twinkle lights that glowed steadily through the night were still on. The Valentine’s Day Decorating Committee met companionably at The Pickle Jar Deli for an early breakfast and a lively debate about whether to hang cupids or giant red hearts from the corner street lamps. And, next door to the deli, Willa Holmes opened the doors to Something Sweet, the bakery she’d been managing for the past two months. Her morning regulars typically arrived shortly after she flipped the “Done for the Day” sign to the side that announced, “Yep, Open.”
Now, at precisely 6:32 a.m., Willa was at work behind the counter.
“Can I tempt you with a fresh Danish this morning, Mrs. Wittenberg?” She smiled at the tiny woman whose white curls bobbed just above the top of the glass pastry case. “They’re still warm from the oven.”
Baking since 3:00 a.m., Willa appreciated the early start time of her new job. The wee hours of the morning used to be for sleep or, back when she was first married, for lovemaking, but now she found late night and early morning to be the most difficult parts of her day. There was too much quiet time to think. And to remember.
Having breads to proof, cookies to shape and food costs to calculate provided relief from the thoughts that kept her awake at night. Her only coworker in the morning was Norman Bluehorse, who was either fortyish or sixtyish—it was seriously hard to tell—and who worked with earbuds in place and spoke only when he needed to ask or to answer a direct question. A few years ago that might not have suited Willa, but these days she appreciated Norman’s unspoken you-mind-your-business-and-I’ll-mind-mine policy.
Short on sleep due to the early morning and a restless night, she tried not to yawn. Mrs. Wittenberg peered closely at her.
“Sweetheart,” the older woman said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but is your red hair natural? I’m thinking about having a makeover. I used to have beautiful long hair, too. It fell out during The Change. Did you bake anything new this morning?”
Actually I think of my hair as light auburn...yes, it’s natural... Your hair is lovely as it is...the pomegranate-orange bread is new. Willa only had time to think her responses before Mrs. W moved on to a new question or comment. This was their ritual six mornings a week. Mrs. W chattered brightly, examined every potential selection in the pastry case, then chose the very same thing she’d chosen the day before and the day before that—two lemon cloud Danishes and one large molasses snap to go.
“I added a touch of ginger to the lemon clouds today,” Willa told the older woman, whose pursed lips were carefully lined and filled with a creamy rose shade even at this hour of the morning. “I think you’ll like them.”
Mrs. Wittenberg wagged her prettily coiffed head. “I don’t know, dear. I think possibly I should choose something different this morning. It’s a very special day.”
“Oh?” Before Willa could ask why, the door opened to admit her second customer of the morning. A zing of pure adrenaline shot through her veins with such force, she actually felt weak. While Mrs. W tapped her upper lip, trying to make a selection, Willa’s attention turned to the six-foot-two-inch sheriff of Thunder Ridge.
She hadn’t interacted in any meaningful way with Derek Neel for the past couple of months, except to greet him and fill his order in the morning. She’d seen him around town, too, of course—he was fairly hard to miss, patrolling Thunder Ridge’s wood-planked sidewalks on foot, or making the rounds of the broad streets in his squad car. He didn’t just work in town, he lived here. Two weeks ago, she’d bumped into him in the cereal aisle of Hank’s Thunderbird Market on a Monday night at 9:00 p.m. Impossible to ignore each other when you were shoulder to shoulder, contemplating breakfast. He’d smiled easily, asked if she thought “instant triple berry oatmeal” sounded good and then tossed the box into his cart after she’d replied that, sure, it was worth a try (which had been a total lie, because instant oatmeal was an abomination of the real thing and never a good idea). While he’d strolled off, she had remained rooted to her spot in the aisle like the proverbial deer in headlights, her thoughts rushed and confused, her emotions in turmoil.
Fact: she and the handsome sheriff had almost...almost...gotten to know each other in the biblical sense on one crazy, ill-advised night two-and-a-half months ago. It had been one of those evenings when sitting with her own thoughts had seemed painful, practically impossible. She’d been filling in for a sick waitress at The Pickle Jar, next door, and when a couple of the other servers mentioned they were heading to the White Lightning Tavern for a beer and a burger, she’d invited herself along.
Derek had been there, dining with Izzy Lambert Thayer, who co-owned both The Pickle Jar, where Willa had worked as a server when she’d first arrived in town, and the bakery Something Sweet. Izzy’s new husband, Nate, had arrived at one point, and when he and Izzy got up to dance to The Louisiana Lovers, a visiting country western band, Derek had approached Willa’s table and asked her if she would mind dancing with someone likely to two-step all over her toes. His eyes had sparkled, his lips had curved in good-humored self-deprecation, his open palm had hovered, steady as a rock, in front of her. He had made it so easy for her to say yes. So easy to laugh as they’d danced (and he hadn’t stepped on her toes once). Easy to walk out the door with him later that evening, and easy—shockingly easy—to forget everything but the feeling of strong arms wrapped around her back as he’d kissed her.
Now, as Derek stepped into line behind Mrs. Wittenberg, he filled the small bakery with his bigger-than-life presence, neat and handsome in a crisply ironed beige uniform, his thick black hair still damp from a shower. Charcoal eyes met hers.
Just to prove she didn’t have a cool or sophisticated bone in her entire body, heat instantly filled Willa’s face.
Ducking her head, she refocused on the woman in front of her. “So what’s the special occasion, Mrs. Wittenberg?”
Blue eyes, pink cheeks, and the tiniest, straightest teeth Willa had ever seen, beamed with pleasure. “Mr. Wittenberg and I are celebrating our fiftieth anniversary today.”
“Oh. Oh...” Wow. A stab of pure, unadulterated envy caught Willa off-guard. “That’s—”
Amazing. A gift. A reminder that life does not deal equally with everyone.
“Wonderful. That’s really, really wonderful. Are you celebrating with a party?”
“No, dear. Our children wanted to, but Mr. Wittenberg and I have decided on a quiet time at home. Just the two of us. We’re going to take an early walk along the river. We got engaged there. This morning, we’re going to visit the very same spot. There’s a little rock shaped like a chair. I sat on it while Mr. Wittenberg got down on one knee and proposed.”
It was impossible not to be swept along on the tide of Mrs. W’s pleasure and anticipation.
“Are you going to reenact the proposal?” Willa grinned as Mrs. W nodded vigorously.
“That’s the plan.” She giggled like a little girl. “Afterward, we’ll walk back home, have a leisurely breakfast... And then I’m going to take that man into the bedroom and seduce him.”
Willa’s smile froze on her face. Her gaze shot to the sheriff. He was watching her. One eyebrow, as midnight black as his hair, arched in devilish humor.
“Do you have something sexy I could serve?” Mrs. Wittenberg continued. “The Food Network says breakfast can be a potent aphrodisiac.”
The mischief in the sheriff’s expression flared to a broad grin. A very sexy broad grin.
Alrighty. Willa looked at the pastries she’d baked with fresh appreciation. Up until now, the most interesting question she’d fielded was, Do you make gluten-free strudel?
“A sexy breakfast, hmm?” she said. “I have a chocolate chip babka Mr. Wittenberg might enjoy.” She pointed to a tall, dome-shaped breakfast bread filled to bursting with chopped chocolate and cinnamon sugar.
Mrs. Wittenberg eyed the coffee cake. “It looks good.” Her penciled brows knit together. “I don’t know if it’s sexy enough,