Moving on.

“I haven’t stocked your fridge in awhile,” I reminded him.

Another thing to note, two houses with one woman meant one woman cleaning two houses and stocking two fridges. Brock, I had learned, was not clean or tidy. Brock, I had also learned, had lived his life since divorcing Olivia (who, he informed me, was not a master chef or even close) on pizza, Chinese, fast food and takeaway Mexican.

Considering this, it was beginning to dawn that Brock’s body was a minor miracle even with all that running and gym time.

“We’ll order pizza,” he decided.

That I could do.

“Cool,” I agreed.

“And I’m tied up, gonna be half an hour later, maybe an hour,” he said. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way home and you can order the pizza.”

“Does that mean someone died?” I asked.

His voice held restrained humor when he answered, “Yeah, sweetness, part of the gig of homicide is someone dying.”

I turned and looked out into the bakery smelling cake smells.

When my phone rang at the bakery, this usually meant someone wanted to order a birthday cake. When Brock’s rang at the Station, this usually meant someone had a cap busted in their ass.

My job was way better.

Thus I didn’t mind (too much) cleaning two houses and stocking two fridges.

“Okay, baby, text me and I’ll order the pizza,” I said softly.

There was a moment’s pause before I got a, “My sweet Tess,” then I got a disconnect.

I allowed myself some time to feel the tingle Brock calling me his sweet Tess sent shimmering through me. Then I shoved the rest of the cupcake into my mouth and allowed myself some more time to feel a different kind of tingle.

Then I shoved my phone in my purse, pulled on my coat and headed out.

I hit the public area of my bakery and, as it always did and I hoped it always would, that gave me a tingle too.

Three robin’s egg blue walls, one of them with a huge, stenciled pattern in lavender of hibiscus blossoms attended by hummingbirds with the back wall behind the display case painted lavender with “Tessa’s Cakes” in flowery script painted in robin’s egg blue surrounded by hibiscus and hummingbirds. This was positioned just a few inches from where the wall met the ceiling so people could see it clearly from the wide front windows facing the street.

I still had no idea where I got the theme, outside those colors being my favorite. Flowers and birds didn’t scream bakery! But the colors were warm and beautiful, the flowers and birds delicate and striking. I’d paid a whack for the look and the customized stenciling. With my constant changes and obsession with getting it just right I’d driven the artist bonkers who created it and my logo but it had been worth it.

In fact, I’d paid a whack for everything that had to do with the look or feel of my bakery.

Upon copious consumption of wine with Martha as I planned the rest of my life post-Damian, we had both decided if I was going to go for it, I might as well go whole hog. So when I launched Tessa’s Cakes, I didn’t f**k around. I planned everything to the minutest detail, hired my staff with careful consideration that went beyond them arriving on time and being able to punch buttons on a cash register and I launched the entire concept. Beautiful cakes that tasted really freaking good bought from friendly personnel who didn’t have vacant looks but easily apparent personalities in a bakery where you either wanted to come back or you wanted to stay awhile.

The floors were wood as was the frame of the old-fashioned display case which was filled with beautiful cakes, cupcakes and delectable-looking cookies, this topped with mismatching but very cool covered cake stands and glass cookie jars. There were battered wooden counters on either side of the display case that also held cookie jars and cake stands and there were shelves on the wall behind the case and counters with even more. Two big blackboards were on the walls on either side of the shelves with the day’s ever-changing goodies scrolled artfully on them in lavender and blue chalk, hibiscus and hummingbirds decorating the corners.

There were tables out front if you wanted to hang and eat your treats, these again all wood, again all mismatched the only thing each of the chairs shared was being wide seated, sturdy and comfortable. Each table was topped with a tiny steel bucket with a poofy display of flowers and there was a much bigger bucket filled with a spray of them on one of the counters. These were rotated twice a week by a local florist who gave me a killer discount because I had a small sign that advertised they were hers.

I served coffee, tea and different flavored milk but no espresso drinks because my place was about baked goods, not coffee drinks and I wanted the hum of the place not to include the blast of steam every five seconds nor the look of it marred by a behemoth espresso machine. I also didn’t want my kids spending their time sweating over making lattes; I wanted them to spend their time selling cakes.

As Brock was dealing with a dead person and this, in my mind, required cake to expunge any residual mental unpleasantness, I headed to the stacks of flat-packed boxes (piled alternate blue and lavender, all with my Tessa’s Cakes logo stamped on top). I grabbed a six cupcake one, folded it, selected some treats for Brock then closed it and tied it with bakery string (again, two colors, blue on lavender, which was what I had, then there was lavender string for the blue boxes).

I held the box by the string, called my good-byes and headed outside and, after the warmth of my bakery, the arctic blast was a physical hit.

We were having a harsh winter, lots of cold, bursts of snow. It was after five, full-on dark and the air was crisp. As I disliked driving in snow, I checked the weather every morning with an obsession that was slightly scary (however, I never thought this, I only thought this after Brock told me he thought this but luckily he did it while chuckling) and today they said forty percent chance of snow flurries. Considering my snow-o-meter was finally tuned, I thought the air said more like a one hundred percent chance.

I got in my car, stowed the box and my purse and fired it up then pulled out my cell to call Martha to see if she was home for me to come by and hang for a quick glass of wine before heading to Brock’s but it rang as my finger hovered to slide it on.

It said “Cob Calling”.

My brows drew together.

Cob and I had exchanged phone numbers but he’d never phoned me. I’d, of course, seen him on occasion considering we’d just finished holiday season and, during it, he’d popped over to see his boys and give them presents.