S
TACEY
M
C
I
NTYRE STOOD
behind the cupcake counter, her hands curling the bottom edge of her apron as she tried to decide what to do. Should she go over to the women sitting at the round white table in the dining area? Andi, Kim, and Rachel had divided a single cupcake into three pieces, a triple-chocolate temptation oozing with a gooey, cream-filled center and frosted with a rich milk chocolate ganache. Her favorite.

She glanced at the clock and bit her lower lip. Her shift at Creative Cupcakes finished in two minutes, and she was certain her employers wouldn’t mind if she joined them, but she feared she wouldn’t have anything to say.

She’d overheard Andi, almost seven months’ pregnant, debating which name to choose for her baby. Andi’s younger sister, Kim, a joyful bride-to-be, discussed plans for her upcoming August wedding. And Stacey’s cousin, Rachel, rehearsed lines for the lead role in a play at a local theater. These were all topics she knew nothing about.

And while Andi, Kim, and Rachel had known each other since childhood, she had joined the cupcake crew only six months before. They’d asked her to help in the shop when she’d flown in from Idaho for Rachel’s Christmas Eve wedding. Then when she decided to stay in Astoria, Oregon, and moved into Rachel’s old room at her aunt Sarah’s, they’d hired her full time.

Even more exciting, the three entrepreneurial women had asked her to run their new mobile cupcake stand this summer in Cannon Beach, a small resort town forty minutes away along the Oregon coast. She must have earned their trust, but because she was an
employee
and could be fired, she remained self-conscious in their presence.

Stacey untied the pink Creative Cupcakes apron from around her waist, tossed it in the dirty laundry bag beneath the register, and,, glanced their way again, hating to interrupt them. Then she called out, “My shift is over.”

No response. Maybe her voice hadn’t been loud enough. She leaned over the marble counter and repeated, “I’m leaving.”

Oops, too loud this time. Andi, Rachel, and Kim each did a little jump in their seat before turning in her direction. Then they gave her smiles and a big wave.

Stacey thought one more time about joining them, and a lump rose in the back of her throat. She’d give anything to have a group of tight-knit friends in her life, those who would cheer for her on good days and commiserate with her during the bad. Instead, her “un-Liked” social media status announced to the world she was thirty years old and alone.

But it was her own fault she lacked connections. Moving from state to state made it hard to form lasting relationships, especially in the
romance
department, and her extreme awkwardness in social situations didn’t help.

She hadn’t gone out the door yet. She could still go sit at the table and listen to Andi, Kim, and Rachel talk about all they had to look forward to. But during her hesitation they’d turned their attention back to each other.

No . . . maybe a different day, one when she knew she’d have something to contribute and the employer versus employee gulf didn’t seem so wide.

S
TACEY STEPPED OUT
into the warm, early June sunshine, thought about what
she
had to look forward to, and decided to drive her beat-up old Geo Metro to Cannon Beach. First she’d scout out the area where she’d start selling cupcakes the following week. After that she’d sit in a beach chair, relax, and read her new
Kate Jones
action-adventure book by author D. V. Berkom.

Sounds like a good plan.
But then she passed by a cottage having a yard sale on the front lawn, and she pulled over to the curb and parked, the lure of a good bargain too hard for her to resist.

After all, was there anything better than a yard sale full of unique, one-of-a-kind treasures? Stacey didn’t think so as she hurried from the car to the table displaying an antique patterned teacup and saucer set and a hand-crank coffee bean grinder. She’d been a “yard bird” ever since a tornado wiped out her family home when she was fourteen. She’d found it the cheapest way to get what she needed and prepare for whatever disaster might befall her in the future.

She set her survival backpack on the ground to take a closer look at the small, heart-shaped locket and gold chain on the next table. The necklace reminded her of the one her grandmother had given her long ago, the one she had recently lost. She held the piece against her chest and realized it didn’t go with her paisley blouse, but what did that matter? Her camouflage shorts didn’t complement her blouse either.

However, her main goal was to save enough money for rent on the apartment she’d secured with a first-month’s holding fee. Someday she hoped to buy a house, but at the end of summer, on September 1, she’d at least have her own apartment. A place to call her own. With this in mind, she set the necklace back down.

“How much for the ice cream scoop?” the man beside her asked.

His voice was rich, smooth, with a deep timbre that struck a chord within, and she cast a reflexive glance in his direction to see if he looked as attractive as he sounded.

Yes,
oh yes
. The man dressed in bathing trunks and a T-shirt standing less than an arm’s reach away was definitely heart-breaker material. His six-foot-four-inch height made her Amazonian five-foot-eleven feel normal. His sandy blond hair and aqua eyes replicated a Ken doll, while his muscular frame exuded the masculinity of a sculpted G.I. Joe.

Did he wear a wedding ring? Her gaze darted toward his left hand.
Nope!
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. This guy could be a prime candidate to ask to accompany her to Kim’s wedding if only she could summon the courage to ask him.

Wait, a minute. Not so fast.
She needed to get to know him better first. She needed him to ask her on a date.

The handsome guy paid the yard sale owner the amount requested and turned toward her as if sensing her gaze. “The vintage scoop my grandfather gave me broke, and the ones they make these days just aren’t the same. See how the sides of this scoop dip down to form an elongated oval?”

Her skin prickled with self-awareness, and she wished she’d taken the time to brush her mousy rust-brown hair into at least an attempted semblance of order. Too late now; her appearance was what it was. She’d just have to try to dazzle him with her personality instead.

No, she feared that wouldn’t work either. But what if she tried to be smart like Andi?

“You must really love ice cream.”
Oh, no.
Did she really just say that?
Lame! Incredibly lame.

“I do love ice cream,” he replied. “My grandfather’s homemade blackberry sherbet could make an ice cream enthusiast out of a heat-lovin’ gecko.”

Flirt like Rachel.
She smiled—hopefully with nothing stuck in her teeth. “Now you’re making
me
hungry.”

“For ice cream or lizard?” he teased.

“I was referring to the ice cream. Lizard isn’t on my favorite food list.”

Okay, good job.
Would he take the hint and ask her to accompany him to an ice cream shop? Or a beach picnic? Anywhere but a formal restaurant. She hadn’t dated much in the past, but for some reason dinner dates at restaurants never fared well.

A handsome guy like him undoubtedly had a girlfriend. Or several. Maybe that’s why he didn’t respond to her last comment. Maybe taking her out for food was off limits.

A pro when it came to taking precautions, she decided a backup plan was in order and grabbed the half dozen peanut butter-and-cracker MREs she spotted in a box on the table beside them. The military surplus snack was a perfect fit for both her budget and her backpack.

In addition to the “Meal, Ready-to-Eat” find, she picked up a multitool knife that also included folding mini-scissors, a screwdriver, a bottle opener, a file, and a corkscrew.

“Great tool for camping,” the ice cream lover said, still beside her.

She nodded. “A must-have for my backpack.”

“I’m Dave Wright,” he said, smiling.

“Stacey McIntyre.”

“How many miles do you average?”

“Excuse me?”

“Hiking, he clarified, and nodded toward her backpack.”

Did Dave think she was a nature lover like Kim? Or an adventurer like
Kate Jones
, the kick-butt heroine from her favorite action-adventure novels? A surge of warm, wishful thinking rose within her. If
only.

She paused for a moment, wondering what it would be like to carry a backpack because she was strong and tough, instead of weak and . . .
paranoid
. What would he say if he knew her backpack was stuffed to the brim with emergency supplies for every possible disaster scenario? And the only mileage she’d gone with it was in her car driving from place to place, looking for a safe spot to finally call home?

“My backpack and I have traveled hundreds of miles,” she said, hoping to attract him by playing up the adventurer angle. “Just six months ago I moved into the area from Idaho.”

“I swim to keep in shape, a necessity after eating too much ice cream.” He pointed to the peanut butter-and-cracker MREs she’d tucked under her arm. “How do they taste?”

She tried not to make a face. “Not as good as ice cream, but great if you need them to survive.” Like she did, with her meager finances. The peanut butter packets smothered on the sealed crackers offered her a cheap midafternoon snack. Turning toward the yard sale owner, she asked, “How much?”

“Ten dollars.”

Her heart sank. “That’s a lot of money.”

The owner, dressed like a prestigious country club golfer with his crisp white polo shirt, tan pants, and cap, looked down at her as if she weren’t worthy to grace his yard sale with her presence. “That’s what the items cost.”

She shrank away from his gaze and counted the change in her wallet. “I don’t have enough.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dave interrupted, stepping close enough for her to smell his clean, sea-breezy scent. He looked the seller straight in the eye and asked, “Have you tasted them?”

The seller hesitated, then shook his head. “No, my son brought them home from his tour with the military last August, and they’ve been sitting in the garage ever since.”

“Last August? That’s almost a year ago.” Dave narrowed his eyes. “I bet they taste like cardboard. That is, if they aren’t moldy inside and ready to be thrown in the trash. How do you know they haven’t spoiled?”

Stacey suppressed a laugh. The MREs were packaged for long-term storage, but from the expression on the seller’s face, he didn’t know that.

The man sighed. “I suppose I could drop the price to seven dollars.”

Dave said, “Three.”

“Six,” the seller protested. “That’s a dollar for each MRE in the box.”

BOOK: The Cupcake Diaries

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