The bell rings as I push through the glass doors and into my twin sister’s bakery, Coffee, Cakes, and Confections. Our oldest sister, Krystal, is working behind the counter this morning, organizing the coffee filters or something. She came in last Christmas and started managing the place for Hanna while Hanna had to be on pregnancy bed rest. When Hanna came back after the twins were born, she kept Krystal so she could focus on the baking and take more time off. And, honestly, Krystal’s good at running this place—better at it than I was, not that Hanna ever complained.

“Good morning, Liz,” Krystal says. “Coffee?”

“Please. And could you dump, like, half a cup of that caramel sauce into it?”

Krystal, ever the health-conscious one, raises an eyebrow but does as I ask. I help myself to a chocolate croissant. Life is too short to not eat Hanna’s chocolate croissants. Seriously.

“I heard you had another date last night,” Krystal says, handing me my coffee.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask around a bite of chocolate and pastry dough. Jesus, this crap is good.

“New Hope Tattler,” she informs me.

I scowl. “Why do they care about my love life? Is there seriously nothing more interesting happening in this town?”

“There was a full spread about Hanna’s wedding too,” Krystal says. She shrugs. “It’s New Hope. What’s there to say?”

“Is the bride-to-be in the back?”

“Elbow deep in fondant,” Krystal says.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Hanna calls from the kitchen.

Grinning, I take my coffee and croissant and follow the sound of her voice. “Isn’t there a rule about how brides shouldn’t make their own wedding cakes?” I ask when I spot her rolling a thin sheet of fondant icing. I used to hate the crap, but that was because I’d never tried Hanna’s.

“If there is, it’s a stupid rule,” she says. She’s glowing today. Come to think of it, she’s been glowing every day since Nate moved to town, and then her radiance tripled after she had her twin girls.

My heart tugs with the potent cocktail of envy and happiness I’ve grown accustomed to feeling every time I’m near her. There’s no one in the world who deserves happiness as much as my twin, and I could kiss Nate’s feet for giving it to her. But I so badly want a little of what she has. I want it so much it almost hurts.

“How was the date last night?” she asks.

“So you didn’t read about it in the Tattler?”

She rolls her eyes. “I did. Right before I read about how Taylor Swift is rumored to be one of my bridesmaids.”

I snort. “Fair enough, so the Tattler isn’t always accurate, but anything horrible it said about my date with Harry was sadly probably true.”

“It said he was a fifty-two-year-old carpet salesman from Terre Haute,” she says with a cocked brow.

I wrinkle my nose. “He said he was thirty-four, but he may have been fudging by a couple of decades.”

“That bad?”

I shrug. “It’s not really about his age. I could go for a George Clooney older-man type. But there was absolutely no spark.”

“You tried to find a spark?”

“He cornered me when I came out of the bathroom. Shoved his tongue down my throat in case I was hiding it there.” I shake my head. “Then Sam appeared out of nowhere.”

“Where were you again?”

“Brady’s.”

“You’ve gotta stop taking dates to Brady’s if you don’t want to run into Sam.”

But maybe I want to run into Sam. Maybe I miss Sam. But I shake my head and take another bite of my croissant. Hanna knows about what happened with my Super Summer Screw-Up, and how much it changed my relationship with Sam. Not that there was a relationship to change . . . exactly. I wish he’d be more rational about it, but when it comes to Della, Sam isn’t the analytical thinker he is every day at the bank. When it comes to Della, Sam is one hundred percent protective big brother.

I chase my pastry with sugar-laced coffee and finally feel a little better.

“How’s the job hunt going?” she asks.

I’m going to make a T-shirt that says, “Nope, still don’t have a boyfriend, still don’t have a job.” It would be for everyone else to reference, of course. Hanna’s allowed to ask. “Nothing. How sad is it that I’m twenty-four years old and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up?”

“You can work here,” she offers.

“You’re the best for offering, but I’m determined to make it on my own. I’m a big girl now.”

“It’s too bad Della had to let your personal issues poison your business relationship. You were a great preschool teacher.”

“Can I borrow those rose-colored glasses of yours?” I ask. “Because I was a terrible preschool teacher, and I pretty much hated it.” I scrub my hands over my face. Sam’s sister, Della, and I both have Elementary Education degrees, and last year when we couldn’t find jobs, we decided to open our own preschool. It was all fine and dandy until she decided I was a harlot who must be thrust from her life.

Truth be told, I miss Della and our friendship more than I miss the preschool. As much as I always thought I wanted to work with kids, I found myself watching the clock every day, anxious for the minute I could leave the school and tell dirty jokes and curse like a sailor—in other words, be myself.