Welcome to Wickedly Sweet, where each bite is sinfully delicious.

The heading on the bakery's advert jumped off the page, and my stomach filled with a mixture of giddiness and nerves. I was one step closer to owning my very own cupcake shop. Okay, this wasn't exactly my dream position as I'd be working for someone else, but the location was perfect. Back in the town I grew up, back to the place I had spent every day after school drooling over chocolate ganache and fluffy chou pastry.

"When's the interview?" My mum's voice crackled over the line. The clang of metal resonated in the background, along with a few curse words.

I wedged my phone between my ear and shoulder, and topped my cup of tea up with another splash of milk. Unfortunately, I slipped as I scrolled through the local digital papers' ad list, pouring way too much in. Fudge, now it's too milky. I hate milky tea.

"I'll leave in forty minutes or so. Can't stay on for too long. I still need a shower."

"You're cutting it close. Don't be late."

"I won't be. It's around the corner." Literally. It was the reason I had rented this apartment. I could stay at work as long as I needed without worrying about a long walk home in the dark. The fact I could stay in bed until the last minute was another appealing factor. Everyone knew how much I loved my sleep. Which was ironic when my new vocation entailed early starts and late nights.

"Come on, Noa. You'd be late to your own funeral. Don't give them the wrong impression on the first day. You know what your grandfather would say. Early–"

"Early is on time, on time is late, and late is UNACCEPTABLE!" I said in a deeper voice than normal, as I imitated my French grandfather's accent. Ah, Papi Baudet was something else; a hard, grumpy shell on the outside with a loveable, soft centre. He was why I had this dream. Every August from the time I turned ten, I spent my summers at his farm in a rural village in the south of France. My fondest memory was of us both covered in flour and butter smeared on cupboard handles. I missed him.

"I miss that fool," Mum said, reading my mind. My mum lost her parents young, and when she married, her father-in-law—my grandfather—vowed to love her like his own. A vow he'd kept until the very end.

We sighed in sync, and I smiled as I crouched down to rummage through the crisper drawer of my fridge for a fresh pack of raspberries. After sliding them onto the small kitchen trolley behind me, I stripped back the film off my day-old pancake batter and gave it a cautious sniff. It lives to see another day. Propping my phone against a jar of pasta sauce that had yet to make it onto the shelf, I clicked the speaker option and folded my raspberries into the batter.

"I have ten minutes, and then I really should get ready. Tell me about work while I make my breakfast. It will keep my mind off my interview." The emptiness in my stomach intensified as my nerves and hunger fought for top position.

The mix of oil and butter sizzled in the skillet and calmed when the coolish pancake mixture hit the pan.

"Did I tell you about the restaurant down the road from us? Well, they want my latest sculpture for their courtyard and might commission another one for a second location in Barcelona."

My parents moved to Spain the same year I started University. After a little encouragement on my part and years of daydreaming about living in the sun, they sold our country home, quit their jobs and jetted off to Valencia. Both of my mothers—no father in the picture—worked in the Arts, with Mum selling her sculptures and Maman her paintings.

"That's brilliant. Les Deux Mademoiselles one? That's my fave."

"Mine as well! Your grandmother would hate it."

A year and a half after their relocation, Papi suddenly passed away, and it shook our little family unit. They almost moved in with my French Grandmother to take care of her, but that meant giving up their Spanish dream. Having never been a fan of my parents' relationship, she pushed them away, insulting my mum in the process. If it hadn't been for Papi's dying wish, I wasn't sure I could have faced that woman again. Just thinking about it made my blood boil.

I scoffed but didn't comment. She was right though, and it wasn't just because Mum had made it, but that would've been one of the reasons. Why couldn't she just be happy for her own daughter when she finally found love? I counted myself lucky to have never known a life without a loving mother. I was even blessed with having two.

With three uneven discs browned to perfection, I sat down at my makeshift breakfast nook and laced my pancakes with honey.

"What's Maman doing in the background? I can hear her losing it," I asked around a mouthful of food. Another thump and a distinct crash sounded over the phone, followed by even more swearing.

"The washing machine stopped working this morning, and she thinks it's because of a hairpin stuck in the drum. I think it's because we really need a new one, but you know her. No one can tell her otherwise."

I nodded along, agreeing with her even though she couldn't see me, and continued eating my breakfast, glancing every so often at the clock. I had to hang up soon or I'd be late.

"Can I ring—"

"Oh, no! Look, Noa, I have to go. There's water everywhere now," Mum rushed, making it easier for me to hang up.

"I'll call you when—" I tried to add but was cut off again as the disconnect tone replaced my mother's voice. Nothing new there. Always a crisis to avert when it came to them two. I often worried about them being out there on their own, but I had to remind myself I was their child, not their parent.

Swallowing my last bite, I rinsed my plate and left it in the sink, downed a chilled glass of orange juice, and darted for the shower. While I rinsed the soap suds from my skin, I revised the pre-planned answers I had for the owner of the bakery. Hopefully, the portfolio of my previous creations would speak for itself, but I didn't know what to expect from this interview.

I'd been in France the last couple of years and was unsure if my lack of work experience in the UK would work against me or in my favour.

***

Nervous energy coursed through my veins as I rushed around my apartment, looking for my small golden hoops. I peered at the time again, and my nerves tripled. Why didn't I lay my outfit out last night?

I could search for another pair of earrings but my heart was set on them as they were my favourite accessory for the floral sundress I had decided to wear. A risky move for a job interview but Wickedly Sweet was quirky in its decor and if I remembered correctly, Lady B, the owner, was as fun-loving as they came. What if she didn't own the bakery anymore? No, I was certain it was her who answered the phone when I rang about the position and her name was still on the website.

My vision blurred around the edges, and I stopped my search for a second to grab a glass of water. I let out three steady breaths to calm the apprehension rising in my gut, and when I placed my drink down on the side, I caught sight of my hoops near the base of my Aloe Vera plant.

"Thanks for that, Vera. Keeping them safe for me, were you? I owe you one."

I secured my earrings into place and straightened the skirt of my dress. My palms caught on the fabric and I checked I had left no visible marks behind. Now was not the time for sweat or accidental honey traces to ruin my outfit. That could happen after I actually got the job.

"Okay, you look great." A wisp of hair stuck out of place and I flattened it as much as I could. "Shoulders back, smile, and just go with it. You know your stuff. Arrh." My little pep talk only momentarily eased the tightness taking hold of my chest, and I had to stop myself from fiddling with the stray strand any longer.

I debated whether I should cover my shoulders with a cardigan, but decided against it after checking my weather app and grabbed my large black rimmed sunglasses instead. April hadn't disappointed us so far, and it looked like we were in for another sunny day. That would make smiling a lot easier. I loved nothing more than alfresco dinners on a terrace as we slowly crept out of spring and into summer, my favourite season.

With my ballet pumps in place—ballet pumps that matched my dress, of course—I headed out.

"Bloody hell! What's wrong with me?" My toe barely out the door, I remembered there would be no interview without my work portfolio, the very portfolio I had spent hours working on so it would hopefully stand out against any potential baking adversaries. Where was it again? I dashed back into my bedroom and gathered the notes sprawled on top of my duvet cover. They might come in use if any of her questions left me stumped. My faux leather-bound file sat beside them, and I stashed the papers in the back section. Hours of work scattered around in organised chaos, just like everything in my life.

Folder firmly positioned under my arm, I felt ready to face my dream head-on. Nothing or no one would stop me from getting what I knew was destined to be mine.

A cool breeze ruffled the hem of my dress, and sunlight licked at the skin on my bare shoulders like a tender caress. With a handful of birds chirping in the trees bordering the street leading to the bakery, I fought the urge to twirl on the spot like a starlet in her very own feature movie. The air seemed fresher, the sun warmer, and each person I crossed along the way happier. I could hardly contain the smile on my face, even with the bubbles of nerves popping in my stomach.

And then Wickedly Sweet came into sight. The gold cursive lettering stood out against the black painted front and was reminiscent of the traditional patisseries you could find on the streets of suburban Paris. It was what drew me in as a child. My heart skipped a beat, and I fell in love with the location all over again as I was transported back to my first bite into a chocolate-covered eclair with rich vanilla creme patissiere.

My steps slowed while I took it all in. The edgy window display of rustic twigs and branches with clusters of black and purple flowers contrasted with the delicate cakes. Lady B was as much a floral artist as she was an expert baker and I knew from these details alone she was still running the place.

I traced the border on the furthest edge of the expansive window, making sure not to leave any nasty finger marks behind, and took a few minutes to admire her handiwork. Looking down at my watch, I cursed myself for being late. Before walking in, I repeated my mini mantra of shoulders back and smile and turned towards the door with no time to look up.

It all happened so fast. The brightness in my surroundings clouded in dark, black masked my face, as I slammed into a hard chest and crushed my sunglasses into the bridge of my nose. My loose notes flew around me, dispersing on the floor as my portfolio jostled out of my hold. Even in flat pumps, I lost my footing and landed smack bang on my backside.

My hand shot to my side, needing to massage the part that had just hit the concrete. I squeezed my eyes shut as pain radiated down my leg, and I knew I would find a bruise there when I got home.

Mind still on the discomfort, I missed the hand reaching for me and flinched at the sudden contact on my skin. After arching my neck back to put a face to the boulder that knocked me on my bottom, I stilled.

It couldn't be. Not here and definitely not now.

My heart sank as my eyes took in the one person who could mess up all my plans.

Daan Booker.

***

Hello 👋

I'm back with a new story and I hope my readers love it as much as my other two.

I would love to get your thoughts on this first chapter and as always, if you enjoyed it, please vote, comment and follow for more updates.

Clara xo