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1
Delaney
Itook a deep breath and blew out my anxiety before leaning way out on the rickety ladder, stringing white Christmas lights on the brand-spanking-new bakery sign that readLanie’s.
“You need a few more lights on the left,” my best friend Marsden shouted up to me. Mars had been my ride-or-die ever since we’d met the first day of pastry school in NYC. We’d been inseparable—and probably insufferable—ever since.
Overhead, I wound the string of lights around the baby blue sign, praying to goodness I didn’t overreach and fall. I certainly couldn’t afford a broken leg right now. I was up to my eyeballs in bills as it was. Turns out opening a bakery is an expensive proposition. Not to mention a huge-ass risk.
I never would have been able to pull it off without the inheritance my mom left me when she died earlier this year. And that’s why I moved back to my hometown of Peachtree Grove, Georgia, and was on a creaky ladder in the middle of Main Street, freezing my tail off.
“How’s that?” I asked. “And hurry up, my arms are killing me.”
Mars chuckled. “You should hit the gym more often. Looks good, though.”
Relieved, I climbed down the ladder, happy to be back on solid ground.
“All this manual labor is making me tired,” Mars said, sighing. “Let’s give the new espresso machine a test run.”
“What areyoutired from? You’re just standing around directing, I’m the one doing all the actual work.” I elbowed him in his bony ribcage.
“Yeah, but I’m tired just watching you.” He threw his arm around me as we walked into my new favorite place in the world, my bakery.
I loved everything about this space—the huge picture windows letting in tons of natural light, the white marble counter with the perfect amount of grey veining, the shiplap wall displaying the chalkboard menu, the shiny new silver appliances in the back, just itching to be utilized. Hot tears sprang to my eyes as I looked around, taking it all in.
“Aww, sugar, what’s wrong?” Mars asked, his deep brown eyes clouded with concern.
I swiped at my face, brushing the tears away. “Nothing. It’s just, every time I come in here, I think of my mom. This never could have happened without her.”
Mars hugged me, encircling me in a warm, fierce embrace. “She helped you on your path, Delaney, but your hard work made it happen. Now don’t eff it up. I didn’t come all the way down here to help you open this bakery for nothing.” He grinned at me, and I had to laugh.
“Thanks, Mars. That’s just the kick in the sentimental pants I needed. Now let’s fire up that espresso machine.”
* * *
Four lattes later, Mars and I were good and hyped. We spent the rest of the afternoon ordering supplies, assembling tables and chairs for the café, finalizing and printing our first menu, and rolling out dough. By five o’clock, we were spent.
“Go home, Mars,” I said, patting his shoulder with a floured hand. “I can transfer the rest of this dough to the fridge.”
“I know,” he said. “But we only have,” he glanced down at his watch, “forty-eight hours before opening day. And there’s so much more to do!” He groaned as he scanned the To-Do list that seemed to keep growing.
“You’re no good to me exhausted,” I said, hand on hip. “Scoot. I have to make an appearance at family dinner tonight anyway, so I’m not going to be here much longer, either. Rest up, because we have a big day tomorrow. We have to pipe all the macarons and there are ten different filling flavors.”
Mars rolled his eyes at me. “Macarons. I’m glad I don’t live in Paris. Those things are torture. You should probably scratch them from your menu before people get a taste.”
I giggled, shaking my head. “Not a chance. They’re my specialty. They’ll probably be our top seller.”
“Only if I’m lucky. When I openmybakery, that is one item that won’t be on the menu, guaranteed.” Mars shrugged out of his navy apron, hanging it on the brass hook. “Alright, I’m going. Don’t have any fun without me.” Kissing both my cheeks, he took off, the door tinkling closed behind him.
I worked quickly, moving dough from the countertop to cookie sheets, then to the industrial-sized refrigerator.
Tinkle-tinkle.
The front door rang, signaling a customer.
“We’re not open for business yet!” I called out, setting down a cookie sheet and brushing my hands on the sky-blue apron. Annoyed at the interruption, I swiped a lock of hair out of my face before pushing the door open with my shoulder.
“Umph!”
