“How are the sticky buns coming?” I ask, hoping to subtly keep her attention on the pastries and off my bare chest.
Meg lets out a little sigh and glances at the oven behind her. “Almost done. Are you okay to handle the cookies? I need to get this bread finished.”
“Yes,” I say. We both know I’m being overconfident. I still have no idea why my uncle left me his bakery, considering I rarely spent any time here growing up, but I suppose he had no other options. Besides, he’d only been fifty-five. No one expected him to go so soon. Not even him.
Glancing at my watch and wincing when I realize how late I am, I grab Uncle Bill’s recipe book and flip to the double fudge cookie recipe, which will be the flavor of the day. Uncle Bill used to make all kinds of cookies every day, often experimenting with something new, but I’m lucky if I get through two or three flavors in a morning before I have to head to the other side of the boardwalk and open the surf shop where I’ll spend the rest of the day until the sun goes down—and then start it all over again the next day.
I’m drowning, just like Prince Harry the llama, only I don’t have someone to jump in and save me.
Meg clears her throat and nods toward my shirtless body. “At least put on an apron?” she suggests, though she seems reluctant about saying anything.
I’m not about to spend several hours in this kitchen in nothing but an apron, especially with my jeans hanging low on my hips because they’re still soaking wet. Tossing my wet shirt into the corner of the kitchen that serves as an office, I make my way to the front of the bakery to see if there are any extra-large shirts left amongst the Kingston’s Bakery merchandise. I was supposed to put in an order for more two weeks ago, but…
It’s one thing on an enormous list of things I need to do before summer officially hits next week and, quite frankly, it’s my lowest priority.
The lobby is almost empty outside of a couple of locals who have already claimed their usual spots despite the fact that we don’t open for another hour. As always, Mrs. Vanderman is reading the local newspaper on her phone with a font so large that only one or two words fit on a line. Gary and Carl, two fishermen of indeterminate age, have set up their daily game of Battleship over by the window. It looks like Carl put on a fresh pot of coffee, and I smile as I silently make my way to the far corner by the registers, where our limited supply of t-shirts and mugs sit in their sad display.
The logo design—the words “Kingston’s Bakery” overlaid on a crudely drawn muffin—hasn’t changed in thirty years and is, quite frankly, pathetic. But it’s Uncle Bill’s. He built this place from the ground up and turned it into a Willow Cove favorite. When the tourists come flooding in for the summer every year, they always become regular customers while they’re here, and I’m dreading how some people will react when they learn Bill died two months ago. He was the heart and soul of this place, a bright spot in everyone’s life no matter how short a time he was a part of it.
Kingston’s isn’t the same without him. And not just because I’m a terrible baker. This place doesn’t have the life it used to, and I’m not sure it ever will. Without Uncle Bill’s optimism and broad smiles, the bakery is slowly dying right alongside my energy levels. And maybe my will to live.
The bell over the door jingles, and I quicken my search for a shirt that will fit me. The only one big enough is a bright pink tee with the logo over the left breast and a giant, low quality iron-on of a sticky bun on the back. It’s a 3XL, and the thought of putting it on feels like some weird metaphor for me never being able to fill the space my uncle left. I’m pretty sure Uncle Bill made this shirt himself twenty years ago and it’s been sitting on the back of the shelf ever since. But it will fit and doesn’t smell like wet llama, so I’ll call this a win.
Even if it makes me feel all the more incompetent.
“Oh my gosh, I wish you could smell this place, Cece!” A feminine voice fills the quiet stillness of the bakery, pulling my attention behind me before I can pull the hideous shirt on. A tourist is talking to her phone, holding it in front of her face, and her voice is way too loud for such an early hour. “It’s smaller than I thought, but can you imagine how cute it would look if these booths were replaced by extra tall tables?” She gestures to the booths behind her, where Gary and Carl are sitting.
Her phone is blocking my view of her face, but she looks and sounds like someone from up north, probably one of the bigger cities like D.C. or New York. I already don’t like her, especially because she ignored the sign on the door that clearly says we’re closed.
This is what I get for not locking the door.
“Oo, imagine a long countertop running along that wall over there,” she says, turning her back to me as she flips her camera and pans across the far wall. “And white walls with lemon accents!”
I take in the deep green color of the walls, my frown growing deeper. Who in the world does this woman think she is? Gary and Carl have stopped their game, both with matching expressions of confusion as they watch the woman continue her assessment of my bakery.
“And a giant screen over the—” She squeaks when her phone points at me in the corner, and then she drops her arms and turns a bright red, as if she hadn’t realized anyone else was in the room.
Something settles heavy in my gut. Now that I’ve got a good look at her, she looks far more familiar than I’d like. There’s no way…
“Oh,” she says, eyes quickly taking me in before dropping to her feet. “I guess someone missed the ‘no shirt, no shoes, no service’ sign on his way in.”
I tug the t-shirt over my head, not because she said something but because I feel far too exposed. If she is who I think she is, I’m going to need thick layers of armor between me and her. A thin piece of cotton isn’t going to provide much protection, but it’s something. “Someone missed the ‘closed’ sign,” I say back. My words come out rough. Strained.
The woman glances behind her, first at the sign on the door and then to the three old people sitting in their spots. “A few someones,” she says slowly. Then her eyes meet mine again, and I’m hit with a sharp sense of déjà vu. They’re a bright shade of green that I’ve only seen on one person before. Her curly hair is shorter and her face is thinner, but everything else about her is familiar.
I’m tempted to look behind me, where several pictures are taped to the wall above the merchandise display. Though I force myself to keep my gaze on the woman in the center of the room, I know exactly which photo is calling to me. It’s the second one from the left, third row down, and it’s a picture of Uncle Bill and a fourteen-year old girl in the bakery kitchen, both of them laughing as they decorate cupcakes. She has a streak of flour on her cheek, her hair pulled back in braids like she used to do a lot.
My fingers curl into fists as the woman starts studying me the way I’m studying her. I didn’t think she would ever come back.
“I was hoping to talk to Mr. Kingston,” she says, taking a small step forward.
My scowl stops her from taking another. “That’s impossible.”
“Please? He’ll want to see me.”
I’m sure he would, if he were still alive. But the fact that she’s here, now, and has no idea that Uncle Bill is gone…well, it doesn’t bode well for me. She hasn’t recognized me yet, but she will.
I fold my arms. “We’re closed,” I say sharply. Gary and Carl give each other pointed glances, and Mrs. Vanderman looks like she badly wants to interrupt this exchange, but the three of them keep silent. “You can come back later if you really want, but it’s not going to get you a meeting with Bill Kingston.”
The woman pouts and tucks a dark curl behind her ear, making my stomach twist into a knot. My doubts that I know exactly who she is are dwindling with every expression and gesture she makes. As if my day wasn’t bad enough already… “It really won’t take a long time,” she says and cranes her neck, trying to see into the kitchen through the swinging door separating the lobby from the back. “I promise Bill will want—”
“Come back later.”
“But I—”
“Georgie.” Her name tumbles off my tongue almost painfully, leaving behind the taste of acid.
The color drains from her face as her eyes take me in once more. I don’t think I look that different, but it still takes a few seconds before recognition sets in. “Royal,” she whispers, and I can’t help but wince at her use of my first name. She’s the only person who has ever really called me by my actual name.
“King,” I correct and point to the door. “Later. I’ll find you.”
I don’t move until she’s gone, the bell signaling her departure, but even then my limbs feel like lead. Georgie Carpenter is in Willow Cove. It’s like something out of a nightmare, the kind that sticks with you long after you wake up. The last time I saw her, she was looking out a plane window and disappearing into the sunset, and I was trying to figure out how I could have seen her as anything but a coward and a quitter who would so easily tear my heart to shreds without a single word.
Chapter Two
Georgie
