Chapter 2 - Moira

Moira licked a swirl of whipped cream off the top of her mocha before fixing the lid on her travel mug. Hot Shots Cafe was quiet that morning. Like most mornings, the barista knew just how she liked her coffee—extra sweet, chocolatey, and piping hot.

"What am I going to do without your mochas?" She moaned to Evelyn, the sleepy-eyed barista behind the counter. "No one makes them like you do."

"Who knows," Evelyn replied, wiping the counter down with a rag, "maybe the next barista will be even better. Doubt it, though. Anyway, I'll be here in the evenings, so if things get dire, drop by after the bakery closes, and I'll make sure you get your fix."

Moira sighed. She didn't like change, but she supposed she could forgive Evelyn for her decision to take college classes during the day, even if it robbed her of her favorite pre-work cup. "You're going to crush it; I just know it. See you later, Eve."

"Save a couple cookies for my late-night study snack," Evelyn called as Moira left the shop, the bell chiming cheerfully over her head.

It always felt like they were the only two awake in the whole town at that hour. The sun was just beginning to lighten the night sky, with the promise of dawn. Frost clung to the sidewalk. Moira held her cup tightly, savoring the warmth that contrasted with the bitter autumn air.

She walked along the main street, noting how many dark, empty shopfronts there were in what should have been the busiest part of town. As a kid, she could remember the candy shops, ice cream parlors, and specialty stores with their doors flung open to let in the fresh air, people spilling in and out with smiles. The older she'd gotten, the more rundown the place had become until it felt like a husk of its former self.

Tiers of Joy sat at the end of the street, the sea on one side and the town on the other. Like the rest of town, its facade was shabby, peeling, faded paint and windows due for a refresh, but to Moira, it felt like home. She'd started working there at fifteen, when the owner, Mrs. Alden, had started needing extra help, and had taken on more and more of the duties until it had become a one-woman show.

Each morning, she walked from her apartment to Hot Shots for her coffee, then to Tiers of Joy to begin the morning baking, preparing the day's loaves and doughnuts. She liked to watch the town wake up, the light sparkling on the water when the sun finally reached it, the cries of the gulls keeping her company. Pulling her keys from the depths of her jacket pocket, she let herself into the bake shop.

Breathing in the scent of sugar, cinnamon, and yeast, Moira turned on the ovens and pulled the dough from the fridge, settling into the morning's rhythm. One day, she hoped, the shop would be hers. It felt like hers already, with Mrs. Alden's visits becoming increasingly infrequent in her later years, but feeling like it belonged to her and having it belong to her were two very different things.

At quarter to seven, she started the coffee pot and flipped the sign on the door to open it. Right on cue, her sister, Vera, swept into the bakery ten minutes before the hour, setting the chime off with a clatter.

"Moira! Where are you?" Vera called, like Moira would be anywhere but at the back of the shop.

She put the piping bag down and came out with a tray of cinnamon rolls and doughnuts for the display case. "Here, Vera. You're going to wake the whole town."

Vera dropped her bag and keys onto a table and joined Moira behind the counter, helping herself to the fresh pot of coffee. "No one's still sleeping at this hour."

Moira shot a pointed look outside, where the sunrise was just beginning to stain the sky in shades of pink and orange. "I… don't think that's true. At all."

"Well, whatever, I don't care about them," Vera said, leaning against the counter, watching Moira work. "You might want to fix your hair before the customers come in, though. You look like a hot mess."

Catching sight of her reflection in the glass case, Moira had to admit that Vera had a point. The steaming hot ovens hadn't done her appearance any favors, and she'd dressed in a hurry that morning, jarred from a dream when her alarm had gone off at five.

"I don't know why I bother," Moira said on her way to the backroom, Vera trailing behind. "No one comes here for me; they come for the cakes."

Vera refilled her coffee cup on her way by, though she was probably already buzzing from the caffeine she'd had at home. Moira used the mirror hanging above her office desk to straighten her black-as-ink bun and wipe the worst of the stains from her apron.

"I come here for you," Vera pointed out. "Here I am right now."

"Like you're not drinking my coffee, like you're not going to grab three doughnuts on your way out. Without paying!" Moira added. She swiped on a coat of lipgloss and called it good enough. She was a baker, not a model.

Vera shrugged her shoulder, following Moira into the main cafe again, shadowing her as she started balling the cookie dough onto trays. "I figure it evens out with the free vet care."

That was true. Vera was the vet in town and had been taking care of Moira's cat, Loaf, for free ever since she'd found the kitten behind the bake shop. Without Loaf, Moira never would've made it through the move from her home to the apartment, the cat keeping her company through her first nights alone, curling up on her lap through all the scary movies, the blizzards, the heartbreaks.

"Fine," Moira said, snatching the coffee pot out of Vera's hand before she could refill her mug again. She poured some into her mug and added a scoop of sugar and a swirl of cream until it was honey-colored. "But I'm cutting you off for your own good. You are not having a heart attack in my shop. It'd be terrible for business."

"Speaking of business," Vera said, staring at the sea, rather than Moira in a way that told Moira she wasn't going to like what she was about to her, "I've got some to tell you."

"Is it about Mrs. Alden?" Moria asked, dread unspooling in her belly like spilled ink. "Did she sell to someone else?"

Moira had been working every hour she could to save up to buy the bakeshop when it finally came up for sale, but between rent and other living expenses, it had been a slow trickle into her savings, not the dragon's hoard she'd been hoping to have by now. Her mind was spinning up ideas on what she could do to get the money quick—sell a kidney, knock Vera off for the life insurance—when Vera finally went on.

"No," she said, drawing out the word. Moira's fingers white-knuckled the dough scoop. She was about to bludgeon Vera if she didn't spit it out. "It's about Jonah."

Jonah. It was a name from Moira's past, one she wished had stayed firmly buried there. When she'd left the Silversand pack for the Rosewoods, she thought she'd seen the last of him.

"What about him?" Moira asked, crossing her arms over her chest as if they could protect her from the childhood wounds still buried under her skin.

This time, when Vera grabbed the coffee pot, Moira let her. She refilled both their cups and added an extra spoonful of sugar to Moira's before going on.

"Well, his dad died. The Silversand Alpha. Adria told me she passed the message on to the White Winter pack herself. That's where Jonah has been these past years. Did you know he left the Silversands, too? Guess we could've stayed, after all."

Moira glanced at the door, grateful for once for the lack of customers. She couldn't handle pleasant conversations with strangers right then, not when the world was shifting under her feet. She had known Jonah had left the Silversands not long after she had but hadn't known where he'd ended up. Hadn't cared, either, as long as it was far, far away from her.

"And?" Moira prompted, like she didn't already know where it must be going. She was just hoping and praying what Vera said next would surprise her.

Vera was still looking anywhere but at her. "Well, they asked him to come back to the pack. So, I just think, given the close proximity, that you should maybe be prepared to run into him."

She wanted to say that she was so far over what had happened in high school between her and Jonah that she didn't have to prepare to run into him, that Vera's fears were absurd, that she was a grown woman now and not afraid of a childhood bully. But she couldn't lie to her sister. Too many years together had taught both of them each other's tells.

"I'll be fine, Vera," Moira insisted anyway. And she would be. Fine had a very broad definition that could encompass everything from sobbing after seeing him on the sidewalk to punching him in the local cafe.

"Really," Vera said flatly, a statement rather than a question. "So, everything you spent your teenage years crying about on my bedroom floor, that's deeply buried in the past? The whole entire reason we had to leave the Silversands in the first place, that's all water under the bridge?"

"Yes," Moira snapped, yanking the tray of cookies out of the oven just as the timer dinged. "Like I said. Look, customers are about to start coming in, and you're a distraction. Can we talk about this later?"

Vera rolled her eyes, and Moira wondered if she had time to throttle her before the first customer rolled in. "I'm just not looking forward to saying ‘I told you so' in a couple of weeks," she said in a singsong voice, pulling three doughnuts from the case and tossing them into a paper bag.

"Could keep it to yourself then!" Moira called as Vera left, the door swinging shut behind her.

Fat chance of that. In some ways, Vera was an ideal older sister—protective, present, caring, and willing to leave their family pack to join the Rosewoods when Moira needed to run. The flip side of that was Vera feeling entitled to offer opinions and guidance on every aspect of Moira's life, whether she asked for it or not.

In some ways, it felt like Vera wished Moira had never grown up. The more independence Moira showed, the more strained their relationship grew, and now she dealt with constant jabs from Vera about her rundown apartment, her dead-end job, and her lack of ambition.

Pushing all that down, Moira dumped the second half of her coffee into the sink and brewed herself a cup of chamomile, wishing she had something a little stronger to steady her nerves. Whether Vera had believed her or not, Moira knew that she wasn't ready to see Jonah again and would probably never be ready.

Thankfully, the door chimed again, letting in the first paying customer of the day. Moira sold him a dozen doughnuts and a loaf of sourdough, and the comfortable rhythm of business took her mind off Vera's news. Between baking and selling, manning the ovens, and the till, the first half of the day went by in a blur.

Hanging her "Out for Lunch" sign on the door, Moira headed into the backroom again, clearing a spot on her desk. She had just sat for a quick lunch, chicken salad on a fresh ciabatta and a decaf, when there was a knock at the door.

For a second, she imagined Jonah standing there, banging on the door. She tried to picture what he'd look like all grown up, his lanky, gangly form stretched even taller, his buzzcut reveling bald patches he desperately tried to ignore, a farmer's tan. It gave her some small joy, and enough bravery to poke her head out to see who it was.

Adria.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Will you forgive me for interrupting your break if I come bearing pizza?" Adria asked, holding up a box that smelled like heaven.

"I'd forgive far worse sins for a slice of Tony's." Moira hugged her friend tightly, careful not to jostle the pizza box. "Come on back, I'll get us some plates."

"Still no pizza place in town?" Adria led the way to the back room, the smell of cheese, bread, and pepperoni wafting behind her.

"No, and I question every single day why I still live here." Moira wrapped her sandwich in wax paper and set it to the side. It would be dinner later.

It was one of the last holdouts in town, but eventually the pizza shop closed, unable to compete with the three pizza options in the next town over as the population in town dwindled. She cleared a space on the desk for the pizza box and handed Adria a plate, taking one for herself.

"You're always welcome in our town," Adria said, grabbing a slice. "Evelyn has an empty townhouse next to her place, and you know she lives right near James."

Adria's voice went singsong on the man's name in a way that Moira, through her many single years, had become painfully familiar with. It was the voice every well-meaning friend used when they wanted to set you up with someone. But Moria wasn't interested in dating. She didn't need the distractions when she was working hard for her goal, and she didn't need a man's opinions on her life choices.

"I like my place, and it's so close to here," Moira said, savoring the first bite of pizza. She was starving after all those hours on her feet without a break. "And James is cute, but I'm not looking."

"You're still just as much a Rosewood, even if you live out here. I'm just being greedy. I want you around more!" Adria's nose crinkled as she smiled.

Motherhood suited her friend. She hadn't stopped glowing since pregnancy, and the whirlwind of raising a toddler hadn't left her with any less love for her friends. She was everything a luna should be.

"Let's get together Friday night, me, you, Vera, Evelyn. I'll bring dessert if you bring Tony's," Moira offered.

She loved an excuse to bake up something new, something not yet ready for selling in the bakeshop. Mrs. Alden had approval rights on what was stocked and kept it traditional.

"Deal. Evelyn can host, she's got all that space, and she doesn't have a mate or a kid to share it with, so we don't have to dodge blocks or men," Adria promised.

"And I'll make a tray of brownies for you to bring home, so they won't even miss you," Moira laughed.

They made their way through most of the slices, discussing motherhood and the latest pack gossip, who was hooking up and who was breaking up until finally, the last slice was gone. In the lull, Adria seemed to be searching for words, uncharacteristically quiet.

"What is it?" Moira prompted.

"Look, Vera might've already told you," Adria began. "I mean, I'm sure she did, even though I told her to wait until we knew for sure if he was coming back."

"Jonah?" Moira said, feigning nonchalance. Her friend knew some of what she'd gone through in high school, but she'd spared her the most mortifying details. It had been a way of leaving the girl she'd been, the girl who'd gotten bullied in the past. "Yeah, she told me. And like I told her, I'm fine. It's so far in the past, I probably won't even recognize him."

Adria searched Moira's face, all the concern of a mother in her eyes. "I'm worried he's going to try for alpha. He might be here for a long time, not just a short visit."

Moira felt the wind get knocked out of her. She covered it by cleaning up the desk, whisking away the pizza box and the dirty plates. It was one thing to have to see him once or twice and never again, and another entirely to see him for the foreseeable future.

"Please tell me he got ugly," Moira begged, coming back with two cups of hot chocolate, swimming with homemade marshmallows.

Adria sucked in her cheek. "Depends on your definition of ugly, or if you've got eyes."

Moira let her head fall to the desk, resting her forehead on the cool wood. "Great. So, my childhood bully got super-hot, and now he's coming here where I have to look at his beautiful, stupid face all the time?"

"I'm sorry, Moira. If it helps at all, Beth says he's nothing like your stories. That he's the sweetest guy in the whole pack."

That wasn't saying much, when the White Winter pack was known for its brutality. She swirled the marshmallows around her cup, inhaling the soothing scent of vanilla and chocolate. Her life was complicated enough; what had she done to deserve yet another complication?

She glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. Ready or not, it was time to open the shop and get back to work, even if she only wanted to go home and crawl into bed with Loaf and an old movie.

"Thanks for coming to tell me," Moira said, pulling Adria into a hug. "And for the pizza. Like I told Vera, I'll be okay. I doubt we'll see each other much anyway, if he's as hands-off as his father was."

Adria squeezed Moira before releasing her, saying, "He might surprise you. You don't have to give him a second chance, and no one would expect you to, but I've had some surprises of my own lately. People can change."

Moira walked with Adria to the door, sending her off with a dozen chocolate chip cookies. No one walked out of Tiers empty-handed.

"Yeah, maybe, but I'm not holding my breath," Moira said.

She waved goodbye to Adria and flipped the sign back to open. Only a few more hours and she could be home, drowning her sorrows in popcorn and slasher flicks.

A pretty young human woman walked in half an hour before closing, looking around the shop with wide eyes.

"Welcome in," Moira said, forcing more enthusiasm into her voice than she felt. It was rare to see a new face, and she needed to do everything she could to encourage it, but the day had worn her down. "Can I help you?"

The woman smiled hesitantly and walked up to the counter. "I saw that you have a wedding cake on your sign. I'm going to get married here, right on the beach, and I saw your place on my way by."

Her exhaustion vanished. It had been so long since she'd made a wedding cake. She loved the challenge and the artistry involved in crafting such an important piece of an important day.

Moira pulled out a binder with her past occasion cakes and laid it across the counter, flipping open to the wedding cakes section. "We do! These are some of our past cakes, but we can do any design you'd like, and of course, you can sample all of our flavors, fillings, and frostings at a tasting."

She flipped through the pages, stroking Moira's ego with her sounds of delight and awe.

"This one is perfect," she said, selecting a deceptively simple, three-tiered cake that would match the beach wedding feel. "Can I do each tier in a different flavor?"

Moira nodded, pulling out a sheet and jotting down notes as they hashed out some design details. She'd sketch a few potential designs and present them at the tasting to finalize her choice. Excitement thrummed through her. Wedding cakes were big money and could be a big draw, pulling in people from towns away if they were good enough.

"Thank you for coming in, and we'll see you soon for that tasting," Moira said, beaming.

The woman bought an assortment of pastries, paid her deposit, and left, promising to tell all of her friends about the hidden gem bakery. Moira locked the door behind her and settled in with her sketch pad and a cup of coffee. This was what the town needed, fresh faces and glowing reviews, not a leader who would be a copy of the man who had run it down in the first place. Not Jonah.