Page 2 of Sweet Ruin

I did.

Who drove Vivian to dance practice and proms, to friends’ houses and first dates? Who brushed her hair and painted her nails? Who did everything for a sister who didn’t know that “thank” and “you” were two words that can sometimes go together?

Me. I did. I did it all.

Even at the ripe old age of thirty-one, old habits are hard to shake.

Priya, my head baker, fought me about my self-imposed martyrdom at closing time yesterday.

“Text me if it gets bad,” she ordered. She had her coat half on, one shoulder against the doorframe. “I’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Go home, girl,” I told her with a smile. “Pinch that little cutie’s cheeks for me. Boink your husband. Sleep in. You deserve it.”

She’d laughed and blushed. “Well, alright. Don’t threaten me with a good time. But don’t overdo it, okay? And maybe carve out some time to go home and boink your husband, too.”

I’d promised her I would.

But the second she left, my smile fell right off my face like a deflated soufflé.

The boinking in my household hasn’t been so frequent lately. Connor, my husband, has been distant. I’m not sure why, and I bet a lot of it is my fault. I’ve been working hard to get the bakery up and running. He’s probably just fed up with coming in second place.

I make myself a deal: When I get home, I’ll make him his favorite breakfast, and then we’ll go to bed.

Just the two of us, wrapped up in each other, like it used to be when we first started dating.

Yeah. That sounds nice.

Satisfied and a little less daunted by the work in front of me, I get back to it.

To set the mood, I put on the radio. The oven’s already up to temp and the whole front of the bakery smells like the leftover cinnamon from yesterday.

Showtime, baby.

First up is the shortbread bases. I pull the sheet pans off the speed rack and start scoring while the dough is still cold enough to behave.

Then the gingerbread gets rolled between guides so nobody’s snowman comes out thicker on one side than the other.

Batch two of royal icing goes in the KitchenAid. I add the Americolor a drop at a time with a toothpick, because anyone who squeezes the bottle directly into the bowl should be reported to federal authorities.

Super Red for the ornaments. Electric Green, cut way down with white, for the wreaths.

I’m even dancing a little bit while I work. Who doesn’t love some Christmas-time Mariah Carey to loosen up the hips?

By 2:15 A.M., I have twelve dozen shortbread bases cooling and my croissant dough has finally softened into something that isn’t a construction material. I give it a lock-in fold, quarter turn, back to the walk-in. Set the timer. Wipe the bench. Sweep the flour off the floor because I’ve done a full-on slip-and-split once already this month. My hamstrings are still recovering.

The Rat Pack comes on. I’m in such a good groove that I find myself hip-checking the walk-in door shut on the downbeat, like I’m a romcom heroine in the Happy Times montage before everything turns to shit.

Grinning, I do a slow spin with a half sheet of gingerbread held above my head like it’s a cocktail tray and I’m the most sought-after waitress at some 1962 supper club.

It’s wild to say, but I really do love this. Standing alone in a kitchen at three in the morning with my hands in butter is the closest I get to a religious experience.

My mother always thought it was a phase. Sweets are for children. You’ll grow out of it.

Vivian, of course, accused me of picking the one career where I get to eat icing straight out of the tub for a living.

But they’re both wrong. It’s love that keeps me here. Love for the process, for the joy of creation, and also for the joy of sharing. Every single “Yum!” and happy smile on my customers’ faces makes my own heart light up.

When four o’clock strikes, I survey my progress. The wedding cake layers are wrapped, the case items are proofing, and the first four dozen sugar cookies are flooded and drying under the fan. I stop to eat a broken snowman over the trash can because I’m starving and I need some blood sugar, STAT, before I face-plant into the meringue.