Sugar Rush by Donna Kauffman

was shaking. “Yes, Dad. Yes, I am. I like working for myself. Correction, I love working for myself. And, even better, I like making people happy with my food. People I know. People I will see more than once in a lifetime. People who matter. People who care about me, too. Really care.” She knew, deep down, he wasn’t trying to insult her or hurt her feelings, that he wanted what was best for his only child. But it was hard—very hard—to hear that he apparently thought she’d taken a step down by moving here, by opening her own place.
    Impulsively, she scooted around the end of the table again, and hugged him—hard—then bussed him on the cheek. “I’m happy here, Dad. More fulfilled than I’ve ever been, personally and professionally. And that’s the God’s honest truth. I know you may not understand that, and of course, I want you to be proud of me, but I mostly want you to stop worrying about me.”
    “I am proud of you, babycakes.” He shocked her again by hugging her back. Hard. That bear hug she’d wanted so badly. It was as good as she remembered it to be. Better. “As for not worrying ... I’ll do that,” he said, gruffly, “just as soon as you stop worrying about me.” He let her go, then leaned past her and snagged another cupcake before she could gather her wits. He saluted her with it, then walked out through the front. “I’ll lock it,” he called, not sounding particularly angry anymore. Or particularly settled, either. She didn’t know how he was feeling, actually.
    “Join the club,” she muttered.
    She’d been worrying about telling him about Baxter, and what that conversation would lead to. Now she had a whole new slate of things to think about, worry about.
    She turned and looked at the worktables filled with silver cooling racks, relieved beyond measure that she had over a hundred cupcakes to pipe frosting onto.
    That, at least, she understood.
     
    A whole seven hours went by before she had to deal with the matter of Baxter Dunne again. She wasn’t any clearer on how she intended to deal with the matter, much less him personally, than she’d been at six-thirty that morning. She hadn’t seen him since he’d walked out her delivery door, had no idea where he was staying, or what he was doing, or who else might be on the island with him, in terms of a production team.
    She’d opened her shop on time at nine. Her special blend coffee was percolating and ready for serving, along with her warm-from-the-oven streusel-topped cupcakes—both popular items with her growing group of steady morning customers—and proceeded to jump every time the chimes on the door jingled. She’d been half expecting to look up into Baxter’s smiling eyes again. When it wasn’t him—which it hadn’t been, yet—she’d waited for the inevitable gushing, excited, eyewitness story from each and every customer, telling her all about how they’d spotted him somewhere in town, or on the island.
    There had been plenty of buzz about the television show coming to town based on the story in the morning paper, which had worked some of her customers into a veritable fever pitch of anticipation over the arrival of the show’s star host. She was pretty sure she’d sold several dozen cupcakes, all before noon, just because her customers had been hoping to pump Baxter’s former employee for what she might know about his possible whereabouts and details about the show. To their great dismay, she’d been an utter disappointment in both departments. She hoped the cupcakes made up for it a little bit.
    It was after two in the afternoon, and there had been nary a single Chef Hot Cakes sighting. On an island the size of Sugarberry, if he’d been seen by anyone, anywhere, every last man, woman, and pelican would know about it within five minutes. She’d even shamelessly debated on the relative merits of leaving the shop in the hands of her part-time helper, Dre, and going home to hide out until he