Mocha Pleasures. Pamela Yaye

about last month,” she said, feeling a rush of excitement. “Seattle has the best indie artists in the country, and I think we should showcase their talents at Sweetness. We can extend our weekend hours and offer two-for-one specials, as well. Poetry Fridays and Talent Night Saturdays will definitely attract new customers.”

      “This is a bakery, Grace. Not America’s Got Talent.”

      “Dad, at least consider it—”

      “There’s nothing to consider. It’s a stupid idea and we’re not doing it. Case closed.”

      Flinching, as if slapped across the face, she dropped her gaze to her lap and blinked back the tears in her eyes. It was moments like this Grace wished she had siblings. Someone else she could vent to about the bakery, her promotional ideas, her dreams of moving to New York. After graduating from the Seattle Culinary Academy, she’d planned to relocate to the Big Apple to take the culinary world by storm. But it wasn’t to be. Her mother’s death had changed everything. She’d put her plans on ice and devoted her time and energy to growing the family business. To better aid her dad, she’d enrolled in graduate school and acquired a master’s degree in accounting and financial management. It was tough, working at the bakery during the day and attending school at night, but she’d pulled through and graduated at the top of her class.

      Her gaze fell across the framed photographs hanging on the ivory walls. Images of her mother—cutting the ribbon at the bakery’s opening in the early eighties, rolling cookie dough, laughing with customers, manning the till—brought a sad smile to her lips. Her dad could be stubborn and narrow-minded at times, but he was the only family she had left. Since she’d never do anything to disrespect him, she held her tongue.

      “Now is not the time to shake things up. We could alienate customers.” Grunting, he scooped up the papers on his desk and shook his hands in the air. “Lillian’s of Seattle opened a couple months ago, but they’re already cutting into our profits. Sales are down nine percent since April, and those jerks are the reason why. We have to stop them before it’s too late.”

      “Dad, what are you saying?”

      A devilish gleam darkened his face. Her father had a reputation for playing dirty, for outwitting his business rivals with skillful maneuvers, but Grace wanted no part of his schemes. It wasn’t her. Wasn’t in her DNA to be sneaky and underhanded, and she didn’t want to do anything she’d live to regret. Her mother’s words came back to her, playing in her ears loud and clear. Be a woman of integrity, she’d admonished one afternoon while they were baking pastries for a two-hundred-guest baby shower. And don’t let anyone change who you are.

      “Your mother built Sweetness through blood, sweat and tears, and it’s more than just a bakery. It’s her legacy, and I’d never forgive myself if I lost this place.”

      “Dad, you won’t. Sweetness has been the leading bakery in Seattle for decades and that will never change. Our customers are loyal and they won’t desert us.”

      “I won’t lose to a bunch of rich kids who’ve had everything in life handed to them, who’ve never had to work for anything. It’s not going to happen because I won’t let it.”

      Grace wanted to correct him, to tell her dad that based on what she’d read and seen about Jackson Drayson his assumption couldn’t be further from the truth. But she knew it was a bad idea to defend the enemy. Her mind returned to their conversation that morning. She vividly remembered his scent, the sound of his voice, how his eyes twinkled with mischief when he’d asked her out. Reflecting on their exchange, Grace wished she hadn’t been so mean to him. She heard the talk around the bakery, and in her upscale Bellevue neighborhood. She knew what men said about her. They called her the Ice Queen, a man hater, and complained she was more difficult than a pop star.

      Painful memories flooded her heart, piercing her soul like a dagger. Before Phillip Davies, she’d always thought the best of people, but after their bitter breakup she’d lost faith in not only men, but also her ability to choose the right one. Love was overrated. For women who believed in fairy tales. A waste of time, and she’d vowed never to put herself out there again. Why bother? Love didn’t last, didn’t work, and Grace wanted no part of it.

      Seeing Jackson’s image in her mind’s eye, despite her futile attempts to block it out, Grace wondered if he had a girlfriend. She snorted, snickering inwardly. Of course he had a girlfriend. Probably several. One for every day of the week, and in every state, no doubt. Not that she cared. Everything about the overconfident baker screamed player—his swagger, his bad-boy grin, the tattoo on his left bicep that said “Live each day as if it’s your last.” And since he wasn’t her type, Grace shook off her thoughts and stood. It had been another ten-hour day and she was beat. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and fall asleep. “Dad, I’m tired. If it’s okay with you, I’ll prepare the profit-and-loss statements in the morning.”

      “On your way in tomorrow, stop in at Lillian’s and sample something else.” Doug snapped his fingers. “I know. Buy one of those dragnet things they’re advertising all over the place. I want to see what all the fuss is about. The food critic for the Seattle Times said ‘It’s heaven in your mouth’ but I think she’s exaggerating. You know how women are.”

      “Dad, I don’t think returning to Lillian’s is a good idea.”

      His eyes dimmed, and a frown pinched his thin lips. “Why not?”

      Because I’m attracted to Jackson Drayson’s light brown eyes, full lips shaped by a trimmed goatee and muscled biceps. I’m liable to trip and fall flat on my face the next time he smiles at me!

      Knowing she couldn’t tell the truth, she said the first thing that came to mind. “If I go back it might raise suspicions.”

      “Nonsense. They have no idea who you are.” Doug waved off her concerns with a flick of his hands. “It’s crucial you find out more about Lillian’s. If we’re going to crush them—and we will—we need to gather more intel, so return to the bakery and uncover their secrets.”

      Her shoulders sagged and panic ballooned inside her chest. It was official. Her dad had lost it. Gone off the deep end. And now, more than ever, she missed her mom. Rosemary had died fourteen months ago and not a day went by that Grace didn’t think about her. Losing her mom had been a devastating blow, and if not for her father she never would have survived Rosemary’s death. He’d been her anchor, her rock, and although she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was making a mistake, she asked, “Dad, what do you want me to do?”

      For the first time since she’d entered his office an hour earlier, her dad’s face brightened and he grinned like a five-year-old who’d been given a new bike. “Maybe you can fake food poisoning or a nasty spill as you leave the shop. Bad publicity will drive customers away from Lillian’s and straight through our doors.”

      Too shocked to speak, Grace dropped back down in her chair, her mind reeling. Her dad mistook her silence as acquiescence and offered one nefarious idea after another. Grace struggled to make sense of what he was saying and couldn’t believe this was the same man who’d raised her to be an honest, trustworthy person. He loved money, would do anything to make more, and hated that Lillian’s was cutting into his profits. For that reason he was willing to break the rules. Speaking in an animated voice, he encouraged her to return to the bakery, admonished her to befriend the baristas, and even the owners.

      “Grace, are you in?”

      Feeling trapped, her lips too numb to move, she slowly nodded.

      “That’s my girl!”

      Chuckling, he rose from his chair and came around the desk.

      Standing on wobbly legs, Grace dug her sandals into the carpet to steady herself.

      “We got so caught up talking about Lillian’s, I forgot why I asked you to come to my office in the first place,” he said, shaking his head as if annoyed with himself. “I’m having Mr. and Mrs. Ventura over for brunch next Sunday, and I want you there.”

      Grace