Killian Read online

  On the sidewalk outside the store, two older women are exiting the bakery carrying to-go cups of coffee in their hands. “I had to see it with my own eyes,” one says. “Connie said she heard he was working here.”

  The other woman clucks her tongue disapprovingly as she makes eye contact with me, then quickly averts her gaze. “I think he’s been to prison,” she whispers. “That whole family is no good. Anyone who has any sense knows to stay away from the Saint boys."

  “They did help get Letty and Barbara Jean’s property back from the mining company. And Peggy and Lou think him working here is funny."

  “Even so. You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.”

  They give me a sideways glance before turning and walking down the sidewalk, tongues still wagging loud enough for me to hear them continuing to gossip. The way one of the women glances over her shoulder as they talk, I’m sure they want me to hear what they’re saying.

  Catty old shrews.

  Connie C. said she heard he was working here.

  They’re talking about Killian.

  I think he’s been in prison. That whole family is no good.

  A pang of possessiveness rushes through me. How dare they talk about him like that? Those nosy old biddies. Lipstick on a pig?

  I pull open the door to the bakery with more force than I intend, more annoyed than I should be by what I overheard. I thought that the town gossips had been running their mouths and speculating about my past just because I was new in town, but apparently it doesn’t matter if you’re new here or if you’ve been in this place forever.

  I despise stuff like that.

  I’m so irritated that I’m halfway across the store before I realize the store is eerily quiet. There’s a long line of customers, but not the regulars who’ve been coming in for months; these are students from a nearby college and people in town like the old ladies outside, the women from the hair salon and the church. The ones who have shunned the bakery as if everyone who comes in this place is infected with the plague.

  Two women standing beside each other in line whisper, and then glance up front to the register where Opal rings up a customer, like they’re afraid of being caught talking in class. I look around my bakery, watching as a regular customer wipes his table with his napkin, and then brings his used cup and saucer toward the front of the store. Stopping him, I take the dishes from his hands. “You know I’ll get that for you, Dan,” I say.

  He glances furtively toward the front of the store, then back at me. “It's no problem at all. I’ll bring them to the front. Glad to help out."

  Okay, what the hell is going on here?

  At the front of the store, Killian is calling customer orders with military-like precision. No one is deliberating at the cupcake display case, asking what each flavor tastes like and how the cupcakes were made and whether they contain gluten or eggs or organic flour or dairy or food coloring and why I don’t have vegan and gluten-free options every day. Or why I carried orange cream cupcakes yesterday but not today and when’s the next day I’ll do them again.

  Instead, the front of the store runs quietly and quickly.

  When I get to the register and look up at the large chalkboard on the wall, the one that usually lists the daily coffee drink specials and the daily cupcake flavors, I see exactly why.

  And I stop breathing.

  Instead of the coffee drinks, the chalkboard reads: “Customer Rules.”

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  I read down the numbered list in disbelief.

  Number One. If you don’t know what you want, get the hell out. Don’t ask us what we recommend. You have a brain. Make a decision before you get to the front of the line.

  Number Two. No small talk. We already know what the weather is like and we saw the game last night.

  Number Three. Don’t ask if the cupcakes have gluten, dairy, or food coloring. Whatever you’re asking about, the cupcakes have it.

  Number Four. If you ask for a skinny anything, we’ll tell you to leave. We make good coffee, not skinny coffee.

  Number Five. If you use a table, clean up your damn mess. We’re not your maids or your mothers.

  Two women in the back of the line giggle quietly as they attempt to take photos of the sign as unobtrusively as possible.

  I have a vision of ending up in the West Bend Gazette with a review of the bakery and our horrific customer service and offensive sign.

  Killian is dead. Totally dead. I will actually strangle him with my bare hands. If the people in this town suspected that I was a criminal on the run from the law, they'll at least have good reason to believe that when I actually commit murder.

  I storm up to the front register, positively fuming. Opal catches my look and puts her hands up as I walk behind the counter, headed for Killian. “Now, before you say anything, honey - ” she starts.

  "Don't. Even."

  The girl standing at the front of the register hands over a slip of paper with her order on it before leaning forward to Opal. "The new rules are hilarious," she whispers, glancing furtively at Killian. "And the new guy is so hot. I already shared photos online. My friends are going to come here tomorrow."

  Inwardly, I groan.

  Killian clears his throat loudly and gives her a glare, and she mock-salutes, stepping to the side to wait for her coffee as she stifles a giggle.

  Opal gives me a look. "Don't kill him."

  "I'm not going to kill him," I say through gritted teeth. "Killing him would be too kind."

  I glare at Killian and mouth the words. "Kitchen. Now."

  He looks at me innocently before handing a cup of coffee to the college student waiting in line, the one who's not-so-subtly snapping photos of him on her phone. When she reaches for the coffee, he stops. "No photos," he growls. "Do you want me to confiscate the phone?"

  She titters and practically swoons. "No, sir," she says with faux military inflection.

  I roll my eyes so hard I think I might sprain a muscle. Then I watch in disbelief as the next customer in line, one of the guys who's shown up here regularly in the mornings for a cup of coffee and a newspaper, hands Opal his written order. He pays without a word to Opal, and then looks up at me. "I like the new system."

  That is it. A muscle-bound, tattooed, bearded caveman who lives alone in a cabin somewhere isn’t going to waltz into my shop and start issuing customer rules like he owns the place. I whirl around, grabbing the chalkboard eraser and wiping it over the surface of the board until the stupid rules are smeared into a blur of chalk dust.

  Behind me, several patrons groan their disappointment. Sure, some of them might have thought it was funny – mostly the airheaded girls who seem to be all-too-infatuated with Killian but there will be plenty more who are offended by it. And the old biddies in town will have even more fodder for gossip and even more reason to hate me.

  When I turn around, I force a polite smile on my face. “I’m afraid that’s not how we do things here,” I explain, my voice excessively calm.

  It’s a freaking miracle I can keep my voice calm, given the fact that my blood pressure has to be through the damn roof right now. Look at me, practicing self-restraint. I haven’t even murdered Killian in cold blood yet.

  I hear someone in the line grumble, and someone else walks out the door. Seriously? The people in this town have nothing better to do than come read a stupid, obnoxious sign in a store? There’s really nothing else happening in West Bend that a dumb sign and Killian Saint can cause that much excitement?

  I turn around and storm into the kitchen, pulling out the mermaid cake while grumbling to myself. I won’t scream at him right now in front of customers. I won't fire him right now and cause a huge scene.

  I’ll wait.

  I’ll wait here in the back while I work on this cake, stewing and plotting Killian’s demise. Killian obviously can’t work here, since he has the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old boy.

  I pour all my frustration into