One Cup of Daddy and a Dash of Love - Victoria Sue

One

“How long has the store been closed?” Jensen glanced at the Realtor and ignored the slight tssk from his assistant, Eric. Eric was convinced they were wasting their time on such a small business, but it reminded Jensen so much of his aunt’s house and of being a kid spending lots of happy hours sitting on a stool playing with bits of pastry, when they’d driven past earlier, Jensen was helpless not to stop and take a look. He didn’t have his own Realtor with him, but the local agent was apparently more than happy to rush over.

The Realtor lowered her voice as if the seller stood next to them eavesdropping. “Months, Mr. Carmichael. The owner died unfortunately, and her grandson did try and keep it going, but from what I understand, business wasn’t his strong suit. He didn’t have the head for it.” She shook hers in mock sympathy like it was some failing, but she was wrong. Ellie didn’t have a head for business, but she was the best pastry chef this side of New York. He was simply adequate at baking, but his talent for numbers and seeing potential had made their business very successful.

That being said, a small part of Jensen was still the little boy playing with the pastry in Mimi’s kitchen.

“I’m sure if you were interested in an offer, Mr. Simmonds would be very receptive.”

Jensen ignored Eric’s sigh. Eric was right in the respect it wouldn’t fit Jensen’s business portfolio and would unlikely to be classed by his bank as a good prospect. Not that he needed them for this. This was a—what did they call it—a vanity project? Maybe a feel-good one. To be perfectly honest, he had no idea what he would do with it.

Maybe he was so sick of the treadmill his life had become, it was a good place to stop. “Jensen,” Eric nudged, glancing at his watch. He had a board meeting in Atlanta, and Charlotte Airport was still over an hour away.

“And there’s a large stockroom upstairs. No services other than water are connected presently unfortunately.” Miss O’Hare lowered her voice. “Nonpayment I’m afraid.”

Eric’s ears pricked up at that. Eric’s nose for a deal was almost as good as his own. “Really?”

She looked a little hesitant; then almost as if the lure of a good gossip was impossible to resist, she expanded. “Jean Simmonds was nearly a town legend. Philanthropic, Good Samaritan, but her son was something else, and he vanished a good twenty years ago.”

He ignored the small-town gossip, but it was distracting Eric long enough not to notice Jensen checking out the kitchen behind the antiquated glass case that was far too big for the room.

“Then he turns up nineteen years ago with a newborn baby son. Stays a week, then disappears again, leaving Jean with the baby.”

Of course, all the kitchen would need ripping out. It’s a good twenty years old and would never pass the hygiene requirements.

“Now, Dashael—pronounced Dash-eel”—she said it like Jensen and Eric were in kindergarten and needed a phonics lesson—“lives very happily with Jean until he’s eight years or so, then who should turn up but daddy dearest and simply takes him. Nothing Jean can do. She got a lawyer, but that was just an expensive, fruitless exercise.”

Taylor’s does a really neat double electric proofer that would fit in the far corner, and the room is square enough for a central island just like Gran’s back in the day.

He jogged up the back staircase and opened the door into a neat little apartment. What was surprising was even as the downstairs had been dusty, this space looked like it had been scrubbed only that morning. There were a couple of closed doors, but mindful of his meeting and the fact this area would simply be storage, Jensen turned and went back down.

“I don’t know what happened, but nearly two years ago, Dash turns up on his own, and he’s different.”

Jensen stopped pretending he wasn’t listening and stilled. They were still talking about the grandson.

“What do you mean, different?” Eric said in an awed voice.

“Well, I don’t have medical details for the poor boy, but he has turns.”

“You mean like epilepsy or something?”

“No, I mean anxiety, but so much so it nearly freezes the him on the spot and he can’t breathe. The first time it happened was in the store and they called 911. Everyone thought he was having a heart attack.”

Jensen walked back into the front a little uncomfortable at the