Buttercup (Spell Library #10) - Helen Scott Page 0,1

Ugh. I was no good at lying.

"Alrighty. Can I get a dozen macarons and four unicorn cupcakes?" Iris asked, although the concern she'd expressed before never left her eyes.

"Whatever you want, you know that," I said, as I pulled on some clean gloves and slid the trays from the display case. "Any specific ones you were wanting?"

She shook her head. "Everything you make is so damn delicious, I don't care."

My heart felt a little less like a cement block at her words. Bryce was nothing compared to what I'd built for myself here. It had taken a shit load of work, and for a while I thought I wouldn't make it. Minerva's Bakery had been so popular that mine had been forgotten about, left in the dust so to speak, especially since it was on the outskirts of town, but now that Minerva's had closed down? I was struggling to keep up with the orders and traffic.

Just as I was about to hand Iris her order, a loud crack sounded, as though something just broke, and a billow of black smoke came out of the door to the kitchen. My stomach lurched.

"I need to go see what that is, here's your order. The gold bag is for Igor," I said as I shoved the two boxes and small green bag toward Iris, panic crawling up my chest, making my heart beat a staccato rhythm.

I stopped in the doorway to the kitchen area and looked over my shoulder to say, "Could you flip the sign to ‘closed’ on your way out?" I didn't want her to see me freak out about the flames that were currently coming out of one of my ovens. It wasn't the industrial one, which I was thankful for, I wasn't sure I could afford to replace a beast like that any time soon.

Iris nodded and said, "I'll text you later. Don't forget about the Silver Springs Hop tonight, I know you're providing all the desserts, but I'd actually like to see you there as well."

"Sure thing, have a good day, hon." I smiled and felt more like I scared her away than anything else with how she hustled out of the store.

Something had made the oven door break, and it was now in pieces on the floor, while flames raged in the back of the oven where I'd been baking my cupcakes. I approached, putting a dishcloth over my mouth so I could get close enough without breathing in a ton of smoke. My cupcake pan was toast, and the cupcakes inside looked like little pieces of coal. Lovely.

I grabbed my oven mitts and pulled the pan of coals out, dumping it into the sink. I tried to turn the oven off, but I could swear that each time I pressed the off button the flames just got higher. I was sweating like a pig and starting to worry about the amount of smoke I was breathing in.

I’d been messing with the oven for what seemed like ages—and the flames had only been getting bigger—when the smoke alarm finally decided to go off. The wailing, honking sound was the last thing I needed. My head was already pounding from lack of oxygen. Another attempt at turning the oven off had no effect, so I pulled the plug. The thing was ruined anyway.

I dashed to the sink and grabbed the kitchen fire extinguisher from under it, prepping it, and aiming it into the oven before letting loose a stream of white foam. It sizzled, and the fire lessened, so I kept spraying until the can was empty and the flames were out. The smoke detector was still screaming.

It wouldn't stop until I'd cleared some of the smoke out.

"Oh, fuck, Buttercup, are you okay?" A very masculine voice sounded from the doorway to the kitchen.

I turned and found Logan standing there in all his tattooed, scrumptious glory.

"Fine, just a faulty oven," I said, and started hacking up a lung.

"Let's get you into the fresh air," he said, stepping into the backroom and taking me by the hand as he led me from the store.

My poor fried brain couldn't process Logan touching me, so I just followed him, dumbfounded. The man had huge hands, and when we got outside, I looked up at him only to find his hazel eyes staring down at me. "Why didn't you call the fire department?" he demanded, as he put on his sunglasses and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up, hiding himself