Nodding, Stephanie took a pale pink box with the logo in gold cursive out from behind the counter.
Turning, he made small talk with her mother while she carefully selected just the right things. Part of him wanted to believe the extra care had to do with wanting to make a good impression on his mother.
“YOU DIDN’T TELL ME your new friend was so pretty.”
“What are you talking about, Mom?” he asked as he entered the living room where she rested on the couch. She waved the paper in front of him.
Setting the cobb salad he’d picked up from the local café and the pink bakery box on the table beside her, he took the paper. “Eligible bachelorette opens new bakery on Main.” The words jumped out at him. He balled his fists.
“Can I see that?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain calm as the possessive side of him roared in protest.
“She’s going to be beating them off with a stick. You know how rare fresh blood is in this town, and she has her own business.” His mother clicked her tongue. “You’d better be prepared to warn her away from the no accounts.”
His irritation rose as he scanned the article. They’d pushed the looking for romance angle. He was certain she hadn’t intended it.
“It says she’s she’ll be participating in the Fall Auction this Saturday, too.”
“Well that’s lovely,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course, Mom. Have you been following the doctor’s orders?”
“Lord knows I am. There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed.”
Folding the paper up, he tossed it into the trash where it belonged. If someone thought they were going to sink their hooks into his woman they were wrong.
“The doctor said I have to stay off my foot for the next couple of weeks, and that means I’ll need your help.”
“Whatever you need, Mom. You know that.”
“I need you to stand in for me at the pumpkin bake off.”
“Except that. You know I’m no star baker.”
“But you could be with me coaching you! You’ve always been a fast learner.”
“Mom ...” he warned her.
“Pumpkin Queen has been in the family for the past five years. I’m not about to let that title go to anyone else.”
“Queen, Mom. Not King.’
“Well, we’re all about being progressive, right?” she countered.
He bowed his head, knowing his mother wouldn’t stop until he agreed. “Fine.”
She clapped her hands. “You don’t know how excited this makes me. I knew you weren’t interested in baking, so I never got to pass things down the way I would’ve liked.”
My mother could guilt the Pope.
“The first thing we need to do is decide on what recipe we’ll be using this year.”
“How do we do that?”
“Trial runs. We have to taste everything.”
Aka welcome to pumpkin hell.