, grumbly, and with a hint of annoyance. I look over my shoulder to find its owner and am struck silent yet again. It definitely is Joseph William Johnson, not that anyone uses his full name. He doesn't even look like a Joseph or Joe. He's JW through and through. Rough around the edges, grumpy when he hasn't had his morning cup of coffee, and if he's in the mood for something sweet and it's not near him, that's when JW reverts to a two-year-old, stomping his boot-covered feet and throwing a temper tantrum.

"I didn't realize I had company." Seeing as how business has been dead except for a few pick-ups here and there, my normal clothes of leggings or loose pants were put away. In their place are shorts, and I can practically feel the heat of his hands the closer he gets.

"Heard you were getting rid of my cinnamon rolls." I don't bother keeping my eyes on him. I can't, and I don't use that word lightly. When it comes to the man behind me, my senses go right out the door. He makes me feel like I've never felt before. He has me craving things I've never craved before. And I'm too scared to keep putting what seems like my heart on the line for JW to walk away while grumbling something about me being younger.

"You heard right. Look at the display cases." There's not much to say. The empty store, the empty display case, me moving things around, it should all be a clear sign. My thumb has stopped throbbing thanks to me sucking on the tip. I don't know how it makes it stop hurting; it just does. Thankfully, JW didn't see me with my thumb in my mouth, or I'm sure he'd make a comment about our age difference.

"Mae." He's trying to get my attention, tempting me to turn around with the deep baritone of his voice. Nope, not doing it, not at all. I get back to my task, or I thought I would be. JW is gripping me by the waist, willingly touching me, and I'm unprepared for the onslaught of sensations it pulls from my body. I want to protest, to kick him and scream .

No, no, no. Why now? The devastatingly handsome cowboy is getting his way. The chair beneath my feet is gone, and a skidding sound echoes above the music I have softly playing throughout the bakery. Where the chair is at now is anyone's guees. I've been having a rock moment, the heavier and older, the better. Currently, Pearl Jam's Yellow Ledbetter is crooning through the speakers.

"Baby girl, you don't stop writhing, I'm going to back you into the wall and give you a reason to squirm against me." I let out an audible gasp, shock thrumming through me. My mouth opens and closes. In the meantime, he's somehow managed to spin me around while lifting me in his arms in one fell swoop. My brain short-circuits, coming up empty on what to do and what to say. He's lucky the hammer is still in my hand and not dropping to the ground or hitting the black and white checkered tile flooring. JW moves his forearm beneath my ass, and his now free hand takes the hammer out of mine, carefully placing it on a table.

"What are you doing?" I finally find the words. Apparently, JW is hellbent on keeping me wrapped up in his arms. We both stay silent as he walks through the shop, not putting me down. While I'd usually be worried about my curvy figure, JW doesn't seem to be struggling or breaking a sweat, so I do the most unlike me thing: I stay quiet. My hands grip his biceps, feeling them flex beneath my palms. Later, Maeve. Later, you can pick apart this whole interaction with your favorite drink. And I'll no doubt mourn the loss of my store front, too.