Summer overslept. She was supposed to be up at four to start the baking prep for the soft open, but after crying herself to sleep over Grayson, she must have set the alarm wrong, because she woke to a wet sensation licking her face.

“Mnmhm . . .” she mumbled, sleepy. Maybe last night had been a terrible dream, and she’d open her eyes to find Grayson lavishing her with kisses and his undying devotion. Then the lick turned into a drool, and she opened her eyes to find Marmaduke sitting on her pillow, slobbering his morning cat breath all over her.

She groaned. “Get off me!” Light was streaming through the windows, and her head ached. But this wasn’t a hangover, this was heartbreak talking. Grayson had made it clear he didn’t really care about her, and now the only man she wanted was probably loading up his Jeep and hightailing it out of the state right now—

Wait a minute, daylight?

Summer sat up. “No, no, no, no, no.” She leapt out of bed and grabbed her phone. Just past 5:30 in the morning. She let out a wail. “No!”

She was screwed. Her sticky buns took at least two hours to proof, and the filling of the pies had to set, and—

Summer gasped a breath and tried not to panic. She stumbled into some clean clothes and raced downstairs, sending emergency texts to the two local girls who were scheduled to work the register today. Butter, sugar, flour—it was all waiting exactly where she’d left it. The only thing she was short on now was time.

And inspiration.

Summer stood there in the kitchen, but for the first time, she felt out of place. Adrift. She knew she needed to get to work, but the memories of Grayson rushed around her, lingering like ghosts right there in the place she’d always loved the most.

This was where she’d made strudel for him that first time—and he’d kissed her, cinnamon-sweet right there by the door. Where he’d found her pounding that dough into submission, and with a few words, managed to make her forget all her anger and stress.

And where he’d laid her out on the island, trailing chocolate frosting down her body until she was begging for more . . .

No.

She dragged her eyes away and crossed to the pantry. She didn’t have time for heartache. Not today. All she could do was get to work and try to shut Grayson from her mind completely. But it was easier said than done, with that raw wound open in her chest, aching with rejection. And just like always, Summer couldn’t help but transfer all her mixed-up emotions to her food. The chocolate glaze came out too bitter; her bread refused to rise. Summer had to bite back the tears, but still, somehow her fruit tartlets all came out of the oven with a salty edge, as if she’d been crying into the filling all the same.

She slammed another batch of cookies in the oven, and prayed that this time, they kept their shape. What was happening to her? This was supposed to be a happy day, the beginning of her adventure, but instead, she was falling apart, all over again.

Maybe her mother was right. She wasn’t cut out to go it alone. This wasn’t even the big public launch day, and she couldn’t get it together to make her brioche rise.

But just the thought of Eve’s told-you-so look set a new fire in Summer’s heart.

“You’re better than this,” she vowed out loud. You don’t quit, especially not over some guy.

Even if he wasn’t just some guy.

She pushed back the memories of Grayson and his heartbreak of a smile, and she grabbed her phone instead. Where were those girls? She needed help, and fast. But before she could send another SOS text, a message bubble arrived on her screen.

Sorry, food poisoning. Kelly’s out too. xo

Summer let out a groan. How was she supposed to serve customers, mind the register, and keep turning out enough goodies for them to buy?

Time for Plan B.

“Where do you need us?”

Twenty minutes later, the cavalry arrived in the form of Poppy and Aunt June. They were still yawning, their buttons done up wrong, but Summer could have kissed them. So she did. “You’re saving my life here,” she vowed, pulling them into the kitchen.

“It’s OK, we’ve got this.” Poppy tied on an apron. “Everything’s going to be alright. Just . . . breathe.”

Summer wished she could believe her, but even Poppy couldn’t hide the doubt in her eyes. She didn’t blame her. The kitchen looked like a hurricane had hit, with bowls and baking trays on every surface, dripping cake batter and trailing piles of flour. Summer could have cried to see her spotless prep area in such a state—but she didn’t have time. And a dirty kitchen was way down the list of things she would weep for today.

“Just tell us what to do,” June said. “We’re at your service.”

Summer didn’t know where to begin. “Can you set up the cash register? The tray’s in the office, there. Poppy, can you please get those loaves out to cool, and take the next batch of buns out front? And then I need more walnuts crushed, and the strawberries hulled, and the caramel sauce mixed.” She felt panic rising again, but Poppy squeezed her hand.

“Crushed walnuts, coming right up. You go change.”

Summer blinked.

“You can’t meet your adoring public in Snoopy pajamas and no bra,” Poppy steered her to the stairs.

“Oh. OK.” Summer hurried up, then paused. “And guys? I can’t thank you enough. Really, you’re saving my ass.”

“And what a cute ass it is, too.” June winked. “Now go on, get pretty!”

Pretty was asking too much, but Summer managed to throw on a cute dress and wipe frosting from her face before hurtling back downstairs. She took one last look around—the bakery room sunny and inviting—and then nervously went to unlock the front doors. She stepped outside and found . . .

Nothing.

The lane was empty, not a person in sight, just the morning sound of birds chirping, Marmaduke sunning himself on the front steps.

Summer’s heart sank. OK, so it was early. And the weekend. And not even the official opening. People were probably still in bed, but they’d soon feel an urge for pastries and bread. Besides, this gave her some extra time to make sure she had everything ready. That was a good thing, right?

Still, she couldn’t stop her insecurities rising as she headed back behind the counter. What if nobody came? What if they’d all been lying, saying they couldn’t wait to pay a visit? What if she’d sunk her life savings into a money pit with no sign that she’d ever sell another slice of pie—?

“Are you open yet?”

Summer turned, her spirits rising to see one of the locals, Debra, with a couple of friends in tow. “Yes!” she exclaimed happily. “And you’re my first customers. Which means you get to sample my sticky buns before anyone else.”

“Ooh.” Debra smiled, coming closer to the display case. “Look at this. I was only going to get some bread, but it would be a shame to miss out . . .”

They bustled around, cooing over the various treats on offer before making their selections. Summer was so happy to have actual live customers that she almost gave it to them on the house, but stopped herself just in time. “Have a great day!” she called, sending them out with bakery boxes and crisp paper bags. “Tell all your friends!”

No sooner than the door dinged shut behind them than the bell announced another new arrival—and another. It looked like half of Sweetbriar Cove had descended at once, and by midday, Summer was desperately trying to keep up.

“That’s two French loaves, one pain au raison, and . . .”

“The Pop-Tarts,” the woman in front of her repeated. She was dressed in spotless white jeans, with an expensive purse slung over one arm and a small boy tugging at the other.

“Right!” Summer grabbed the bread from the rack behind her and slipped it into a brown paper bag. “I’m sorry, but we’re all out of the Pop-Tarts.”

The woman sighed. “Brayden, you’ll have to pick something else.”

“I don’t wanna,” the kid whined. “I wanna Pop-Tart!”

Summer winced. There was a line forming behind them, but the kid looked so stricken, she couldn’t help but pause.

“I can go check in the back, in case there are some still left?” she offered, and the woman rolled her eyes.

“Fine. But make it fast, we’re late for his sailing lesson.”

OK, then.

Summer dashed into the back, where June and Poppy were working flat-out, dolloping cookie dough onto baking sheets and rotating fresh-baked pies out of the oven to cool.

“How’s it going out there?” Poppy asked. “I can’t believe the crowds!”

“It’s these cookies,” June added, looking guilty. She had crumbs around her collar, and a smear of chocolate on her chin. “They’re addictive. I’ve had three already. Alright. Five.”

“You can eat as many as you like,” Summer assured her. “Any more of those Pop-Tarts?”

Poppy looked around. “Over by the sink.”

“Thank you!” Summer grabbed them and rushed back out. “You’re in luck,” she told the woman, still waiting impatiently by the register. “We still have a few left. They’re strawberry,” she added, as the kid reached out and grabbed one. “Enjoy!”

The woman slapped it out of Brayden’s hand. “What are you doing? He’s allergic to strawberries!”

Summer gulped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Do you realize what would have happened if you served my child that poison?” The woman’s voice rose. “He’s very sensitive to seeded fruit. His nutritionist says it could interfere with his digestion!”

“Oh, is that all?” Summer exhaled with relief. “I thought you meant like, anaphylactic shock. No harm done, how about a chocolate croissant?”

“No harm done?” The woman’s face turned red. “What kind of place are you running here?”

Summer took a step back. She’d seen her share of fussy customers back in New York, but this woman was taking it to a whole new level. “Again, you have my apologies,” she said smoothly. “You know what? Your order is on the house today.”

“It had better be!” the woman scowled. “And let me tell you, we won’t be back. Brayden!” She spun on her heel and marched towards the door.

Good riddance, Summer thought silently, turning to serve the next customer, but before she could greet them, there was some kind of commotion in the doorway. A Labrador dog was barking loudly, just inside the shop.

“I’m sorry,” Summer called. “No animals allowed.”

“What about the cat?” The dog’s owner said.

“What cat?”

He pointed, and Summer turned to find Marmaduke sitting snug up on one of the built-in shelves, surveying the room. No! “He’s not . . . I’m sorry, he shouldn’t be there.”

Summer hurried out from behind the counter, and tried to grab Marmaduke, but he was settled too high to reach. The dog barked again, tugging at his leash, and Marmaduke’s hackles rose. He hissed, glaring down. The dog barked louder.

“I’m so sorry,” Summer apologized to the customers waiting in line. “I just need to . . . Marmaduke, come down. Please?”

Suddenly, the dog broke free, yanking his leash from his owner’s hand. He bounded across the bakery, barking non-stop. Marmaduke leapt down, bolting in the other direction as they chased each other around the shop.

It was pandemonium.

People leapt back out of the way, bumping into shelves and tables, while the animals careened around the room. And in the middle of it all, Brayden was sitting on the floor, happily eating his Pop-Tart with strawberry jam smeared around his mouth.

“Brayden!” his mother squawked, just as the dog let out another howl and bolted towards Marmaduke, knocking a chair aside and clawing at the tablecloth.

“Down, boy!” his owner yelled.

“Brayden!”

“Wait, do you smell burning?”

Summer whipped her head around. “What?”

People started sniffing the air. “It definitely smells like smoke. Did you leave something in the oven?”

Suddenly, the smoke alarm rang out at ear-splitting volume.

“Nothing to worry about!” Summer cried, backing away. “Poppy?” she called, lunging for the kitchen door.

“I’m sorry!”

She found Poppy and June frantically fanning the stove. A plume of acrid smoke was billowing up, flames licking at the edges.

“Oh my God!” Summer dashed forward, yanking the oven door open. More smoke billowed out, and Summer fell back, coughing.

“Where’s the fire extinguisher?” June asked, uselessly waving a tea towel at the blaze.

The extinguisher. Of course! Summer grabbed it from the pantry, and fumbled with the nozzle. The alarm blared louder, smoke rising higher. “I can’t . . .”

“Here.” Poppy managed to undo the clasp and Summer pointed it at the stove, unleashing a torrent of chemical foam that swamped the whole back wall, until finally, it was all burned out.

There was silence.

She sank back against the island, trying not to cry. She was exhausted, sooty, and everything was falling apart.

And Grayson wasn’t there.

“Summer . . .” Poppy began, sounding tremulous.

“It’s fine!” she interrupted, trying to look upbeat. “Nothing to worry about!” Look, we’ve still got a ton of things left to sell. So I’ll just get back to the customers, and you guys can go home, and—”

Then the sprinklers spluttered to life, and they were all doused in a torrent of cold water.