I parked the car on the main strip at the end of the block, across the street from the building that had just been sold. I’d woken up early, sometime around five, unable to sleep. I refused to toss and turn, so I’d gotten up, had my usual bout of morning sickness, and then had eaten the rest of the pulled pork and slaw for breakfast.
Then I’d gone for a drive.
My mind wandered as I drove to the street of my bakery. The neighborhood was quiet, and the shops hadn’t opened for business yet. The area had changed over the years. When I was a kid, there had been a butcher shop, a shoe store and a textile warehouse among others on the block.
Now it looked…
Posh. Well, on the verge of being posh.
Before, when my dad still had his workshop, it had been grittier. Never truly dangerous, but rougher. Now, several buildings had been painted. Signs had been restored, and it was clear that money was beginning to flow into the area.
Changes had been occurring, but I hadn’t really noticed until now. I’d been so lost in my grief that I’d thrown myself into the bakery. I didn’t even truly know my neighbors in the area.
An older woman turned the corner and stopped in front of the building that had been sold. After a moment, she pulled a set of keys from her black jacket.
I was out of the car before I could think twice.
“Excuse me,” I called.
She jumped, dropping her keys. She was clearly surprised by my sudden appearance.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I approached slowly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The woman relaxed when she saw me. She bent down to scoop up her keys. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here at this hour.”
“I own the bakery across the street.” I pointed to the building.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Ella Alcott. This is—was—my store. I’m just here to—I left something.” She hastily turned her head and wiped her eye.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked her.
“That would be so nice,” she nearly blubbered. “Let me just…”
“I’ll be over at the bakery,” I said. “Take your time.”
I crossed the street and headed to the bakery. The Grade Pending sign pissed me off to no end. So did the torn-up street out front.
I probably should’ve texted Duke, but it was still early in the morning, and I didn’t plan on being here long.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the front door, and I went to let Ella in. She stepped inside, carrying a beige tote bag, and looked around.
“Cute place,” she murmured. She walked to the far wall and peered at the framed photograph. “Who’s this?”
“My dad,” I explained. “This used to be his leather workshop. When he died, I turned the building into a bakery.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.”
She sank into a chair, and it was as though her entire body had collapsed from the weight of the world.
“I can make you a latte, a cappuccino, espresso—”
“A cappuccino would be great. Thanks.”
“I would offer you a baked good to go with your coffee, but the bakery is currently closed to the public.”
“Does it have something to do with your Grade Pending sign in the window?”
“It’s one of the reasons.” I took a deep breath, unsure if I wanted to get so personal with a stranger, but I didn’t feel right about prying into her situation without at least letting her know about mine. “My business partner and I have sort of changed gears until that’s sorted. We’re getting into catering.”
I steamed her milk and poured it over the espresso shot. I brought it to her, along with brown sugar lumps, and took the seat across from her.
“I’m sorry about your business,” I said quietly. “Were you there long?”
“Only a couple of years. I was just starting to do well, too. And then…” She shrugged, reaching for the bowl of sugar lumps. “It all kind of came out of nowhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had to take some time off to deal with some family stuff, but I left the store in good hands. Then I started having supplier issues—I make tea tinctures, homemade soaps, and lotions. I’ve had long-standing business relationships with my suppliers since the day I opened, so I didn’t understand what was going on. Then they tore up the street, and all the traffic stopped. Between not being able to resupply and no one coming into the store to buy what I was selling…”
I nodded. “Something similar happened to me. Things were great, business was booming and then…”
“It was like a dead zone. Then the insurance on the building went up since the values in this area keep rising, and I was just too squeezed financially. I didn’t have a choice. I had to close.”
“Do you own the building?”
She shook her head. “Leased. I had contracted for five years, and had three years left on the lease, but I had to execute my early termination clause and leave once I decided to close the business. I’ve noticed a lot of shops in this area closing and staying closed. It happened to the Waltons. They owned the flower store that was open for twenty years, and then about a year ago, they had a going-out-of-business sign on their window front. The indie bookstore closed too. I just don’t understand because it seemed like this area was due for a renaissance, and it’s like…I don’t know—it was quashed.”
“Does the name Kurt Antol ring a bell?”
She shook her head no and took a sip of her coffee. “This is good.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope you don’t go out of business.”
“Same, girl. Same.”
My phone chimed with a text as I was locking up the bakery.
It was Jazz. Van’s ready.
I waited until I was in my car before calling her.
“Hey,” I said. “I don’t want the van sitting at the bakery. I don’t want to take any chances that someone else is going to come along and do the same thing.”
“Or take our battery or something,” Jazz added. “Good thought. Where are we going to keep it though? It’s going to be a pain in the ass having to drive it over to the bakery when we have to load up.”
“I know.” I rubbed my third eye.
“You okay? You sound tired.”
“I didn’t sleep much.”
“Yeah, me either.”
“I’m at the bakery right now,” I admitted.
“Is Duke with you?”
“No.”
“Ooh, naughty girl. Let’s hope Slash doesn’t find out and punish you for disobeying him. On second thought, he looks like the type to dish out a good punishment. Daddy Slash!”
“You finished?” I asked in amusement.
“Yes.”
“Good. And I didn’t really mean to come to the bakery by myself. I was driving around and wound up here. Kind of on mental autopilot.”
“What’s got you thinking? Is it the baby?”
I looked down at my belly and smiled. “No. It’s not the baby.”
“Slash?”
“Not him either, actually.”
“Then what?”
“I think—I know this sounds crazy—"
“Crazier than moving in with Daddy Slash after a few weeks of sleeping together?”
“Why are we friends?”
“Because I keep you honest.”
“And humble,” I added dryly.
“You’re already pretty humble. I don’t know how though. You’re a genius, and I’ve heard most chefs have egos.”
“I’m not a chef. Anyway, we’re getting derailed.”
“Right, sorry. I haven’t had a second cup of coffee yet. What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say”—I took a deep breath—“that I think Kurt is trying to sabotage my business.”
Silence fell on the other end of the phone.
“Jazz?” I prodded. “You still there?”
“I’m here. You still have leftover pie?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming over.”
“You wear glasses,” I said the moment I opened my door.
Jazz pushed them up her nose. “Yup. I think they make me look smart.”
“They’re cute.”
Jazz wasn’t just wearing her glasses, but also a pair of black yoga pants, a slouchy gray sweatshirt, and her dark hair was in a crazy messy top bun.
“Okay, let me at the pie,” she said. “I need sugar if we’re going to dissect this.”
I went to the fridge and pulled out the one pie tin covered in aluminum. I’d consolidated the leftover pie into one dish. I handed it to Jazz and then gave her a fork.
“So, tell me why you think Kurt is sabotaging you,” she said as she plopped onto the couch.
“I met the woman who had the shop caddy corner to the bakery. She had to close her business.”
“Go on.” She forked in a mouthful of flaky pie crust.
“Damn, that looks really good,” I murmured.
“Baby’s got a sweet tooth.”
“Apparently.” I shook my head. “Anyway, her name is Ella Alcott. Are you ready for this? She started having issues with her suppliers, her insurance went up and with the street torn up the way it is, she no longer had enough foot traffic to keep the business going.”
Jazz frowned and nodded slowly.
“We’ve had a health code violation.” I put violation in quotation marks. “A broken window, our van screwed with—”
“The bank loan payment issue. Yeah, okay. I’m on your wavelength.”
“I had a flat tire, too.”
“I’d forgotten about that. It was right before Slash bought you a new car, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. I thought it was bad luck, but I don’t think it was.”
“No, I don’t think so either,” she said slowly. “Too many coincidences.”
“I asked if Ella knew Kurt and she said she didn’t.”
“Did you get the name of her landlord?”
“No. I totally forgot,” I realized. “But we did exchange phone numbers.”
“Text her,” she said. “And ask about the landlord. We can do some snooping.”
“Snooping like Brielle did snooping about Kurt? We need some heavy hitters to come to bat if we’re going to figure this out.”
“You’re right,” she agreed. “Well, there’s only one thing to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Ask your dude.”
“Ask my dude what?”
“Ask him to do some digging.”
“And you think I’m the one that’s crazy?” I raised my brows. “I’m not asking Slash. I’m not even telling Slash.”
“Why not?”
“Remember what he did when the window was broken?” I asked.
“He called his boys and had it fixed.” She shrugged.
“And then he seduced me into moving in with him.”
“Well…”
“And what did he do when my car got a flat?”
“He bought you a new car.” She sighed. “Yeah, okay. He’ll want to charge in and fix this for you too.”
“And if I do ask for his help, I want to know what he’s getting into. I don’t just want to hand over my problems to him. That’s been the dynamic of our relationship since we met. I’ve bowed to his crazy whims about Duke tagging along with me, but if I tell him I think someone is sabotaging my business, he’s liable to go leather he-man on the situation.”
I shot off a text to Ella.
While we waited for a reply, Jazz changed the conversation. “So, when do we meet with Willa to talk about the website?”
“Not sure.”
My phone buzzed, and I leapt for it with excitement, thinking it was Ella. I frowned for only a moment when I realized it was Mia.
I heard you had a party. With pie.
I was in the middle of typing out a response when Linden’s number popped up and I knew it was the Old Ladies’ group chat.
Unacceptable. I demand a repeat performance with all the pie.
Grinning, I typed Name the time and place. Just not two days from now because I have to make a cake for the Sullivan christening.
“What has you grinning? Slash?” Jazz asked.
I shook my head. “The Old Ladies. They’re kind of sore that there was a party here—with pie—and they didn’t get any.”
“You’re chummy with them, aren’t you?” Jazz asked with a smile.
“That’s one way of putting it. They’ve been wonderful,” I admitted. “They’re the reason we have a couch to sit on. And they make me feel like one of them. They’re basically calling me Slash’s Old Lady even though I’m not.”
“You seem pretty adamant about not slapping a label on what you and Slash are,” Jazz said.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “But they don’t put any pressure on me, which I like. They just talk to me like I’m part of the club. It’s nice.”
“It’s okay, you know,” she said.
“What is?”
“To jump headfirst into that life. You’re going to have a baby with a biker. And it sounds like the Old Ladies are like a band of sisters that take care of each other. That’s important. You’re going to need a tribe.”
“Aren’t you part of my tribe?”
“Of course, I am!” she grinned. “But I’m not an Old Lady. I don’t have any tattoos—which I’m totally going to remedy. I don’t have a kid. I’m not in the biker life. I don’t know the first thing about it.”
She had a valid point. Not to mention the fact that all of them, aside from Linden, were either mothers or pregnant. And the way my life was changing, it was like I was getting a built-in support system for the family I was about to have.
“I have my first sonogram next week,” I said.
“Do you?”
I nodded.
“Is Slash—”
“He said he’ll be back in town by then.”
“Exciting.” She bit her lip.
“What?”
“Am I allowed to ask questions about the future, or will they freak you out?”
“Yes, you can ask questions.” I chuckled.
“It’s less a question and more of a suggestion. It’s about the nursery.”
“What about it?”
“When the time comes that you’re ready to get the furniture and paint and everything, you should ask Brielle.”
I blinked. “That’s a stellar idea. I didn’t even think about it. Though, to be honest, I’m trying not to think too far into the future.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s true.”
“Okay.” She rolled her eyes.
“Seriously.”
“So you really haven’t thought about something more permanent than renting a house?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t thought about getting Slash’s name tattooed on you?”
“Are you finished with your pie?” I demanded.
“Okay, okay. I can take a hint. You don’t like to be bugged into answering questions.”
“Speaking of bugging someone about their private life, you want to tell me what’s going on with you and Homer?”
Her eyes widened. She hastily looked at her watch-less wrist. “Oh, my, look at the time. I have to pickle my hair and wash my cucumbers.”
I smirked. “Game, set, match.”
“I won’t bug you about Slash, and you don’t bug me about Homer.”
“So there is a you and Homer?”
“Brooklyn! You promised.”
“When did I promise?”
“Please don’t ask me about him,” she said, all levity suddenly gone. “And please, don’t ask me about him around Brielle.”
I sat back in my chair. “I think I finally understand something about you, Jazz. You’re loud and in your face, so people don’t look too closely at the real you. Am I right?”
“Ugh. Yes.” She glanced at the oven. “I really do have to go though. We good?”
“We’re good.”
“We didn’t finalize the O’Sullivan cake,” she said. “We discussed it last night before the party, but did we settle on anything?”
“I have an idea. I’ll sketch something and send you a photo. Okay?”
She nodded and stood.
“Why do you look so glum?” I asked.
“Because even though Kurt is probably sabotaging your business, and me by association, you have a hot biker who’s head over heels for you, and you’re having his baby. I kind of envy your life.”
“He’s not head over heels for me,” I protested. “And you don’t want my life. Trust me. It’s a friggin’ mess.”
“He is absolutely head over heels for you,” she insisted. “And I’d take your mess over my mess any day.”
“Your Homer mess, or your home-life mess?”
“There is no me and Homer because he refuses to—never mind. I’ll see you later.”