The Alpha And The Baker

5

“No. All the layers for all three cakes were in there,” she said, wiping her eyes bitterly. “I know she couldn’t help it, but

I’m so mad!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I said as she burst into tears. Being a teenager was hard enough, but being one in a wolf pack came with so many extra hurdles. “It’s perfectly understandable to be upset, even angry. Do you want some comfort right now or space to process?”

“Hug!” she blurted, and I wrapped my arms around her, squeezing just hard enough to be comforting. I let my inner wolf rumble through my chest, figuring the young woman could use the extra soothing.

“It’s okay, Melodie. You’re all right. Let yourself feel whatever you gotta feel, and then we’ll figure out what to do.” “Can we start from scratch?” Saoirse asked. She looked less upset than Melodie, but she wasn’t exactly happy.

“There’s not enough time for that, especially not with all the layers needing cooling,” Auntie Letitia said matter-of-factly.

“But that’s all right. There won’t be any less bounty, and we can just make twice as many cakes next time!” “Okay…” Saoirse said in a thick, high-pitched voice that told me it was absolutely not okay.

It was a trivial matter, but I couldn’t help but think of how awful Arietty would feel once she was human again and understood what happened. Was it just cake? Sure. Would we live without it? Yes. But it felt a bit like a rain cloud over what was supposed to be a very sunny day for us.

I chewed on my lip a little as I contemplated what to do. Maybe we couldn’t have the delicious, light, and fluffy cakes everyone admired Aunt Letitia for, but surely that didn’t mean we couldn’t get any cake anywhere, right?

“Letitia, did you already make the rhubarb jam and the cream?”

“Sure did. The jars are in the fridge. I was just about to pull the jam out to get it to room temp.”

“All right, I’m gonna need those.” Once Melodie was done hugging me, that was. I wasn’t planning on ending the embrace until she was ready.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna go find us some cake.”

Felicia

Meet Cute

Due: $229.23

Due: $568.34

Past Due: $103.94

Due: $44.99

I SIGHED AS I LOOKED OVER THE STACK OF BILLS FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME AND DID THE MENTAL MATH TO FIGURE OUT HOW I was going to pay them. When the number I came up with wasn’t all that encouraging, I checked my online ordering platform again, hoping against hope that someone had used it in the ten minutes since I had last checked it.

But no, there were no online orders. There likely wouldn’t be any today, just like there hadn’t been the day before, or the week before, or the week before that. In fact, the last online order had been nearly a month earlier, and I doubted it would change anytime soon.

I really needed to step up my online presence, but I often found myself at a loss with social media. I tried my best, but more often than not it felt like I was throwing money into an endless abyss, which wasn’t exactly encouraging.

But I had to try. If things didn’t change soon, I wouldn’t be able to keep the doors of my bakery open for much longer. I’d already whittled down the morning prep by seventy-five percent for all days except Sunday, so there wasn’t much else I could eliminate. Point blank, I wasn’t selling enough, and I wasn’t selling enough because I didn’t have enough customers.

The thing is, once I got people in, they tended to become regulars or at least come to me for anything they needed for special occasions. Getting people here was the issue. Between so many folks having to cut back on everything and the proliferation of convenience baked goods a la Starbucks and Dunkin, independent bakeries were struggling more than ever. Especially newer ones.

“Let’s not linger on this for now,” I told myself as I pushed the bills aside and took a deep breath. I knew four out of five restaurants failed within their first few years, but I’d been so determined to make it. It stung my pride that after just nine months, I was already failing.

Not that life had exactly been easy for me.

No, in fact, it had probably been the hardest year of my life. And that was saying something considering I was a firstgeneration American raised by my widowed, immigrant mother after my father had died back home.

“First things first, let’s warm up the ovens.”

I went about doing that, then pulled out the prepped dough and ingredients from the fridge. I was a stickler for never leaving things to the last minute, so I had a strict schedule for what I needed to make after the shop closed and what needed to be done in the morning before it opened. As I worked, I fell into a familiar rhythm.

Well, a somewhat familiar rhythm. It was the first full month I was back at it since⁠— Since my mother died.

I swallowed hard as I set up the multiple food scales. It wasn’t like I was trying to forget laying the last family member I had in America to rest, but sometimes, I needed a reprieve from that pain. A tiny moment to breathe easier without the knife buried in my heart. But baking was a double-edged sword that way. While it filled me with warm memories, happiness, and a sort of peace I couldn’t find anywhere else, it also reminded me of the wonderful woman who had always believed in me, supported me, and was with me every step of making my dreams come true. God, I missed her.

My eyes began to burn like they always did before a sobfest, and I tried to breathe through it. While I knew it wasn’t healthy to bottle up my emotions, this wasn’t really the time or the place for a breakdown. I could do that after the shop closed.

I’d spend the evening crying my heart out and drowning my sorrows in ice cream. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan.

“Come on, Felicia. Chin up.”

I’d developed the habit of talking to myself a lot in the past year, if only because it sometimes got so lonely in the bakery. It hadn’t been that way at first. My mother would often stop by to read a book and munch on a croissant, or simply to rest her feet on her walks. But as she became sicker and those stupid tumors spread to her lymph nodes, then her brain, she eventually grew too weak to leave her house. She’d gone into hospice care not long after that, and then far too soon, she was gone.

And I was alone.

Enough of that!

I would wallow in my ice cream later. Maybe I would even pore over old photo albums of the two of us and let myself reminisce about happier times—not easier, because boy, had they been fraught, but they definitely had been happier.

But I could make my own happiness in time. And although my mother was gone and I missed her so much it physically hurt, she would always be with me. Her very presence was in the walls of the place, her laughter sometimes echoing through the space. She was in the paint she’d picked out, in the songs I hummed to myself while cleaning. She was in the photos on the walls, and she was in my business degree that I’d fought so hard to get. She was still a vital and beloved part of my life.

I just had to remember that whenever the burden got too heavy.

And that was why I couldn’t let the business fail. If I lost it, I would be losing her.

Again.

With newfound determination, I concentrated on finishing all my morning prep. It was a long list of things to do, although not as long as it had been when I first opened and expected larger crowds. Now, my morning display of goods was more modest—some donuts, bagels, croissants, and scones. No breakfast pizza, no fresh baguettes, no pumpernickel or rye. I would have some of those available later, but usually only one or two of each.