This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2024 by Jasmine Guillory

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781662519833 (digital)

  Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

  Cover image: © klyaksun / Getty; © World of Vector / Shutterstock; © Oakview Studios / Shutterstock

  Daisy walked back home from the coffee shop, holding her double-shot oat milk iced mocha. The barista had drawn a little heart on top of it in honor of Valentine’s Day, which Daisy thought was a nice touch. She didn’t have a Valentine this year, so she was going to treat herself: first, with this coffee, and then she was going to take the afternoon off and do a spa day, and then she’d order in from her favorite restaurant and binge-watch all of her favorite rom-coms.

  What she was not going to do was get herself pastries from Cook’s Bakeshop. Even though they would be the perfect treat today. But no. No pastries for her today. Or doughnuts. Or, oh God, one of those little hand pies that were a different flavor every time she went in. Last week, they were nectarine with a hint of bourbon in the filling, and they were incredible. She’d love to have one of those again. But no, no, she wasn’t going to do it. The head baker had been too awful to her the last time she’d gone in. She had her pride.

  Daisy looked up at the sign outside of the bakery as she approached it. It was a huge, old-fashioned sign that just said BAKESHOP on it; it had been here as long as she could remember, far longer than Cook’s. Maybe it was some sort of historic landmark? One of the chains holding the old sign onto the building was broken; she should tell them that when she went inside.

  Wait. No. She wasn’t going inside, remember?

  She should have just gotten herself one of those pink heart-shaped cookies at the coffee shop. Maybe that would take away her temptation to go to the bakery. But the cookies at the coffee shop weren’t any good. Not like the bakery, where every single thing she’d ever had made her close her eyes and moan in ecstasy.

  She wondered what the flavors of the hand pies were today. What if they had blackberries in them? But no, she was sure they wouldn’t have blackberries in them. Last week, when she’d mentioned to the woman behind her in line that she hoped they’d have blackberry something soon because they were her absolute favorite, the owner and head baker had looked at her and actually growled. He hated her; she was sure of it. Now he’d probably never make anything with blackberries. Maybe he’d even put up a sign saying WE WILL NEVER HAVE BLACKBERRY HAND PIES, just so she’d stop coming in.

  Which she planned to do. She wasn’t going back there anymore; isn’t that what she’d just told herself? At all. Even though they had a different savory croissant every day of the week, and she thought today was the day for the country ham and brie croissant, and she loved that croissant possibly more than she loved anything in the world.

  Okay, well, maybe she would just look inside as she walked by. Just to see what they had today. Would that be so wrong?

  Yes, it would! That growl had been the straw that had broken the camel’s back. She’d been going into Cook’s Bakeshop since the first day they opened. She’d been thrilled to hear that a bakery was opening up so close to her apartment—it was just a few blocks away—and happy to support a new local, Black-owned business. At first, her walk over there a few times a week, and then her walk home, holding a bag laden with delicious-smelling pastries, had been a bright spot in her work-at-home days. That was, until she realized that the owner hated her.

  She had no idea why. Was it that she was too bright and friendly for someone as sour and rude as he was? How could anyone bake such delicious pastries and have that mean of a look on his face all the time? To be fair, bakers did have to get up super early in the morning; she’d probably be pretty irritable if she had to get up that early every day too. But it had to be more than just that. Whenever she walked inside, he would turn to look at her, and the scowl on his face got at least 50 percent scowlier. Yes, yes, some people might say “scowlier” wasn’t a word, but only someone who hadn’t seen that man scowl would say that.

  She could see him now, through the front window of the bakery, his back to her, behind the counter. She couldn’t see his face, but he was probably scowling at the wall. Rude jerk that he was.

  Rude, depressingly attractive jerk that he was. That was one of the worst things about all of this: not only were all of his baked goods mouthwateringly good but he was also incredibly hot. He had smooth, dark-brown skin and a big, solid build, probably from kneading dough all the time or something. He always wore snug T-shirts under his apron, and okay, fine, it definitely brightened her day when he had to reach up on a high shelf for bread for someone and she got to see those muscles tighten.

  Maybe he thought she was too fat to be eating his pastries? She didn’t think it was that, because the two women who worked with him in the bakery were her size or bigger. And plus, she’d seen him be really nice to a very sweet and pretty, curvy teenage girl last week who was asking him a ton of questions about his career path to becoming a baker. Daisy had expected him to snap at the teenager and order her out of his bakery, but he’d given her a free pastry and told her to come back after closing time and he’d talk to her for as long as she wanted. So it must be something about Daisy, specifically, that he hated.

  The chalkboard sign outside the bakery said that the special croissant of the day was country ham and brie. Oh God, her favorite. Couldn’t she just . . .

  No, she could not. Didn’t she remember when she’d come back to tell them that they’d accidentally given her three pastries instead of two? She went back to the bakery and tried to pay for the third one after she’d realized what had happened, but he’d just barked “Never mind!” at her and turned away. He’d made mistakes like that a bunch more times, but she never bothered to tell him anymore, even though she sort of worried that his bakery must be losing a ton of money if he was messing up that much.

  Why was she bothering to worry about him and his stupid bakery? She didn’t like him, remember? Because he hated her, and was always rude to her, and had growled at her the last time she was there! Maybe those extra pastries were because he was trying to fatten her up so he could eat her, like a fairy-tale villain. She wasn’t going back to his bakery!

  Why was she still standing on the sidewalk, staring at the chalkboard sign outside of the bakery? She should keep walking home!

  The sign didn’t say what flavor the hand pies were. That’s all she wanted to know.

  Maybe she’d simply peek through the door, just to see.

  Huh, that was weird. There was usually a line out the door, especially at this time of day, but there wasn’t today. Maybe it was because today was a weirdly hot and muggy day for the Bay Area, especially in February. Granted, it was only seventy-seven degrees, but it was supposed to get up to eighty-two later, and no one in the Bay Area knew how to deal with weather that hot, other than sitting in front of fans and eating a lot of ice cream. Daisy included herself in this; she planned to get home from this not particularly strenuous walk and drink her iced coffee in front of her fan.

  That was another reason she absolutely didn’t need to walk into the bakery. She should just walk to the next block and go to the grocery store for some ice cream or Popsicles, then go home and eat them and be happy she had them, and not stupid, delicious pastries made by a stupid, rude, hot man.

  Despite all of these many good reasons not to do so, she opened the door to the tiny bakery. Only to be confronted with completely empty bakery cases. It served her right; she’d violated her pledge and walked inside the bakery, and they didn’t even have any more baked goods. They always sold out pretty early in the day, but it was only eleven, and she didn’t think they usually sold out this early. Granted, she usually came in closer to ten, so maybe that was it?

  Oh, right. Valentine’s Day. There must have been a run on the bakery for pastries and doughnuts and little cakes and whatever people bought other people for breakfast in bed.

  “Closed!” the stupid, hot, rude baker barked without looking up at her. “Sold out!”

  Well, that answered her question. She shouldn’t have dragged her heels; she should have just come early.

  No! She shouldn’t have come at all, remember? She had to turn around and leave immediately. That way she wouldn’t have to interact with him, and she’d never come back, for real this time.

  He looked up just then. Of course.

  “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

  That’s when the ground started shaking. And shaking hard.

  Earthquake!

  Everything happened so fast. She moved quickly, inside the bakery and away from the plate glass windows at the entrance. She saw the big wire shelf behind him move, and the glass canister o

n the top shelf wobble.

  “Watch out!” she yelled.

  He stared, wide-eyed, at her but didn’t move. So she tackled him, tossing her coffee to the side in the process, and pulled them both under a big wooden table behind the counter, just before the canister dropped to the floor and shattered.

  She tucked herself into a ball, and he threw his arms around her as the ground shook. It felt like everything in the bakery crashed down around them. Pots, pans, cookbooks, cardboard boxes—all fell like dominoes to the ground. The lights flickered and then went out. There was one big crash outside, then another. Finally, what felt like an hour later but must have been less than a minute, everything stilled.

  Outside the bakery, car alarms were going off all up and down the street, but inside the bakery, they were in total silence. All she could hear was his breathing, right behind her ear, his arms still wrapped around her. His very strong, warm arms.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, then immediately shook her head.

  “I mean, yes, I guess I’m okay in that I wasn’t injured or anything, but no, wow, after that I am absolutely not okay.”

  His arms tightened around her, and she relaxed back against him and tried to let her own breathing slow down.

  Wait. What was she doing? This was the guy who hated her, remember? The one who was rude to her every time she came into the bakery? She pulled away from him and turned around, suddenly furious at him.

  “Why didn’t you move? Why did you just stand there? Drop, cover, and hold on! That’s what you’re supposed to do! Do you not know the first thing about what to do in an earthquake? Look around you! You could have gotten hit on the head! Or worse!”

  He smiled at her, long and slow. “It looks like you just saved my life, then. Thanks, Daisy. And no, I don’t know the first thing about what to do in an earthquake. I’m from New York.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re from New York. Now everything makes sense. You New Yorkers spend all of your time complaining about not having your pizza and bagels and bodegas, or whatever, but apparently spend absolutely no time learning the basics about how to live in California! You were just standing there! Not moving! In an earthquake! And that was a big one!” She suddenly registered one of the things he’d just said. “And how do you know my name?”

  He smiled again. Why was he smiling so much? They were sitting here with broken glass all around them and alarms and sirens going off outside, and this man was smiling? He had a very nice smile. Even, white teeth, wide, soft lips. It made him look kind.

  But she knew otherwise.

  “You come in all the time,” he said. “I’ve seen your name on your credit card three times a week since we opened. Unless you stole the credit card of Daisy Murray a few months ago?”

  She didn’t give him the satisfaction of laughing at his stupid joke. “Well, what’s your name, then, since you know mine?”

  She already knew the answer to this, of course. She’d read numerous articles about the bakery before it had opened, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

  He held out a hand to her. “Harris. Harris Cook. Nice to finally meet you, Daisy.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him as she shook his hand. “Harris, is something wrong? Did you get hit on the head during the earthquake, or something?”

  He laughed, a warm rumble that would have made her smile back at him if she hadn’t been full of adrenaline and rage.

  “I don’t think so. My head feels fine. Why?”

  She frowned at him. “Because you keep smiling. It’s unnatural. I’ve never seen you smile until two minutes ago, and I’ve seen you in this bakery at least a dozen times.”

  “More than a dozen, I’d say,” he said.

  She almost hissed, “Don’t remind me,” at him but stopped herself. It would probably just make him smile in that weird, friendly way again. She looked around. “What are we doing still under this table?” She started to kneel, so she could crawl out from under the table, but he stopped her.

  “Wait,” he said. “There’s all of this broken glass, and you’re wearing that thin dress. Let me sweep some of this up.”

  She sat down as he crawled out from under the table.

  “I’m just going into the back to get a broom,” he said.

  Why had he felt the need to tell her that? Had he thought she’d be stressed out, being here in the bakery without him? It would be a relief to be here without him!

  Though . . . she had felt very grateful for him during the earthquake, as they’d sat there together under this table. As a native Californian, she prided herself on her calm attitude toward earthquakes. She even kind of liked them. At least, she’d always thought she had.

  But she hadn’t been through one like this before. One where it wasn’t just a few aluminum cans that fell over, but almost everything around her falling to the ground and breaking. She would blame it on stupid Harris Cook, New Yorker, not earthquake-proofing his bakery, except that she could tell by how long and deep the shaking had been that it was a big one.

  That’s what she said.

  “What are you laughing at?” Harris said as he walked back over toward her.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I got a text that . . . anyway, it was just . . . nothing.” She pulled out her phone to add some verisimilitude to that statement and glanced at the many notifications on her screen. “Six point eight. Oh, wow. I was right; it was a big one.” She forced herself to hold back another very inappropriate giggle. Maybe she had gotten hit on the head.

  “I don’t know what that means, but I believe you,” Harris said. “If that wasn’t a big earthquake, I might have to abandon this bakery and fly back to New York tonight. I don’t think I can handle anything bigger.”

  As he swept the floor, she scrolled to her family group text chain.

  that was scary but I’m ok, everybody else please check in!

  After sending that, she shot off quick messages to her other frequent group texts and her local friends to confirm that she was fine. Well, more or less.

  “Okay, I think it’s safe for you to come out,” Harris said.

  Before she could crawl out from under the table, Harris lifted it and moved it back against the wall, and then reached out a hand to help her up. She wanted to pointedly not take it and stand up all by herself, but she was still feeling a little unsteady, and it was helpful to have his hand to hold on to. She let go of it, almost reluctantly, once she was standing.

  “Thanks,” she said. She didn’t want to be ungracious, like him, after all. “Um, well, this was great, thanks for the, uh, shelter, but I should head home, check the damage there, call my parents, all of that stuff.”

  He let out that low, rumbling chuckle again, and pointed to the window at the front of the bakery.

  “I think that’s going to have to wait a little while.”

  She turned and looked where he was pointing, and let out a gasp. The huge old BAKESHOP sign had crashed to the ground right in front of the bakery. More accurately, right in front of the door to the bakery, blocking their exit.

  “Oh no. We’re trapped in here? Wait, you must have a back door, right?”

  He nodded, but she could tell from the look on his face that there was bad news there too.

  “There is a back door, but there are some downed power lines right outside of it. I saw them when I went back to get the broom. I tried calling 911 to let the fire department know, but I just got a busy signal. I’ll call again in a few minutes, but . . .”

  “But we’re stuck in here for a while,” she finished.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  Of course. Obviously, she would be stuck inside of her favorite bakery, with no baked goods and the baker who hated her, right after a massive earthquake, on Valentine’s Day. Just her luck.

  She turned to look out the front window. There was broken glass everywhere on the street, a few big plants and their pots smashed on the ground, and a ton of people standing around outside, clearly trying and failing to make phone calls. It made sense that Harris hadn’t been able to reach 911.

  “I wonder how long it will take the power to come back on,” she said. She automatically reached for her phone to check on that, but—of course—no website would load. Right. Hadn’t she just seen all of those people not being able to use their phones? She hoped her texts to her family had gone through, though maybe not since she hadn’t gotten any back yet. Her sister owned a bookstore, and after seeing so many things fall from the shelves here in the bakery, she shuddered to think of what it had been like in a bookstore during the earthquake.

 

1 2 3 4