Page 11 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
After he’s gone, Delgado stares at me. “So now you’ve got relationship advice from the nicest billionaire in town. You gonna pretend you didn’t hear that too?”
I finish my drink in one long swallow. “I’m not built for sunshine.”
“Then stand next to it for a while. Might surprise you.”
I drive home that night thinking of Julie. Of flour-dusted aprons and tired smiles. I sit in my garage, staring at the half-finished table I worked on days ago. I can’t bring myself to pick up a tool so late.
Instead, I pull out my phone and open her contact info from the report the other day.
I don’t call. Don’t text. I just stare at her name and think I’m not the guy who gets sunshine.
But maybe I could be the guy who doesn’t run from it.
Chapter5
Julie
I’m trying to stay busy even when everything feels unbearably heavy. Everyone says that's the best advice when something terrible happens—keep moving, stay occupied. So, I do. I get up early, mix ingredients, pour, and bake. I force a smile at the customers even though inside I feel like I'm falling apart. But today, my usual act isn’t working.
The news hit me like a punch to the chest. The funeral for Mrs. Waverly is scheduled for next Thursday. Pelican Point is organizing it since she didn’t have any family, and she was such a fixture in the town. They’re holding it at the community chapel downtown, with a reception afterward in the town hall. Even the mayor’s office offered to pay for the flowers and printed programs—a thoughtful touch.
She’s really gone.
I pause midway through wiping down the front counter with the damp cloth I've already scrubbed over the same spot three times. There’s a knot in my throat as big as a grapefruit, and swallowing is nearly impossible.
“Julie?”
I jump, spinning toward the voice and nearly dropping the cloth. I never heard the overhead bell ring which is a testament to how much I’m buried in my own head.
Marcus King is standing in the doorway like some kind of tall, broody statue in a uniform. His eyes flick across the bakery like he’s checking for threats before settling on me.
He’s back.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound normal and failing miserably.
“Hey.” He nods once, then steps inside. His presence fills the room in a way that feels completely disproportionate to the number of words he actually speaks.
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” I say, grabbing the rag and twisting it between my fingers.
“I was in the area.”
I nod and try to look busy, turning toward the stack of delivery boxes that arrived this morning. My supplier got the dates mixed up and sent double my usual order of sugar, flour, and assorted bulk ingredients. I’d asked the delivery driver to leave them near the kitchen door until I could find a second to move them.
Marcus notices. “You need help with moving those to the back storage room?”
“No, it’s fine. I got it.” I wave him off, my voice betraying the lingering tremor of uncertainty.
He arches one eyebrow—so expressive it could be against the law.
“You sure?” he asks. “It’s not a problem.”
I hesitate a moment too long, and he moves past me before I can object. He crouches in front of the heaviest bag—fifty pounds of flour—and lifts it as if it were weightless. I watch his biceps flex under his uniform, and I have to take a deep breath to keep my mind from short-circuiting.
“I’m perfectly capable,” I mumble, grabbing the next lightest box and following him.
He glances over his shoulder. “Never said you weren’t.”
Okay, fair enough.
