Page 64 of Meet Me at the Fudge Shop

Snagging a fork from the dispenser on the counter, she sank the tines into the opposite end of the bergamot fudge and shoved it into her mouth.

A terribly bitter, overly salted taste filled her mouth, and she raced to the trash can to spit out what had once been her pride and joy. Her signature creation.

Lily turned and stared at the open box. How…?

But there was only one answer that made sense. Only one explanation.

Once again, she’d allowed herself to get so distracted—this time by Declan Kelley—that she’d somehow ruined this batch of fudge.

And, in the process, probably her reputation too.

* * *

If anything could make this day better, it was Mom’s famous chili fries.

Declan flipped the fudge shop sign to Closed, gave one fleeting look at Lily—who had been polite but distant for the last three days, ever since Kent Mercer’s visit—and locked up behind him.

It couldn’t have been that bad. But even he’d wanted to cringe when Kent Mercer left with another box of his fudge, and a tight smile and handshake for Lily.

Something had gone terribly wrong, and Lily knew it. Hence why she’d barricaded herself in the kitchen, whipping up another batch of signature fudge.

She might want to spend all of her Saturday evening obsessing over ways to win this competition, but Declan needed air.

Needed to figure out what to do next. As in, what to do if he won. Because, if Mercer’s article was any indication…

He should start looking for a manager.

He waited on the porch while a few evening cyclists toured downtown, then stepped into the road and crossed to Martha’s on Main, which was hopping if the line out the door and wrapped all the way down past the public library was any indication. A breeze kicked up off Lake Huron, and clouds gathered in the distance. Perhaps another storm on its way.

But Declan could only handle so many, and the one inside him raged on.

He nodded at the people waiting, many of them perusing menus, and pushed his way inside, where the smells made his stomach grumble.

He’d eaten nothing but a couple fudge samples today, thanks to a stream of customers. More than a few held the article and wanted to take home the double-milk chocolate rocky road that Mercer had raved about.

Thankfully he’d called ahead and had Mom prep a to-go container. Nothing sounded better than plopping down in front of his parents’ TV and catching tonight’s Tigers game.

Martha’s was always a bastion of busyness, especially on Saturday evenings, and tonight was no exception. The booths along the right wall and all the tables scattered throughout the cozy diner were filled to capacity. The upbeat rhythm of rock oldies, Mom’s favorite, mingled with laughter and the low hum of conversation.

A table of older gentlemen pointed at him.

“Declan!” Seventy-something Lyle Graves waved a copy of the Detroit paper in the air. “Wanna sign my copy? Great job, boy.” Beside him, Dad flashed Declan a thumbs up.

Whoa. He hadn’t seen his parents since the article had released this morning, but apparently it had earned him some respect among his family.

“Maybe later, Lyle,” Declan called back across the room.

Next Declan passed Mia and Cody and her two kids, and another few tables of locals, each one with one of those stupid newspapers sitting beside their plates of meatloaf and bowls of potato soup.

He wasn’t surprised. Dani had pre-ordered five hundred copies so she could hand them out all over town and at the Tourism Bureau. Of course, upon reading Mr. Mercer’s assessment of Lily’s fudge, she’d been just as dismayed as Declan—and Lily, who’d rushed to the bathroom with “something in her eye” and had returned with red, puffy eyes—but since the paper also had great things to say about the rest of the revitalization efforts, Dani had felt bound to distribute them.

He squeezed past his old Sunday school teacher, Vera Graves—Lyle’s wife—who was carrying a large platter of food toward the back corner booth. “Hi, there, honey. Good to have you home. You make us proud.”

And he couldn’t deny the words found a crack in his heart, filling it up with warmth. “Thanks, Mrs. Graves.”

The kitchen door beside the booth swung open, and Isaac walked out with his busboy bucket. His little brother wore his work uniform of dark jeans and white button-down shirt. He started to bus an abandoned table.

Declan just wanted to get in, get out, and get home so he could relax and think. About ways to capitalize on the good business about to flood his way. Ways to make his processes more efficient so he didn’t spend so many hours at the fudge shop—the long hours and days were starting to wear on him, and would on any employee he left in charge.

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