𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝟏𝟖

The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and warm sugar filled the bakery as I moved around the kitchen, methodically baking and prepping the day's orders. My hands worked quickly, a rhythm I'd built over years of perfecting every recipe in this place.

The sound of a whisk scraping against the side of the bowl mixed with the hum of the ovens. Today was busy, but not overwhelming, and I liked it that way. The rush of baking always brought me a certain kind of calm, like my hands knew exactly what to do even when my mind was cluttered.

I pulled out a tray of golden-brown raspberry scones, the tops glistening with a light dusting of sugar. The marble countertop gleamed under the bakery lights, catching the soft light as I placed each scone on the cooling rack.

Every surface in the shop was spotless, just how I liked it. Everything had its place, neat and organized. I was in control here, even if everything outside of this bakery felt like it was spinning out of control.

As I mixed the batter for the next batch of orders, the phone rang, cutting through the quiet. The landline, mounted to the wall, flashed its red light. I wiped my hands on a dish towel, letting out a small sigh before reaching over to pick it up.

"Hi, thanks for calling Sweets. How may I help you?" I said, my voice professional, and sweet—exactly how it was supposed to sound when dealing with customers.

But instead of hearing a typical order or question about our hours, there was a brief pause, followed by a low chuckle and the sound of someone sipping something on the other end. My stomach dropped, recognizing the voice before he even spoke.

"You sound so happy. You were giving me so much attitude yesterday."

Davis. Of course.

I rolled my eyes even though he couldn't see it. His teasing voice grated on my nerves, the smugness practically dripping through the receiver.

"Listen, if this is not about a court date or a take-out order, do not call this line." My voice was sharp, and I meant every word. This was my sanctuary, my space. I wasn't about to let him invade it with his games.

There was a moment of silence before he spoke again, unfazed as usual. "Court is in two days," he reminded me, his voice casual like we were chatting about the weather. "And while I'm on the line, I'd like a caramel apple cupcake, Ms. Kingston."

I huffed, my patience wearing thin. "Okay, your order will be ready in five minutes, clown," I shot back before slamming the receiver back onto its hook. The audacity of this man.

I turned back to my work, shaking off the annoyance that clung to me like flour dust. Washing my hands, I tried to refocus. My fingers moved deftly, preparing the caramel apple cupcake he requested. Even though I hated to admit it, I took pride in every single thing I made—even for clients who got on my last nerve. The batter came together smoothly, the smell of cinnamon and baked apples filling the air as I spooned it into the cupcake liners.

While the cupcakes were baked, I whipped up the caramel frosting, watching the butter and sugar meld together into a silky-smooth texture. My movements were automatic, each step calming my frayed nerves. The swirl of the frosting onto the cupcakes was almost therapeutic, and as much as I hated to admit it, I enjoyed the process.

With the cupcakes cooling on the counter, I moved on to prepping the rest of the orders for the day. My bakery was my life—my dream come true. Every inch of it had been designed with love, from the warm wooden shelves lined with jars of ingredients to the soft pastel colors that brightened up the front of the shop.

Even the chalkboard menu on the wall, with its delicate hand-drawn script, had been carefully crafted to create a welcoming atmosphere. This place was my home, my haven, and I wasn't going to let anyone—especially Davis—get under my skin here.

I glanced at the clock, knowing Davis would probably stroll in soon to collect his order. I wanted to be ready so I could hand him his cupcake and send him on his way, with as little conversation as possible.

Just as I was placing the cupcakes into a small box, the bell above the door chimed. I didn't even have to look up to know who it was. The sound of expensive shoes clicking across the floor was unmistakable.

"Right on time," I muttered to myself, wiping my hands on my apron before turning around.

There he was, standing at the counter with that signature smirk plastered on his face. He was in a dark tailored suit, as usual, looking like he had just stepped out of a magazine spread. His eyes gleamed as he leaned casually on the counter, his presence filling the room in a way that was both irritating and impossible to ignore.

I picked up the box and placed it in front of him, making sure to keep my expression neutral. "Here's your cupcake," I said, my tone flat. "That'll be six dollars."

He chuckled, clearly amused by my cold demeanor. "You're always so... direct. I like that."

I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes at him. "Do you need anything else? Or are we done here?"

He didn't answer right away, instead leaning a little closer, his fingers brushing the edge of the counter. "You know, you really should smile more," he said softly, his voice teasing but not entirely playful. "It suits you."

I felt the irritation rise up again, but I kept it in check. "And you should really mind your own business, Davis. That suits you."

He laughed, the sound rich and full like he was genuinely enjoying himself. "Fair enough," he said, pulling out his wallet and handing me a crisp twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change."

I took the money, not bothering to say thank you, and handed him the box. "Have a nice day," I said, though my tone was anything but warm.

As he turned to leave, he paused at the door, looking over his shoulder one last time. "I'll see you in court, Ms. Kingston. Don't be late."

I rolled my eyes again as the door closed behind him, the bell chiming softly in his wake. The scent of peaches lingered in the air from his cologne, mixing with the sweet smells of the bakery.

I shook my head, moving back to the kitchen. "Clown," I muttered under my breath, already pushing the interaction to the back of my mind. There was work to be done, and I wasn't about to let Davis MacLean take up any more space in my thoughts than necessary.

But even as I went back to baking, I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corners of my lips.