Gluten for Punishment (5 page)

Oh, that was sweet. I was such an idiot. “I’m looking forward to it.” I stood when
they did. “What time?”

“Be at the house around 8
P.M.
” Before I could protest, she added, “I know the bakery is open until nine. Carrie
said she could work then and close up for you.”

“That sounds great.” Huh. I couldn’t decide if I was flattered Tasha had arranged
for Carrie to stay or annoyed that Carrie had known about the relationship before
me. I chose flattered since I’d been silly enough today. “Good to see you again, Craig.”

I wanted to add,
If you hurt glowing Tasha and make her all un-glowing, I am going to have to hurt
you
. But I kept it to myself. He didn’t look like he was about to hurt her anytime soon;
there was something about the sweet, smitten look in his eyes.

I hoped, for Tasha’s and Kip’s sake, this one really did work out. As for me, I wasn’t
going down that road again.

Ever. Eric had broken me. I doubted I would ever again believe that what I thought
was love was real. You see, to fall in love, you had to trust more than just the man
you were with. You had to trust that you weren’t fooling yourself. And if I were to
be brutally honest, I doubt I would ever trust myself again. I mean, if Eric could
fool me for five years, what could someone else do? No. I couldn’t trust that what
I thought was love really was. I could never trust my own heart again.

CHAPTER
5

T
he online orders were prepped to ship, the sky was dark, and it was me and Bon Jovi
on my mp3 player. Carrie had gone home a half hour before. I should have been ready
to drop after a long day and the even longer ribbon cutting the day before, but I
was ready to dance. The bakery store hours were technically seven
A.M.
until nine
P.M.
, but I was being way too generous. In winter, the streets of a small town rolled
up by eight. Now just past that hour, I was dancing to the music as I pulled the coffee
carafes off the bar. Time to take them in the back and give them a good cleaning.

The door jangle startled me and I glanced over to see a gorgeous man of about six-foot-two
step inside my shop. He wore a cowboy hat, which he promptly took off. His dark brown
hair was thick and wavy with the right touch of gray at the temples. He had a square
jaw, a generous mouth, a straight nose, and dark brown eyes that seemed to look right
through me.

I swallowed and blinked. This must be a hallucination, another reaction to yesterday’s
flour bomb, because I’d never seen a man that handsome in real life. I mean, they
didn’t exist. Santa existed. Fairies existed, heck, unicorns existed, but not men
who looked like this . . .

He stared at me. I stared back, my mouth dry. He wore a rancher’s jacket made of denim
outside and faux shearling inside, a dress shirt in some blue stripe, and jeans. Right.
Jeans molded to him like a man who took care of his body and anything else he thought
was his. Boy, did he take good care.

I refused to swoon. After all, I was hallucinating, right?

“Hey.”

Well, hell, even his voice was nice. It had a dark sexy tone to it. “Hey,” I replied
like an idiot. I did a mental shake. If he was real, then he was a customer. “I mean,
can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so.”

I clutched the coffee carafes to my chest and retreated behind the nearly empty display
case. He smiled at me. Not a sexy crooked smile. Not a flirty smile, but the smile
of a man who was desperate. Hmm, maybe he was real. “I need something to serve at
a party.”

He walked up to the counter, hat in hand. In his dark eyes I saw intelligence, surrounded
by crinkles from the sun and possibly laughter. A man who worked and laughed. Damn.

I put the carafes down and grabbed a pad and pen. “When’s the party?”

He glanced at his watch. “Now.” He looked back at me and ducked his head a bit, then
turned on the sexy smile. “It’s been one of those days.”

I bet he’d practiced his smile from birth. “What kind of dessert did you have in mind?”

“I’m not picky and neither are my grandma and her friends.”

“Your grandma?” The thought of this good-looking man bringing his grandma dessert
had me melting.

“Yes, you see, my grandma fell on the steps of her porch today and twisted her ankle.”

“Oh, no. . . .”

“She’s fine. Doc says it was only a sprain, but her friends came over and a poker
game broke out and they sent me to get party food.” He ran the rim of his hat through
his fingers. “I was on my way to the Dillon’s Grocery when I saw your sign and I stopped.”
He glanced at the nearly empty display case and winced. “I guess I’m too late. . . .”

“Oh, no, I have more in the back,” the salesman in me piped up. In the back of my
mind I was processing senior ladies playing poker and trying to figure out what kind
of dessert to recommend. “Are there any food allergies I need to be aware of?”

“I’m sorry?” He pulled his thick brows together and looked at me as if I spoke a foreign
language.

“My specialty is allergy-safe foods.” I pointed to the gluten-free flours on the shelf.

“Oh.” His face fell a little.

“No, no,” I reassured him. “It’s all really good.” I reached down and grabbed a small
cheesecake square out of the taster tray I kept filled. “Here, try.”

He looked skeptical but desperate enough to try anything. Until he popped the small
square in his mouth; his eyes grew wide and a seductive-as-hell smile broke out on
his face. “Wow! That’s good!”

“Thanks.” I beamed. I couldn’t help it. There was something heartwarming about having
a hot guy taste your food and love it. “How many are at the party?”

“Let’s see, there are four tables of four plus the dealers . . .”

“Dealers?”

His mouth went flat. “Gram’s serious about her poker.” The corner of his mouth twitched.

“We’re talking approximately twenty people?”

“Give or take.”

“Great, how about sample platters?”

“Will they have more of those cheesecake pieces?”

“Certainly, I have cheesecake, brownies, pumpkin tarts, and caramel apple tarts. How
does that sound?”

“How fast can you put them together?” His eyes flashed and the corners of his mouth
lifted.

“Less than five minutes.” I poured him a complimentary cup of coffee. “Here, drink
this while you wait.” I scooted back into the kitchen and pulled together four platters,
boxed them in thin pizza-shaped boxes, and brought them out to the front.

“You’ve saved the day.” He paid me. “Do you take tips?”

“Oh, no,” I said and handed him his change. “But it would really help me if you could
put one of my cards by each platter.” I handed him my fancy business cards. “Then
the ladies will know where to come to buy more.”

He picked up the cards. “Baker’s Treat . . . wait, weren’t you the one in the newspaper
yesterday?”

I looked down and waited for the floor to swallow me whole. It didn’t. “Um . . .”

“Oh, Gram is gonna love this. Thank you. Like I said, you made my day.” He plopped
his cowboy hat on his head, winked at me, and walked out into the darkness.

I crumpled against the back counter as I let my knees go weak at the memory of his
wink. It was a fun and flirty little moment, and I enjoyed it. It didn’t hurt to enjoy
it. It wasn’t like I was going to date him or anything. Still, he was pretty in a
very rough-hewn way. I walked to the door to lock up, caught a whiff of his cologne,
and tried not to think about how long it had been since I’d felt a little zing in
my veins. No wonder Tasha glowed.

• • •

I
was still thinking about the hot cowboy the next morning as I blasted Matchbox Twenty
and Rob Thomas songs through the bakery and turned on the ovens in the back. At five-thirty
A.M.,
I was filling the display cabinet when I thought I heard a noise outside. I went
to the window and peered out, but Main Street was dead quiet. The sculpture of the
cowboy across the street had his hand on his Stetson, his brass coat swirling around
his boots. On the next block were a pair of Victorian ladies, their bronze heads tipped
together, arms full of packages. On my side of the street was a horse sculpture, and
in front of my store was a replica of a horse trough and a tying post. It gave Main
Street a ghost-town feel at night. Every twenty feet were replica gaslights, the pools
of light braving through the darkness, leaving too much in shadow.

Not seeing anything, I shrugged and went back to work. By seven, the sun had started
to come up and I was ready for anyone wanting to stop by for breakfast or to grab
a box of pastries for work. I opened the shades on the door, unlocked it, then stepped
out to collect the bundle of Wichita newspapers I offered my early patrons.

It was then I noticed the horse trough had arms and legs dangling out of it. Weird.
I glanced around, but only a single pickup rumbled down the street. Biting my bottom
lip, I debated for a moment about getting out my cell phone. I mean, if the person
snoozing in the horse trough were a drunk it might not be the smartest idea to approach
him alone and unarmed . . . so to speak.

“Hello?” I called out. The sound of my voice echoed against the buildings. Nothing.
I chewed on the inside of my mouth and glanced at my watch. Really, the last thing
I needed was some liquored-up guy hanging out in front of my bakery door.

I got brave. After all, this was small-town Kansas, not downtown Chicago. I took a
deep breath and marched over to the trough. The arms and legs belonged to a man, facedown
in the trough. The trough wasn’t filled, but it tended to catch rainwater, which meant
face-first was probably not a great idea.

“You can’t sleep here,” I said stopping close enough to see he wore a long rancher’s
coat. His cowboy hat covered his face and there was a can of red spray paint on the
ground next to his hand. “Hey!”

My gaze went from the can on the sidewalk to my front façade, where red spray paint
scrawled across the bricks. It read, I
N THE SWEAT OF THY FACE, THOU SHALT EAT BREAD . . .

“Damn it!”

I stormed inside the building, plopped the papers on the counter, and grabbed my cell
phone.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“This is Toni Holmes, down at Baker’s Treat on Main. I’ve got more vandalism and a
drunk sleeping in the horse trough. Can you send out a patrol car?”

“One moment.” There was a pause and I went to the door and glared at the drunk. Whether
he liked it or not, he had been caught red-handed. “A patrol car is on its way, Ms.
Holmes.”

“Thank you.” My heart pounded in my chest loud enough I could barely hear a thing.

“Where are you, Ms. Holmes?”

“I’m currently standing in the doorway to the bakery.”

“Good, please stay there and stay on the phone until we get there,” dispatch said.
“It’s for your own safety.”

“You mean the safety of the drunk,” I said. “Because this really pisses me off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” dispatch said.

A tan sedan parked in front of the bakery. My brother’s school friend, John Emerson,
got out. “Hey, Toni, what’s going on?”

“I’m waiting for a patrol car.” It took a lot of work not to stomp my foot. “I’ve
got a bit of a thing . . .” I waved toward the trough. “Oiltop Police are on their
way. Come on in and pour yourself some coffee. As soon as they get here, I’ll come
in and get you a pastry.”

John stopped next to me and assessed the situation. “Darn fool vandals. You want me
to rouse him out from the trough?” He nodded at the sleeping man.

“No thanks, dispatch says not to touch anything.” I pointed at my cell phone.

John nodded his bald head and pulled the phone from my hand. “Hey, Sarah, how are
you? Yep, that’s what it looks like.” His dark eyes twinkled at me. “Want me to bring
you a couple of those apple turnovers? Will do. Here you go.” He handed the cell back
to me. “Sarah wants two of the apple turnovers to go.”

“Sarah?”

“Hey, Toni.” The dispatcher sounded less professional. “It’s Sarah Hogginboom. I was
two grades down from you in school. John brought me some of your turnovers the other
day. They were great.”

“Um, thanks.” I shook my head. Another car pulled up and two women dressed in nurse’s
uniforms got out. “Listen, I have customers . . .”

“Keep them away from the vandal,” Sarah said. “You should be able to hear the sirens
now.”

In fact, now that she mentioned it, police sirens were echoing down Main Street as
the car turned off of Central and onto Main.

“What’s going on?” one of the two women asked.

“Nothing to worry about.” I opened the door wider. “Come on in and help yourself to
coffee. It’s free this morning.” Hopefully free coffee would keep people coming through
the door instead of hanging around watching the cops haul away a drunk.

Both women smiled and went inside as the patrol cruiser screeched to a halt in front
of the bakery.

“You can hang up now,” Sarah said. “But don’t let John forget the turnovers.”

I pressed End on my phone and watched Barney Fife step out of the patrol car. I swear,
the officer looked like the character on the old Andy Griffith show my mother used
to love. He was a thin man in a blue uniform who sniffed and hitched up his heavy
gun belt and walked over to me.

“What exactly is the problem here?” he asked, his voice cracking.

I tried to place him, to see if I knew him from school, but I couldn’t get the Barney
Fife thoughts out of my head. “Hi, I’m Toni Holmes. This is my bakery and that”—I
pointed toward the arms and legs sticking out of the brass trough—“seems to be a drunk
guy who was attempting to vandalize my shop.”

I made an exaggerated motion toward the spray can on the ground and then the red paint
on the brick front of my store.

“I see.” The officer hitched up his pants and stared at the drunk. Not that I blamed
him. The guy appeared to be twice the size of the officer.

“Maybe you should call for backup?” I asked.

He shot me a look of disgust. “I’m a trained officer of the law. I can handle this.”
Then he hitched his gun belt again and took three steps toward the drunk. “All right,”
he said, “fun’s over. Get out of the trough.”

The wind blew and rustled the guy’s coat, but the drunk didn’t move.

Officer Fife, as I thought of him, had red creeping up his thin pale neck. His giant
Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny neck. “I said, show’s over, pal. Get out of the
trough.” He took out his nightstick and poked the drunk on the back. The guy didn’t
stir.