First Love E-Book

Linda Budzinski

• Herausgeber: Dancing Lemur Press LLC
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 292

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The sweetness of first love…

Could a fiercely independent cop’s heart be stolen by the guy who makes her favorite doughnuts? Will a maid who used deceit to snare a mail-order husband get a dose of her own medicine? Can her handsome neighbor rescue a modern-day “princess” from a tenacious ex-boyfriend? Can two strangers in a rideshare be honest enough to fall in love for real? Can you remember your first love? How about your second? Third? Fourth?

Featuring the talents of Linda Budzinski, Melissa Maygrove, Michael Di Gesu, Sylvia Ney, Katie Klein, Kim Elliott, Templeton Moss, S.E. White, Denise Covey, and Sammi Spizziri. Hand-picked by a panel of agents and authors, these ten tales will touch your heart and rekindle lost feelings. Prepare to return to that first love…

Leseprobe

An Insecure Writer’s Support Group Anthology

FREEDOM FOX PRESS

Dancing Lemur Press, L.L.C.

Pikeville, North Carolina

http://dancinglemurpress.com

“…a refreshing read! This is a gem of a book that I highly recommend.” - Rebecca Boerner M Ed., reviewer

“…this collection nailed the little bites of cute romance… recommend to anyone looking for an uplifting collection of sweet romance to fill an evening.” - Hayley Reese Chow, author

“This was a sweet, warm collection of love stories.” – Angie Titus, author

“All the stories are wonderfully woven together and unique. The first love tales from all walks of life with a surprising climax stun the readers. Refreshing read.” – Anu @ Thought is Free Reviews

“It was fun and made you feel warm inside.” - Sara McClaflin, On Review by Sara

Copyright 2022 by The Insecure Writer’s Support Group

Published by Freedom Fox Press

An imprint of:

Dancing Lemur Press, L.L.C., P.O. Box 383, Pikeville, North Carolina, 27863-0383

http://dancinglemurpress.com

ISBN: 9781939844897

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system in any form – either mechanically, electronically, photocopy, recording, or other – except for short quotations in printed reviews, without the permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover design by C.R.W.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Names: Insecure Writer's Support Group.

Title: First love : the art of making doughnuts : an Insecure Writer's

Support Group anthology.

Description: Pikeville, North Carolina : Freedom Fox Press, 2022. |

Summary: "The sweetness of first love... Could a fiercely independent

cop's heart be stolen by the guy who makes her favorite doughnuts? Will

a maid who used deceit to snare a mail-order husband get a dose of her

own medicine? Can her handsome neighbor rescue a modern-day "princess"

from a tenacious ex-boyfriend? Can two strangers in a rideshare be

honest enough to fall in love for real? Can you remember your first

love? How about your second? Third? Fourth? Featuring the talents of

Linda Budzinski, Melissa Maygrove, Michael Di Gesu, Sylvia Ney, Katie

Klein, Kim Elliott, Templeton Moss, S.E. White, Denise Covey, and Sammi

Spizziri. Hand-picked by a panel of agents and authors, these ten tales

will touch your heart and rekindle lost feelings. Prepare to return to

that first love..."-- Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022004251 (print) | LCCN 2022004252 (ebook) | ISBN

9781939844880 (paperback) | ISBN 9781939844897 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Romance fiction, American. | LCGFT: Romance fiction. |

Short stories.

Classification: LCC PS648.L6 F554 2022 (print) | LCC PS648.L6 (ebook) |

DDC 813/.0850806--dc23/eng/20220426

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022004251

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022004252

The Insecure Writer’s Support Group would like to thank the judges who selected the stories for this anthology. We appreciate their time and effort!

Author Nancy Gideon

Agent Caitlin Blasdell, Liza Dawson Associates

Author Meka James

Author Loni Townsend

Author Susan Gourley

Author Jennifer Lane

Table of Contents

The Art of Making Doughnuts by Linda Budzinski

My Heart Approves by Melissa Maygrove

How to Save a Princess by Katie Klein

My First Love(s) by Templeton Moss

The Real Thing by Sammi Spizziri

Paper Faces by Sylvia Ney

Oliver’s Girl by Michael Di Gesu

Clyde and Coalesce by Kim Elliott

Marmalade Sunset by Denise Covey

The Castle of Ohno by S.E. White

The Art of Making Doughnuts

ByLinda Budzinski

“You ever been in love, McAllister?”

“What? Course I have.” I glance over at my patrol partner. Twelve years my senior, Officer Ed Barrow is set to retire in two months with a full Jackson County pension. “What kind of question is that?”

He shrugs and switches his ever-present toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Just making small talk.”

“Small talk?” In our two decades riding together, Ed has never once bothered to make small talk.

The light turns green, and he winds the cruiser down Second Street, pulling into our usual spot at the Gas-N-Grub. The coffee here is just average, but the doughnuts are pure bliss.

I unbuckle my seatbelt but stay put. “Seriously, Ed. What’s this about?”

He removes his toothpick and twirls it. “I don’t know. I worry about you, Gina. Who will look after you when I’m gone?”

I roll my eyes. Ever since my father died, Ed has served as a self-appointed guardian, texting me after our late shifts to make sure I’m home safe, shoveling my stoop when it snows, lending me his wet vac when my basement floods.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Ed, I’m pushing fifty. I’ll take care of myself. You and Cathy can set sail for Punta Gorda and never look back.” I hop out and shut the car door with perhaps a bit too much vigor.

The Gas-N-Grub smells of a mixture of gasoline and pumpkin spice. Maria spotted us coming and has our favorite doughnuts already plated when we take our seats at the counter—raspberry cream for me, chocolate glazed for Ed. “Anything else I can get you?” she asks as she pours our coffees.

“We need to find a boyfriend for Gina.”

I punch Ed’s shoulder, practically knocking his thin frame off his stool. “Don’t mind him. He thinks I’m a damsel in distress, never mind the fact that my aim is better than his at twenty yards, and I’m faster from the holster, too.”

Ed grins, his teeth covered in chocolate. “Oh, you can defend yourself. No one’s denying that.” He winks at Maria. “It’s not her safety I’m worried about.”

I shake my head. I have a job I love, a townhome in the historic district, and a tabby I’ve managed to keep alive for eight-plus years. Between work, puttering around the house, and my favorite hobby—jigsaw puzzles—I keep plenty busy. Last thing I need is a man screwing things up. “I’m doing just fine, believe me.”

I lift my doughnut and close my eyes. A soft sigh escapes my lips as the light, fluffy dough fills my mouth and the velvety raspberry cream coats my tastebuds. For a moment, I’m transported, floating. “Mmmm. Heavenly.”

I’d inject this stuff if I could.

* * *

Mildred greets me at the door with an angry meow. My shift ran long thanks to some paperwork on a forced entry this afternoon, so it’s past our mealtime. I spoon a can of food into her bowl, toss a frozen meatloaf dinner into the microwave, and sit down to my latest puzzle—Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party.

“Have I ever been in love?” I repeat Ed’s question to Mildred. “Ridiculous. You know, I was engaged once.” Granted, I was barely out of high school and Will turned out to be a controlling, cheating loser, but still, that had to count. Didn’t it?

As the microwave dings, I spy the puzzle piece I’ve been seeking—a bright pink flower—and snap it into place, completing Aline Charigot’s bonnet. According to the description on the box, about ten years after he painted this scene, Renoir married Charigot. He drew her as the most colorful character at the luncheon—pretty and playful. Sweet with a side of sass, as my Grannie would say.

I trace her rosy cheek with my finger.

Perhaps I never have experienced that kind of love.

Then again, Jackson County isn’t exactly teeming with Renoirs.

* * *

Something’s off when Ed and I pull into the Gas-N-Grub the next day. Maria’s car is missing, and the newspaper rack is sitting to the left of the front door instead of its usual spot on the right. I rest my hand on my holster as I exit the cruiser.

Ed and I enter to find a tall guy with reddish hair and a graying beard behind the register. He has light brown eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. “Morning, officers.” He ambles over and wipes off the counter in front of us. “What can I get for you today?”

“Where’s Maria?” Ed asks.

“And who are you?” I add.

He tucks his rag into his apron pocket. “I’m Pete. Pete Reilly, Maria’s cousin. She’s on her way to Missouri. Her sister took a spill yesterday and needs some help around the house.”

“Oh, golly, I’m sorry to hear that.” Ed offers his hand. “Ed Barrow. Nice to meet you.”

I lean back in my stool. “I don’t recall Maria ever mentioning a sister in Missouri. Or a cousin named Pete, for that matter.”

The man places his palms on the counter and leans forward, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let me guess. You play the bad cop.”

I glare, and the smile disappears.

He straightens and lifts his hands in the air. “Fine. You caught me. I’ve got Maria tied up in the back. I’m planning to serve her customers all day and make off with her tips.”

Ed laughs and slaps his hand on the countertop. “You’re funny,” he says. “I like you.”

I look away as the heat rises in my cheeks. I suppose I am being silly. It’s just that we’ve come here every shift for the past few years and Maria is always here to greet us. Seeing her is as much a part of my morning routine as putting on my uniform and attending our daily briefing at the station. “I’ll have the raspberry cream,” I say finally.

“One raspberry cream doughnut coming up, Officer….”

“McAllister. Gina.”

Pete nods and disappears into the back only to reemerge empty-handed. “Afraid we’re out of the raspberry,” he says.

“Out? What do you mean, out?”

“The vanilla cream is excellent, if you want to try one of those.”

“You’re never out. Unless….” I turn to Ed. “Do you think Maria saves one for me?”

He shrugs. “She must.”

I sigh. “When is she coming back?”

“I’d guess in a week. Maybe two. Now, how about that vanilla cream?” Pete’s expression is eager. Hopeful.

“Nah. I’ll stick with coffee for today.”

Ed snorts and leans toward me, his voice low. “That stubborn streak’s a bad look. You know that, don’t you?”

I ignore him and shake an extra packet of sugar into my cup.

* * *

Ed and I have a quiet day until a mid-afternoon call comes in.

“Report of an 808 at Pet Perks,” the dispatcher says. Disturbing the peace.

Ed flips on the siren even though we’re only four blocks away. He races to the scene and swerves to a squealing halt at the curb.

The door to the grooming salon hangs open, revealing the cause of the disturbance: a young woman screaming at an employee. “I’ll sue you, and the owner, and.…” She rips a chew toy off a rack by the register and hurls it onto an already toy-littered floor.

“Ma’am, please stop. We can work this—” The employee pauses as she notices us in the doorway. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here.”

“The cops?” The angry customer’s eyes grow wide. “You called the cops? On me? You’re the one who should be locked up.” She reaches for another toy, but I warn her.

“Ma’am, drop the Tweety Bird. Step away from the counter and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Ed approaches her. “What seems to be the problem?”

“The problem is that.” She turns and points to a dog lying in the corner—a poodle sporting a bright green mohawk from its head to its rump. “Duchess has a show tomorrow, and these idiots have made her utterly un-showable.”

The employee shakes her head. “I’ve explained to her. The gentleman who brought the dog in specifically asked for this style.”

“Well, that so-called gentleman is my ex, and he had no business telling you that.” The woman’s voice breaks. “He claims Duchess hates being shown, but he’s wrong. She loves it. You should see her strut around the arena.”

Ed and I exchange glances. It’d be nice to get out of here without having to file a report. He invites the two women to take a seat with him in the waiting area to talk things out while I pick up chew toys. I’m placing the last rubber bone back into its basket when the sound of footsteps catches my attention.

I turn to find Pete in the doorway holding a small white box.

“They said I might find you here.”

“Who’s they?”

“The guys at the station. I have something for you.” He lifts the lid to reveal a doughnut—golden brown, with a hint of raspberry peeking through one end.

My eyes widen and my mouth waters, but I place my hands on my hips and assume my best everything-is-under-control-here stance. “What happened? Did you find an extra in the back?”

Pete appears surprised by the question. “An extra? What? No. I made it for you.”

“Made it?

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“Me.” Pete smiles.

My heart rate, which tends to run a steady sixty beats per minute, even when Ed and I are careening through town in hot pursuit, feels as though it’s doing double time, and a line of perspiration forms at the nape of my neck.

This is the man responsible for my morning rhapsody?

* * *

“Dinner at the Hop on Inn?” Ed’s smile is as wide as the brim of Alphonse Fournaise’s straw hat in Luncheon of the Boating Party. “Sounds like a date to me.”

“Except it’s not.”

“Could be.”

“But it isn’t.” I grab my car keys and march out of the station, ignoring the stares and snickers of my fellow officers.

I was surprised when Pete asked me to join him for dinner tonight, and even more so to hear myself accept. Though, what choice did I have when he stood there holding that perfect little pastry, soft and warm and made specially for me?

Half of me hoped something would force me to cancel—a massive sinkhole downtown or a bomb scare at the station. The other half kept a watchful eye on the clock, counting the minutes until my shift ended.

Because, well, the doughnuts.

I’ll never forget my first one. It was almost three years ago, and word spread quickly among the force that the Gas-N-Grub had upped its game. I ordered a raspberry cream on a whim and never looked back. Decadent, delectable…sweet but not cloying. It seems stupid, but somehow it never occurred to me that someone actually made them—that a living, breathing human being was behind those magnificent confections.

When I arrive home, I pour myself a glass of ice water and sit down at my puzzle to collect myself before getting ready.

“It’s not a date,” I tell Mildred as I complete Jeanne Samary’s gloved hand. “First of all, he’s not picking me up. We’re meeting at the restaurant. And second of all, I intend to pay for my own meal. Besides, a date would imply a certain romantic attraction. Not that Pete’s not good-looking, mind you, but he’s not my type. A ginger, and a bit thin.”

Mildred blinks and turns her attention to licking her back paw.

“Fine. Believe what you will.” I head upstairs to shower and change. “I plan to wear the same jeans I wore last week to the Jackson County Pig Pull,” I call down to her. “If that doesn’t say ‘not a date,’ I don’t know what does.”

* * *

The Hop on Inn is quiet on a Tuesday night. Aside from Sally tending bar and a guy in the corner I caught doing fifty-three on Main Street two weeks ago, I don’t recognize anyone. Perfect.

Pete’s seated at a table on the Inn’s screened-in porch. He stands and pulls out my chair, which seems rather date-like, but I mumble a thank you.

“What’s good here?” he asks.

“You’ve never been to the Hop?”

He shakes his head.

I lean forward, arms crossed on the table. “What’s your story? Why haven’t I seen you around?”

He shrugs. “I keep to myself. And I have a weird schedule.”

“Up early to make the doughnuts.”

“Exactly.”

An image of him in an apron, flour dappling his cheeks, his beard, and his surprisingly well-developed forearms, flashes through my mind. I push it away. “Where’d you learn to make them?”

“The Culinary Institute.”

“That some kind of cooking school?”

He smiles. “Yeah. It’s a cooking school.”

“I see. They taught you well.”

“Thanks.” He leans back in his chair. “Enough about me. Why’d you decide to become a police officer?”

“The chipped beef.”

“What?”

“You asked what’s good. I like the chipped beef. Though you can’t go wrong with their chicken Parm.” I lower my voice. “And for dessert? Strawberry shortcake. Trust me.”

“Got it.” Pete’s eyes twinkle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I like a woman who knows what she wants. And who enjoys a fine dessert.”

I sip my water. Crap. This night is starting to walk like a date and quack like a date. Our waitress comes and I order the chipped beef, but instead of my usual ginger ale, I ask for a glass of merlot.

“Are you going to tell me why you joined the force, or are you intentionally avoiding the question?”

I purse my lips. I’m usually the one making inquiries around here. “It’s not as though law enforcement was a lifelong dream,” I finally say. “But I like to keep a certain order. And I like puzzles. Figuring things out. Police work seemed like a good fit.”

“Makes perfect sense.” Pete smiles and lifts his beer. “Here’s to doing what fits.”

I touch my glass to his. “Your turn. Why doughnuts?”

“Well, I always wanted to be either an artist or a chef. And in cooking school, they call it ‘culinary arts.’ I realized that desserts in particular can be a true art form. So, yeah, I guess you could say doughnuts fit.” He grins at our approaching waitress. “Here’s our food. That was quick.” He seems relieved at the interruption.

My years of dealing with the public have taught me when people have something they prefer not to share. Part of me wants to press him, but this isn’t an interrogation, it’s a—well, fine, it’s a date—so I let him slide.

Dinner is nice. Easy. Pete tells me about some crazy recipes he invented as a kid, and I share my best stupid criminal stories. We both order the shortcake. He insists on picking up the tab, and I let him. We end the night early, because even though it’s only eight-thirty, it’s already past his bedtime. He has to be up in seven hours.

Afterward, he walks me to my car.

“This was fun,” I say.

“Can I see you again?”

“Course you will. Tomorrow morning.”

Pete laughs. “I’ll have a raspberry cream waiting.”

“You’d better.” I click my fob to unlock the door. He opens it for me, and a weird vibe passes between us. “Thanks again for dinner.” I quickly hop in, pull the door shut, and wave goodbye.

Just because it was a date didn’t mean it had to end with a kiss.

* * *

“Well, well. What have we here?” Ed notices it the moment we walk through the door—a small vase with a spray of daisies placed at my usual spot at the counter.

“Shut up, Ed.” I shoot him a warning look.

He was full of questions on our ride over. I shared in great detail the delights of my chipped beef and strawberry shortcake but said little else about last night.

We take our seats while Pete finishes with a customer. He’s wearing a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Did he notice me admiring his forearms last night?

He disappears into the back and returns with two doughnuts plated on jet-black dishes. My raspberry cream is surrounded by a dusting of powdered sugar, as though it’s floating amidst a midnight snowfall. A piece of art indeed.

I feel Pete watching as I lift the doughnut to my lips.

Soft, silky perfection.

Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment, I regret my hasty departure last night. Any man who could create such a masterpiece is no doubt one heck of a kisser. I blink and look away.

“Tell you what. I have to make a call.” Ed stands and grabs his doughnut. “I’ll be in the cruiser if you need anything.”

I sip my coffee and listen for the bell above the door signaling his exit before taking another bite. “Amazing,” I say. “And the powdered sugar’s a nice touch.”

Pete grins. “Thought you’d enjoy a little something extra.”

I peel off a piece of the doughnut, swipe it across the plate, and pop it into my mouth. “Divine.” I lean back and point to the flowers. “Also a nice touch.”

“You like daisies?”

“Course I do. Who doesn’t like daisies?”

He laughs. “Fair enough.” He leans over as though he wants to say something, but the bell jingles, so he straightens and heads over to the register.

I dip another piece of doughnut into the sugar as I watch him walk away. A man who bakes and brings me flowers. So, what’s his flaw?

* * *

For the next few days, a string of car break-ins in the western part of the county keeps Ed and me busy. We have to grab our doughnuts and run, though I do notice that a fresh vase of daisies greets us each morning.

“What do you suppose a guy like that is doing in a place like this?” I ask Ed on Friday afternoon as we wind our way down a dirt road toward one of the break-ins.

“What guy?”

I square my jaw and stare out the window. He knows full well who I’m talking about. He just wants to make me say it. “Pete,” I mumble.

“Ah, Pete. As in, Not-a-Date Pete? As in, Everything’s-Coming-Up-Daisies Pete? Mr. Forearms Pete?”

My face burns. “Forget it,” I say. “You’re such a jerk.”

Ed laughs and punches my arm. “I’m teasing,” he says. “But what do you mean, a place like this? Jackson County’s nice.”

“Course it is, but he told me he grew up wanting to be a chef, and he’s obviously talented, so why the Gas-N-Grub? Shouldn’t he be at some fancy restaurant in the city?”

Ed slows down as a groundhog skedaddles across the road in front of us. His expression is thoughtful. “Maybe he’s only good at doughnuts. Maybe he can’t hack the pressure of the kitchen in those highfalutin places. Or maybe he simply prefers our fine country air.”

I nod. “I suppose.”

Ed offers a sly smile. “On the other hand, could be he’s a mobster who’s left behind a trail of bodies to enter witness protection.”

It’s my turn to punch him in the arm. “Jerk.”

* * *

That night I return to my puzzle. I’ve completed the most colorful parts of the luncheon, leaving a mass of black, gray, and white pieces. This is where every nuance of shade counts and the shape of each piece comes into play. I’m so engrossed in cobbling together the shrubbery beyond the balcony that I startle at the sound of my phone.

Who could that be?

It’s a strange number, so I answer with a gruff, “Hello.”

“Hello. I’ve been trying to reach you about your car warranty.”

I laugh, and my pulse jumps at the sound of Pete’s voice. A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost ten. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Why’s that?

Silence greets my question.

“Hello?”

“Sorry. I’m here.” Pete clears his throat. “I can’t sleep because I’ve been getting up the nerve to call you.”

“What? Why on earth would you be afraid to call me?”

“I don’t know. You haven’t spent much time in the store this week.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s because I’ve been busy. Police work is about more than eating doughnuts, you know.”

“Fair enough.”

“Well, here we are,” I say after another long pause. “You’ve called and I’ve answered. Now what?”

He chuckles. “I guess now comes the part where I get up the nerve to ask if you’ll come with me to the Greenfield Farmers Market tomorrow. There’s a new fruit vendor I want to meet.”

I grip the phone and glance at Mildred. She’s rolled onto her back, stomach exposed, not a care in the world. “I suppose I could. What time?”

“Is eight too early? I want to beat the crowds.”

“Eight works.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up then. Good night.”

Pick me up? He disconnects before I can protest. I scoop Mildred up and whisper in her ear, “He’d better come bearing doughnuts.”

* * *

Pete knocks on my door at two minutes after eight holding not only a doughnut but an armful of long-stemmed daisies. I invite him in while I prepare a vase.

Mildred wraps herself around his leg, and he busies himself with petting her until he spots my puzzle. He straightens and approaches it. “Nice,” he says, giving it a tap. “These folks were Renoir’s friends.”

“I know.” I decline to mention that I learned this a week ago, from the side of the box. “You like Renoir?”

Pete nods. “Sure. And this one’s a favorite in restaurants…food, wine, friends.” His voice is soft, his expression wistful.

I eye him carefully as I fill the vase with water. “Have you worked in many restaurants?”

“A few.” I wait for him to elaborate, but instead he turns to me and flashes a smile. “Let’s get going.”

When we arrive at the market, most of the vendors are putting the finishing touches on their displays. Baskets full of fresh produce offer a carnival of colors, textures, and aromas rarely found in the Shop Rite frozen food aisle. Pumpkins, rutabagas, peaches, pears. I pause at a booth offering handmade soaps made from goat milk and inhale the scents. A raspberry-infused bar calls to me, and I reach for my wallet, but Pete takes it from me and pays for it.

“Thank you.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“This place is amazing.”

He smiles. The market clearly is as familiar to him as it is foreign to me. He guides me past a local butcher and a vendor selling organic dog biscuits to a tent teeming with fruit bins.

“This place sells wild fall berries,” he says. “Thought I might expand my repertoire.” He plucks a ruby-colored berry out of a basket and offers it to me.

I eye him warily. “You first.”

Pete shrugs and pops it into his mouth. “Mmm. Perfect.”

“What is it?”

“Burberry. They’re seedless, so it shouldn’t take much labor to blend them into a cream.”

He offers me another, and this time, I try it. The berry bursts in my mouth with an intriguing sweet-tart combo.

“Well?”

“Not bad.”

“Good enough to make the switch?”

“From raspberry? Not a chance. But others might go for it.”

Pete laughs as he scoops some into a bag and dings a bell by the register. A woman emerges from the other side of the tent. “Good morning.” She offers a broad smile. “Welcome to Wild and Wonderful. Can I help you find anything?”

Pete sets his bag on a scale. “Just these for now, though I may be back next week to try your gooseberries.”

The woman rings him up but pauses before handing him the receipt. “Hold on. Do I know you?”

Pete shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure? I never forget a face, and you seem familiar.”

Pete grabs the receipt and backs away. “We’ve never met. Thanks for the berries.” He places his hand on my back, turns, and practically pushes me out of the booth.

“Wait. I know who you are.” The woman calls after us, but Pete speeds up, rushing us past all the vendors to his car.

He’s quiet on the drive back. I wait until we’re parked at my townhouse to question him. “What was that about?” I ask. “Who was that woman?”

He turns and stares me straight in the eyes. “I don’t know. I’ve never met her, and I apologize for rushing us out, but…I get uncomfortable sometimes. I need you to believe me.” His expression is pleading, his voice urgent.

I want to trust him, but something feels off. “You’re holding back, Pete. What is it?”

“Nothing. I…” He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

I open the car door and get out. He follows suit. “Gina, wait. Please.”

I turn to him. “Tell me what’s going on. Whatever it is, I can handle—”

But before I can finish my sentence, Pete cups my chin in his hand and presses his lips to mine. His kiss is rough at first, but as it softens, my body melts into his. Something stirs inside—something I haven’t felt in years, maybe ever. I feel lighter, the air feels lighter. The whole world feels lighter.

As quickly as it began, the kiss ends, and Pete steps away, heading back to his car.

“Wait up,” I call after him. “You can’t—”

But he drives away without a word.

I wander half-dazed into my house and sink onto my couch. What just happened? Pete seemed to tell the truth when he said he’d never met the woman, and I can certainly believe he gets nervous around people. I touch my fingertips to my lips. That kiss. It was every bit as incredible as I imagined it could be.

Maybe this is a puzzle I don’t need to solve. Maybe I should let this one alone.

* * *

Our Monday morning briefing runs long, so by the time Ed and I arrive at the Gas-N-Grub, it’s approaching noon.

“Do I detect a special spring in your step this morning?” he asks as we cross the parking lot.

I offer an exaggerated smile. At least he hasn’t noticed the coat of lip gloss I applied, or the fresh scent of raspberry from my new soap. “Just happy to be alive, Ed. It’s a beautiful fall morning here in Jacks—” I halt inside the door at the sight of Maria behind the counter, holding our doughnuts.

I can feel Ed watching me, so I keep my smile pasted on. “Hello, Maria. Great to see you. How’s your sister?”

Maria sets down our plates. “Back on her feet and ornery as ever.” She grins. “How did things go here? Did my cousin take care of you?”

“He sure did.” Ed waggles his eyebrows at me, but I pretend not to notice.

“I’m so glad. Gus hates working out front, but I knew he’d come through. He’s a lifesaver.”

“Gus?” Ed asks through a mouthful of doughnut. “I thought his name was—”

“Pete. Of course.” Maria shakes her head and busies herself wiping down the already spotless counter. “Gus was a…a childhood nickname. Forget I said that. Pete. It’s Pete.” She continues muttering to herself and scurries away.

Ed and I glance at each other.

“What do you make of that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Probably nothing. Like she said, a childhood nickname.”

I take a bite of my doughnut. “Hmm. I wonder.”

* * *

I tell Ed I need to go home for lunch, and I slip away as fast as I can. I walk in the front door and power up my laptop. I’ve Googled “Pete Reilly” and gotten nowhere—too many of them to count—but maybe “Gus” will give me a hit. I type in “Chef Gus Reilly” and hit enter. A Wikipedia entry pops up:

Gus “Chef Gusto” Reilly was born Augustus Peter Reilly in 1968. He is a pastry chef best known as the star of Desserts to Die For, a reality cooking show that aired on the Food Network from 2016 to 2018.

In the photo beside the description, Pete has no beard or glasses, but his smile, his eyes, and his exposed forearms leave no doubt it’s him.

Next, I search for “Chef Gusto” and my screen fills with stories of Pete’s one-time celebrity status. One photo in particular catches my eye. Is that Irina Martinelli? I enlarge it, and sure enough, Pete has his arm around the Hollywood beauty. My stomach twists when I read the caption: TMZ spotted three-time Oscar winner Irina Martinelli at last night’s premiere with Food Network star and celebrity serial dater Chef Gusto. Is Irina his flavor of the month, or will she become a permanent menu item?

The taste of raspberry cream sours at the back of my throat. I head to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Mildred jumps onto the sink, and I pick her up, burying my face into her soft fur. That’s when the tears start. I haven’t cried in years, but I sit down on the edge of my tub and let it out.

Reality show star. Celebrity serial dater. Am I supposed to believe someone who once dated Irina Martinelli is now genuinely interested in me?

And it’s more than that. Sure, I’m upset that Pete isn’t the doughnut maker-next-door I thought he was—or wanted him to be—but worse, I convinced myself to ignore my gut. I let a pair of beautiful forearms and a stolen kiss cloud my judgment. How could I be such a fool?

My phone rings. I set Mildred down and pull it from my pocket. Pete. Or is it Gus? Whoever. I swipe and send him straight to voicemail.

* * *

The next two months are crazy busy. Chief has put me in charge of Ed’s retirement celebration, so between work and planning the party, I have no time to worry about matters of the heart. The Luncheon of the Boating Party sits not-quite-finished on my kitchen table. Now I understand why Pete stared at it the way he did. Most of those people were the glitterati of their day—artists, poets, actors, politicians. No doubt it reminded him of everything he’s missing. Everything Jackson County is not.

Ed and I switch our morning routine to the Donut Shack. Their strawberry iced isn’t half bad, and Ed pretends to enjoy their chocolate glazed as much as he did the Gas-N-Grub’s.

“My life was good before, and it’s good now,” I tell him, and he’s smart enough to leave it at that.

* * *

The evening of Ed’s retirement party, I arrive at the Hop on Inn to find the DJ setting up and the decorator hanging the last few streamers. The cake, however, is nowhere to be seen.

I dial Betty’s Bakery and she answers on the first ring. “Apologies, Gina. I meant to call earlier. Eduardo’s wife went into labor this morning, so he couldn’t make your cake.”

“I see.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe the Hop can whip up some extra shortcake.”

“Oh, no, no,” she says. “I have you covered. I found someone else, and he’s on his way. Should be there any minute. Did a beautiful job.”

“Thank goodness. That’s—” I turn and practically drop my phone. Pete is standing in the doorway holding a huge box. He appears equally as surprised to see me.

I point to a table near the bar. “You can set it there,” I tell him, struggling to keep my voice even.

“Gina—”

I turn and busy myself with the balloons on the gift table.

Pete sets the cake down and walks over. “Please. Can we talk?”

“Go away.”

“I should have told you. I’m sorry. I just. I didn’t—.”

A loud blast of music startles us as the DJ tests his speakers. I motion for Pete to follow me onto the screened-in porch. It’s freezing out there, but at least I’ll be able to hear his apology.

“You didn’t what?” I ask as we step onto the porch.

He shifts from one foot to the other. “The thing is, it’s been a long time. Almost three years. And I’m not that guy anymore. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how. It just all seemed so…ridiculous.” He waves his hands in the air. “Gus Gusto.”

“So, you expect me to believe you prefer getting up at three-thirty in the morning to make doughnuts for the Gas-N-Grub than dating A-list movie stars?”

“It’s not a matter of what I prefer. It’s a matter of who I am.”

“And that’s the problem.”

“What?” Pete shakes his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The problem is that I’m a cop and you’re…Renoir.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You with your…your talent, and your fame, and your fancy friends.”

His eyes narrow. “Well, maybe you’re my Aline Charigot, did you ever think of that?”

I laugh. “Right. She was a model. That’s exactly like being a cop.”

“No. She was Renoir’s model, true, but she was not a model.”

A car pulls into the parking lot and three of my fellow officers pile out.

“I have a party to run,” I say. “Thanks for the cake.”

Pete gives me a pleading look, but I cross my arms, and he turns to go. “Good luck,” he says. “Give Ed my best.”

* * *