Chapter One
Love is baking made visible.
That’s what Regan Callahan’s grandmother always told her when they’d bake together. Regan would stand up on one of her grandma’s kitchen chairs so she could reach the counter, her own little pink apron with the ruffles tied around her waist. She’d help Grandma frost cupcakes or ice cookies or sprinkle powdered sugar onto lemon bars. They were always baking something. From the time Regan was old enough to help, they were always baking something.
What had made her think about that now?
She searched her memory banks and realized quickly it was the last step in the rustic cherry tarts she’d made: the gentle sprinkle of powdered sugar. She tipped some into the small mesh strainer, then tapped the side of it softly against her hand over each of the tarts. Just a little. Too much would get sticky and clumpy and make things too sweet. Too little and, well, why even bother, what would be the point? It needed to be just right. Enough to show up and give the tarts a little extra zhuzh, as her roommate Kiki would say.
“Those are beautiful. My God, you’re an artist.” Billy Jergenson, owner of Sweet Temptations Bakery and Regan’s boss for the past four years, spoke softly, just above a whisper. It was as if he was afraid of breaking some spell Regan had cast, some magical cherry tart wizardry floating around in a sparkly, sugary haze in the kitchen.
“You always say that,” she said and glanced up at him with a grin.
Billy was tall and lean like a runner, and at sixty-three, he was still very attractive. He often joked about how he used to turn all theheads at the men’s bars in the eighties, but Regan knew he probably still would. He had a dancer’s body, a full head of silvery hair, and only recently had a tiny bit of a bulge start to appear around his middle. Less gym time, a slowing metabolism, and more sampling of the goods in his shop, Regan surmised, but happily. If the owner loved your stuff, you were in good shape, right?
“I say it because it’s true,” Billy went on. “Those are gorgeous. You went with the rustic. Good call. They have so much more personality than the traditional tarts.” He picked up one of the two trays and took it out to the front display case where the tarts would live until sold.
So…where they’ll live until about five o’clock tonight, Regan thought with a tiny burst of ego.
She surveyed the remaining tray. Billy was right. Her rustic tarts didn’t sit in a simple round dish like traditional ones. They didn’t have simple crimped crust edges and cherry pie filling inside. No, sir. Hers had fresh cherries that she’d cooked down with a little brandy until they were thick and sweet and syrupy and had a lovely, shiny gloss to them. Her crust was wraparound, flaky and buttery, and it had taken her almost a year to get the method of folding just right. And when they came out of the oven, all bubbly and hot, they were irresistible.
Serves one, gone in about five bites.
Her mouth was watering now, so she slid one off the tray as Billy returned for it, and he gave her a knowing smile. “Save me a bite,” he tossed over his shoulder as he bumped through the swinging door.
“I make no promises,” she called back and dug a fork into the tart, wishing she had warmed it up first. They had to cool completely before the dusting of sugar or it would melt and run and look messy, but they really were best when hot from the oven. But still…she made a humming sound of approval as she chewed the bite. Oh, yeah. They were fabulous.
Billy came back into the kitchen, and she held up a fork for him. “Sold two already,” he said, cutting into the tart and then making very similar sounds as he chewed. He pointed at her with the fork. “I’m telling you. Artiste.” Then he made a chef’s kiss gesture and headed into the back where his office was, leaving Regan with her fork and the rest of the tart. Which she finished easily, happily, and with pride.
It was after two in the afternoon, and she’d been there since before five, so she was ready to punch out. She tossed her flour/eggwhite/batter-covered apron into the laundry bag in the back and got her stuff out of her locker. Then she changed from her ratty flour/egg white/batter-covered Nikes into her newer ones and, not for the first time—or the last—wondered at the hot pink Crocs her coworker Kiley wore. Regan had been very vocal about never being caught dead in a pair of Crocs, let alone hot pink ones, but her aching arches put thoughts in her head, visions of a fun white pair. Or maybe red. With—what were those little decorations called? Giblets? Goblins?—shaped like a rolling pin or a whisk or a layer cake. And then reality set back in because if she ever gave in, she would never, ever hear the end of it from Kiki. Her roommate was a nurse and lived in her Crocs, and the harassment Regan would have to endure would be the endless kind. Probably funny, but also endless.
With a sigh, she swung her backpack over her shoulder, waved goodbye to the staff that remained to man the bakery until it closed at nine, then peeked in Billy’s office. He was on the phone and glanced up at her as he spoke.
She waved and stage-whispered, “Good night, sweet prince.”
He grinned and waved her on.
She was going to miss the 2:34 subway, so she waited for the next one, plugging her wired headphones in since she hadn’t been able to find her AirPods and hadn’t wanted to wake up her roommates by rifling noisily through the apartment at three in the morning. Once in her seat, she settled in for the hour-long ride that would get her to within a handful of blocks of her tiny Brooklyn apartment. Luckily, the April weather was free of rain and not freezing, so the walk was no big.
She was the first one home, which was often the case. Both her roommates were nurses at New York Presbyterian, and currently, Kiki was on the day shift and Brian was working some funky shift with a surgeon, so they were both gone. Kiki would be back around dinnertime, and Brian would follow an hour or two later. And while Regan had grown to love her roomies—they were the best friends she had here in the city—she also loved whenever she got their tiny place to herself.
Arms full of three days of mail, because Regan was the only one who ever thought to empty the mailbox, she climbed up to their third-floor apartment. Her legs chose that moment to let her know just how tired they were, and once inside, she collapsed onto the worn couchbefore she even set anything down, mail and her backpack taking seats with her. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
She heard King Arthur’s purring before she felt his featherlight steps on the back of the couch, and she turned her head to meet his clear green eyes. “Hi, Artie. Tell me about your day. How were things at the office?”
He bumped his head against hers, and she let go of the mail to reach up and give him a scratch. It slid to the floor where she left it. Artie’s purring changed to a little chirp. “Oh, yeah? Did you have to fire anybody today?” He climbed gently down onto her shoulder, then chest, and settled his petite gray and white form into her lap. “Oh, buddy, I haven’t even set my stuff down yet.” The cat looked up at her with those eyes—the eyes that had won her over when she’d found him near the dumpster behind the bakery—and she just didn’t have the heart to move him. Plus, he was warm and soft and his purr was so relaxing…
The next time she opened her eyes, Kiki’s nose was practically touching hers, and she jumped in surprise, making a startled little gasping noise and sending Artie flying off her lap to hide under a chair.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I thought you were dead!”Kiki’s big blue eyes were wide, and that was saying something, considering she had the biggest eyes of anybody Regan knew.
Regan pressed a hand to her chest and gaped at her roommate. “Why the hell would you think that?”
Kiki straightened up and folded her arms across her tall frame. She still wore her blue scrubs and light gray Crocs, her blond hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail, and she arched an eyebrow as she gave Regan a poignant scan.
Regan looked down at herself, still wearing a jacket, backpack on the couch next to her still with one strap looped over her arm, shoes still on her feet, mail scattered on the floor around them. She shot Kiki a sheepish, crooked grin. “Ah. I see. I must’ve fallen asleep.”
Kiki snorted and blew out what was likely a relieved breath. “You think? I was ready to start CPR, for fuck’s sake.”
