Page 1 of Broken Pact
1
CORALINE
I shimmy to the beat of the pop song playing through the bakery’s speakers, silently thanking the universe for the foresight to install a sound system in both the front and kitchen. The scent of decadent melted chocolate fills the air, mingling with the rich aroma of brewed coffee.
It’s paradise. Which is something I never thought I’d say living in my small town. But the universe works in mysterious, unpredictable ways. Just like my late grandma, Nana Jo. She left me a significant amount of money when she passed away, only allowing me to use it to open my very own bakery.
Somewhere I have all the room I need to bake anything I could dream up. Like this dark chocolate tart with espresso whipped cream rosettes. And it’s all dairy-free.
My stomach rumbles with approval, and I’m half-tempted to make another one so I can try it. I don’t think Mrs. Shepley would appreciate me taking a bite out of her custom-ordered tart. She has big plans to bring it to bridge club tonight.
Sugarplum Bakery is my sanctuary, a place where the outside world melts away, creating space for me to be myself. To let my creativity take the reins without fear of critique from former bosses or noise complaints from roommates or sidelong looks from mothers.
My phone buzzes on the wooden butcher block at the end of the worktable, interrupting my pitch-perfect breakdown of the song’s bridge. I grapevine across the tiled floor, using the purple whisk like it’s a microphone and propping the dirty glass mixing bowl against my hip. Nothing hypes me up like a good song and a good bake.
I glance at the screen and frown. My good mood pops like an overfilled balloon.
Another message from my ex-boyfriend. Great.
I place the mixing bowl on the table and wipe my hand across my pink apron with a sigh.
Grant: You’ve made your point, Coraline. I’m growing tired of waiting.
Annoyance flares, quick and sharp. “Read the room, Grant.”
I know I’ll regret texting him back, but if I don’t, he’ll blow up my phone for the rest of the day. And I have plans to see my cousin’s baby tonight. The last thing I want to do is bring my cloud of negativity to that sweet baby girl.
I blow out a breath and roll out the tension in my neck.
Me: Move on, Grant. I already have.
His reply is instant.
Grant: Nice try, Coraline. We both know this is a desperate ploy in an attempt to make me suffer. I have. I’m suffering without you.
Frustration bubbles inside my stomach like acid. It’s been like this for weeks now. I tell him point blank that we’re over and he somehow still doesn’t get it. And he’s suffering? Puh-lease. I cannot roll my eyes hard enough to convey my absolute annoyance.
Me: Were you suffering when that woman’s tongue was down your throat?
My thumb hovers over the send button before ultimately deleting it. I don’t even want to bring that up, because the truth is, ironically, I don’t even care that he cheated. I was going to end things that night anyway, so he did me a favor really. I wasn’t feeling Grant, and if I’m being truthful with myself, I hadn’t in a long time.
I switch over to my music app instead and scroll until I find the perfect song. Maybe this will help send the message. I click the share button and send him the song without anything else. Maybe he’ll listen to Taylor since he won’t listen to me. I swear he wasn’t this obtuse when we got together.
Or maybe he was, but I was reacting on instinct after seeing them together again so I convinced myself to overlook it.
Shaking my head, I blow out a breath that puffs my cheeks and drop the dishes in the sink. I’ll clean up after I take some photos of this stunning dessert. There’s a thump from somewhere, and I pause mid-lyric. When I don’t hear anything else, I chalk it up to the neighbors. These older buildings downtown were built close together.
I turn the volume up and grab my staging equipment. A lavender-colored swinging door separates the front of the bakery and the kitchen, and I back up, ass-first to push it open. I shout-sing along with Taylor, really throwing my convictions about never getting back together with my ex into it.
“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
I shriek, almost dropping my ring light and background props, spinning around so fast that I lose my balance. My left shoulder slams into the swinging door with a bone-jarring thud.
A man stands in the middle of my bakery.
A stranger with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. An open blue flannel with a black ribbed tank top underneath and a thick gold link chain around his neck. Thick silver rings cover half of his fingers, glinting in the morning sunlight streaming in through the front bay windows.
He combs back his greasy hair with one hand, standing where I used blue painter’s tape to map out the cafe tables and chairs. He’s probably about six feet tall, but his overwhelming presence seems to expand to the vintage bronze tin ceiling.
