In the Case of Heartbreak

Book 2: Fern Falls

by Courtney Kae

Genres: Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Ben has been baking his grandma's cinnamon rolls at the family café for years. He's been quietly in love with Adam Reed, his musician-slash-mechanic neighbor, for just as long. But Ben's done waiting behind the pastry case. He's entered a make-or-break competition to show off his own recipes. He's going to buy his overprotective family out of the business. And he's going to ask Adam out. TONIGHT.



Except his big plans get punched down before they even half-rise. Soon Ben is dashing down the coast to his grandma's eightieth birthday party, hiding his broken heart in Maywell Bay, California. Sun, sea, and fresh breezes should blow in something new—except they don't. They blow in Adam Reed, grinning like a pirate and stealing the show as the musical entertainment hired by Grandma for her big bash. Grandma's signature Heartbreak Tea is the only remedy, and Grandma's tea could take the paint off a fence.



But there's a burn of truth along with the booze in his bottle, and Ben has a decision to make. Can he take the sweetness in front of him, and brave the bitterness that comes after? Or is a little sea salt just what this cinnamon roll needs?



Salty cinnamon rolls? Ew. Ben would never.

Release date: July 25, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

You can’t be mad at a guy carrying cinnamon rolls, unless that guy dumps those cinnamon rolls on your head. With the way I’m shaking, that’s exactly what’s going to happen to a poor unfortunate customer if I don’t get myself together.

I focus on my reflection in the espresso machine, the only barrier between me and my stuffed-to-the-white-pine-walls café. All of Fern Falls must be here, dressed in their flannel best for the “Hollywood crew” they’ve hyped since word got out that the bakery is being filmed on live TV.

I can’t even make out my glasses in the panel of stainless steel, but I’m gonna act like it’s a thrice-cleaned mirror, because looking anywhere else will make me freeze before the million cameras staged around Peak Perk Café.

Okay, there is one camera and one large boom mic, both of which are handheld by women who remain faceless (due to the equipment covering most of their appearance). Dylan, who introduced themself as the show producer (then promptly folded into a downward dog yoga pose, muscles stiff from the five-hour drive from LA), gives me a thumbs-up in my peripheral. They wear a yellow T-shirt that pops against their light brown skin and says FOODIES DO IT BETTER in a bold white typeface.

That’s been the whole experience of this TV thing. People are supportive and/or placating while I panic.

A couple months ago, I received an email from a scout at Delish Dollars Studios announcing Peak Perk Café was chosen as one of two finalists in the baking competition show Take the Cake National. The network-run show selects up-and-coming bakeries with a locally loved product to build into a brand.

Despite my resistance to being filmed, photographed, and perceived in general, I caved when Grandma said, “Ben Parrish, if you don’t take this once-in-a-lifetime offer, I’ll cancel my birthday reunion, I swear upon my fast-approaching grave.”

G-ma (which she then informed me is her preferred title for her ninth decade) does not mess around when it comes to the grandma guilt. Plus, I owe her—not that she would ever want me to feel this way. Five years ago, when Mary Sue, the original owner of this café, put it up for sale, I was eager to take over because I was sure I couldn’t fail. I baked with my mom my whole life and had a cookbook full of her recipes. How hard could opening my own bakery be?

Really hard, apparently.

Especially hard in a small town where the tourism season is short, but customers’ memories are long, and Mary Sue had a loyal base that was hard to win over. Mom saved me with her menu improvements, and Grandma swooped in with her financial backing, with “To my wonderful grandson” on the more-than-generous check. She still won’t let me pay her back, and I can’t disappoint her by refusing Take the Cake National, especially after she just recovered from a stroke that happened last year.

Talking Mom into letting me participate in the show was another matter.

She finally conceded during our FaceTime call, the conversation going something like: “Ben. I don’t want this to open old wounds for you. The media can be nasty and one-sided and I don’t want you to suffer again.”

“Mom,” I said. “This is not the same as when Dad left. I’m grown now. I can handle this.”

Was I talking out of my ass? Absolutely. Even imagining my face on TV or news outlets had me back in weekly therapy appointments.

Mom chewed the inside of her cheek. “Grandma’s birthday celebration is that weekend. I’ll be busy with preparations, so I won’t be able to drive up. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

I gripped my phone. “I’ll see you the day after filming. I’ll be all right. Promise.”

She said she would do a tarot spread, but ultimately, the decision was between me and the universe.

So, I signed the contract with Delish Dollars Studios and agreed to take the Parrish Family Cinnamon Rolls to Take the Cake National.

Confronting my fear of the media will be a growth opportunity for me. A chance to finally face down my demons. And I’ll be doing it with my therapist on speed dial.

Mom sent a “good luck is in the stars” text this morning and said she can’t wait to celebrate with me when I arrive at Grandma’s beach house tomorrow for the birthday reunion.

Now, here I am, the consequence of my decision before me, wielding cameras.

I’m not sure I can go through with this.

I grip the edge of the counter as images flash in my mind: my eight-year-old school photo plastered on MISSING flyers around town days after I was found in the forest behind my home. That same messy-haired, pale-skinned, lopsided glasses me circulated on news stations as CHILD MISSING IN THE WOODS, then FERN FALLS SEARCH AND RESCUE RECOVERS LOST EIGHT-YEAR-OLD. Finally, a week later: DCFS INVESTIGATES MUSIC INDUSTRY FATHER JAKE GIBBONS AFTER SON IS FOUND IN THE FOREST.

It’s great how your body can age to twenty-six, but trauma still hits the nervous system like you’re eight years old.

Breathe, Ben. Breathe.

Cinnamon, brown sugar, vanilla. Good.

Producer Dylan and the film crew duo fidget beyond the pastry case, ready to record my hometown montage. Thankfully, since all voting for the show was done online, it’s the only episode I’ll need to film besides the finale. Both episodes are recorded live. So, there’s no messing up here. No making mistakes.

One day. I can make it through one day.

Then, I’ll have at least a month to recover before San Francisco, where I’ll make my apparently famous cinnamon rolls on live TV so America can vote between me and Sandra Rose from Ohio, who bakes cupcakes in waffle cones. One of our handmade artisan products will then be mass-produced, packaged, and flung onto Walmart shelves. But Walmart once carried Grey Poupon ice cream, a fact that I will mollify myself with in the event that I don’t win. But winning isn’t the whole point. The point is to take this opportunity, to try something new, to succeed on my own for once. I want to make G-ma proud and show Mom I’m healing, and that she can, too. We can do hard things (thank you, Glennon Doyle and Abby Wambach).

“You can’t keep your adoring fans waiting forever,” comes a punchy feminine voice.

I find Whitney placing used mugs into the sink along the back wall. Her blue-tipped blond hair is pulled back in a short braid, and her summertime-bronzed skin is flushed from running around filling orders all morning.

“Thank you so much for helping me, Whit.”

She winks. “Like I’d pass up free lattes while you’re gone? Please.”

I chuckle. There aren’t many people I’d entrust my bakery to, so when Whitney said her other jobs were slower during the summer (a cozy fairy-themed teahouse and the local tree farm), I asked her to cover for me while I’m away for Grandma’s two-week marathon birthday and family reunion. I also needed extra help today.

She reaches into the pastry case and piles a tray with chocolate croissants and lemon bars, then pats my back as she passes by. “You’re going to do great, Ben.” She throws another wink my way as she rounds the counter and approaches the cameras, handing Dylan a lemon bar, which they readily accept.

I fill my lungs with brown sugar–scented air and whisper my therapist’s words from last week’s session, something she’s repeated to me for years. “Show up. Be myself. I don’t need to perform.” I sound like one of the many meditation apps on my phone. The words make sense though, and give me a fraction of comfort. This isn’t about me, it’s about the product, and people already love the Parrish Family Cinnamon Rolls. They’ve become a viral sensation since the R&R Resort and Events Center opened on the mountain this past spring. Suddenly, my morning deliveries for the continental breakfast popped up on high-profile Instagram accounts of guests who enjoyed the pastries during their stay.

Then came the flood of comments, DMs, calls, and emails asking about national shipping that prompted me to revamp the café’s website, which led to being contacted by Hollywood.

Now, Dylan the Producer is thumbs-upping me, ready to document my fascinating small mountain town life in Fern Falls, and the cinnamon rolls that “took social media by storm.”

If I keep crouching behind the pastel pink dresser I repurposed as a counter, this will never end, so, another deep breath. I can survive this. I run a hand over my blond hair, smooth my blue dress shirt, and grab the tray of cinnamon rolls tightly enough to combat my nerves—and prevent me from dropping them on anyone’s head. No vanilla-glazed hairdos on my watch.

“Hot buns comin’ through!” I holler, voice cracking as I round the counter, swiveling my hips to barely avoid hitting the back of a green metal chair and the elderly person who occupies it.

I catch my choice of words as soon as they exit my mouth and wince, bracing for the butt-related comments.

Someone shouts, “Woo! They look damn good too, Ben!”

“You offer those to go?” comes a clapback from across the room.

The whole café erupts into laughter, and I can’t help but reluctantly join in since Dylan smiles like this is the best TV they’ve ever made.

My cheeks flame—my face. Not the other cheeks in question. “Oh hey, look at that!” I say. “Prices just increased by twenty percent!” Everyone fake-groans and keeps laughing. Small towns and their jokes. Great, really.

My quip earns another grin from Dylan, so I guess morbid embarrassment is good for something. This is not about my personal life, just a little lighthearted joking being filmed. I’ll be okay.

The noise dies down a bit, and the camera and mic with bodies move in as I make my way past mint- and butter-yellow–painted tabletops, littered with mismatched plates showcasing all varieties of baked goods. Flea market–found mugs and mason jars hold the wide spectrum of drinks on our menu.

I worked hard to find and create pieces that reflect the charm of this community. Fern Falls may be a small mountain town, but like the cayenne in our egg souffles, it packs quite a punch. We’re rustic with flair.

In the years since Mom and Grandma helped me save Peak Perk, it hasn’t changed much—save for the decor. I can’t mess anything up with a vase, can’t ruin our business with a picture frame.

I reach the table where my found family sits, and joy floods my chest. I always feel safe with them.

Before the tray even hits pastel-painted wood, Morgan lunges for a pastry. “You know how much I love your buns,” she chides with a wink. Her blond hair falls over her sheer lilac sleeve as she leans forward, blue eyes twinkling like the mischievous person she’s been since we were in elementary school.

“Babe, I’m sitting right here. Stop flirting with the baker.” Morgan’s wife, Rachel, peers at her with a teasing glint in her dark eyes. She wears a backwards gray baseball cap, brown hair falling past her suntanned shoulders, bared in a white tank top. Her trademark flannel is tied around the waist of her jean shorts, like her lumberjane heart refuses to admit it’s summer.

“Listen,” Morgan says with a smirk, pink rising high on her pale white cheeks, “I may be married—” She bites into a cinnamon roll and moans, licking glaze off her berry-pink lips as she swallows. “But Ben, icing your praises.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “You did not just make the worst pun I’ve ever heard.”

Rachel throws her head back and laughs, lighting up the whole space. She does that a lot now that she and Morgan are married, and well before their wedding. When Morgan returned home from Los Angeles and literally crashed into Rachel’s tree farm, the two became inseparable. Because they were always meant to be.

I grab a roll and tear at it, set it down on the plate before me. Push away the ache that crowds my chest when I’m around other couples, and Rachel, who has the same dimple as her brother Adam. The same crooked smile, full lashes, fuller laugh. I’m happy for Rachel and Morgan, really, but Rachel’s brother Adam, who happens to be the person I’ve loved since I was old enough to realize what a crush was, will never acknowledge me as more than a friend. Which is fair, since I’ve never actually told him how I feel. Confessing that would mean risking rejection, then having to face it over and over again each time I see him in this mountaintop bubble.

At least when my dad left, I didn’t have to be reminded of his rejection face-to-face, day after day. The sad looks from neighbors were bad enough.

When it comes to Adam, I’ll take suffering in silence for one, please. It’s fine. It’s best that way. A pain I can control. Silence is predictable. Safe, secure.

I shake my head, the thoughts along with it. “You’re terrible, Morgan.”

“Excuse me. I am not the one with a Sir Mix-a-Lot lyric mashup on my building.” She jabs an elbow at my ribs.

“Touché,” I say, picturing the TikTok videos people have taken out back with the pastel-pink lyrics painted on the window: THIS BAKERY DOOR DON’T WANT NONE UNLESS YOU’VE GOT BUNS, HON. There’s a BestBunsBakery hashtag and an accompanying dance. I couldn’t pull off the moves if I tried, but patrons seem to like the quirky charm of it along with the cinnamon rolls that lured them here from the resort. And now, I’m on TV.

Dylan the Producer clears their throat.

Right. I need to make conversation. For the camera. That is filming me. “Mrs. Reed, what is it that you like about the cinnamon rolls from Peak Perk Café?”

Morgan opens her mouth to speak, then pauses, glancing behind me.

My face heats. Did I say something wrong?

Dylan’s voice is at my shoulder. “Hey, buddy. How ’bout we loosen up a bit?” they whisper. “Have this sound more natural? It’s not a business interview, okay? You’re among your closest friends.”

Yeah, with my dearest friends, being filmed and watched and judged. I nod, tugging at my collar as Dylan retreats. My throat is too tight.

Morgan puts her half-eaten cinnamon roll on her plate. “Something Rach and I really love, Ben, is how your café, and cinnamon rolls in particular, bring people together.” She gives me an encouraging nod.

I love my best friend so much.

Rachel leans forward. “That’s right. Not only do they draw a massive line at the resort’s continental breakfast each morning, but your pastries have become a Fern Falls staple. People don’t want to leave town without a pink box filled to the brim with Peak Perk goodies.”

They’re not wrong. Busy has become the norm in Fern Falls since Morgan, top-notch event planner, ran a fundraiser at Rachel’s tree farm last year. When they took over the inn above the farm to combine the land into a resort, they saved the whole town from being flattened by a big corporation. Ever since, R&R Resort and Events Center has drawn tourists up the mountain from Los Angeles and beyond, helping this small town get back on its feet and then some.

I squirm in my seat as I realize it’s been too long since I last spoke. Dylan’s tapping shoe confirms it. Rachel bites a cinnamon roll. Morgan holds my gaze, silently urging me to say something. Anything.

I pull at my collar.

“Ben.” Dylan says my name like I’m an uncooperative second grader. “We know you started Peak Perk Café as a family business. What do you see for the future of the bakery, and for your famous cinnamon rolls?”

It’s a simple question. I should have a quick answer. Instead, my lungs deflate like the wind was knocked out of me.

After Dad left, Mom used recipes to create new things for our just-the-two-of-us life.

Dad used to enjoy the cinnamon rolls, so it was the first recipe she changed. She added heavy cream to the rising buns, and they became more fluffy, full, and rich in flavor. She also doctored up the cream cheese frosting until it was so thick it formed upright peaks in the mixing bowl, then, once spread on the baked rolls, melted down into each gooey crevice.

Every time I make them, I remember we survived. Mom made something good.

I’m still looking for my something good, something to create on my own—not that I haven’t tried. There were musicals in high school. I wanted to try out, but each time I stood in front of Mrs. Schubert, the drama teacher, I froze on stage. I knew I’d mess up. Be laughed at. Thought of as that kid who got lost in the woods he’s lived near his whole life—what kind of idiot gets lost in his own backyard? Messes up so badly his dad left weeks later, when he should have been happy to have me back home? Then, of course, I couldn’t even open this bakery on my own. If it weren’t for Mom and Grandma, this café wouldn’t exist.

Peak Perk has become my whole identity. It’s what I do, where I spend all my time. It’s who I am. What do I want for my future? What is my something good?

All my neighbors surround me, fill the café.

Whitney brings two mugs to a table by the front window where Ms. Montoya, my former kindergarten teacher, sits with my old high school principal, Ms. Parra.

They recently started dating, and look at each other so lovingly.

Then, I take in my table. Morgan reaches over to swipe icing off Rachel’s chin.

I want what these couples have.

I want to be in love and happy. Safe. Secure.

Most of all, I don’t want to be afraid anymore.

But those are not things I can say aloud, much less on live national television.

I take a deep breath. “Well, I . . .”

The café door bursts open as a tall, muscular man in a white T-shirt rushes in, his forever-tousled blond hair looking extra-mussed.

I’ve never been more grateful to see Fern Falls’ favorite manic pixie dream himbo.

“Tanner?” I say, getting to my feet. “How may I help you?”

Tanner flashes a wide smile, freckles spreading across his summer-goldened face. “We need you at The Stacks.” He juts a thumb over his shoulder toward the bar he owns a few doors down. “For a, um, well, there’s a thing.”

Whitney crosses her arms and glares at him. “Way to be smooth about the surprise,” she whisper-yells.

“It was a surprise until you said that,” he replies through clenched teeth.

Oh god. What do they have planned?

“Let’s go!” Morgan announces, standing up too quickly to be casual, Rachel following suit.

I eye Dylan. They shrug and usher me forward.

Whatever this surprise is, it has to be better than my blank stares and awkward mumbling.

I turn to Whitney. “Are you okay with—”

She waves her hand toward the door. “I’ve got the café covered.”

I smile my thanks then follow Tanner and the others out the door, camera, mic, and producer trailing us like we’re the leads in a reality show. Oh gosh, I guess we are? Outside the bakery, the heat in my face is raised by the temperature of the air as my oxfords hit cobblestones.

I usually love this walk while on a break from the café or delivering baked goods to my neighboring businesses. We pass tourists pulling up to the Fern Falls General Store, boats and trailers in tow. Kids savor ice cream cones at a picnic table out front of the market, most of which drips down their little arms. I dodge a petite person wielding a fishing pole twice the length of their body. There’s a locally harvested honey stand outside of Tea and Tarot, the newer naturals shop that took off after my mom closed hers down when she moved in with Grandma a year ago. Normally, I’d stop and sample a taste, pick up a jar for the café, and say hello to my mom’s best friends who run the witchy little place, but not today. Not when I’m entourage-ing down Main Street like a Real Housewife of Fern Falls.

“Do you know what this is about?” I ask Morgan.

She motions a zip of her lips. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing bad.”

I swallow hard. Bad could be subjective. She doesn’t even like raisins in her oatmeal cookies.

Music keys up as we near The Stacks, a bright guitar strumming I’d recognize anywhere.

My limbs transform like they always do when I hear Adam Reed play: no more solid than raw batter. In high school, he played the electric guitar at assemblies and football games in the small school band. He’d rehearse on the weekends in the barn at his family’s tree farm. I’d watch while I pretended to be interested in the crafts Morgan and Rachel enjoyed, the fairy gardens they loved to build, then the Taylor Swift albums they liked to play in the hayloft. The whole time, I’d watch Adam from over the banister. He swayed and kept time with the drummer, Ronnie Elways from science class. I wished I had a teaspoon of rhythm so I could play in the band. I would have even rocked the triangle if I had the courage to approach Adam about it.

Yep, this is bad. I’m about to swoon on live television.

We arrive at The Stacks, but instead of walking through the hunter-green doors that lead to Tanner’s gorgeous bar, walls lined with shelves of gem-toned books, we’re greeted with a revamped patio, decked out in Fern Falls’ finest.

Café lights that will shine even brighter once the sun sets form a high perimeter between the pine trees that stand tall at each corner of the polished deck. Long wooden tables and benches are filled with happy patrons. At the front of it all is a stage, and above it hangs a banner emblazoned with HOMETOWN PRIDE FOR PEAK PERK CAFÉ!

My chest swells with emotion as Tanner beams. “This is all for you, bud,” he says. Then he pats me on the back and goes to check in with his customers.

Morgan puts her arm around my shoulders. “We’re so proud of you.” Then she goes and takes a seat.

“And so is he,” Rachel adds, pointing to her brother, who is positioned center stage beneath the banner, before she joins Morgan at the table.

Adam Reed strums his guitar, smiling like he does every time he plays. There’s a certain rhythm his original songs have, a pleasant lilting that mesmerizes me.

I try not to let Rachel’s words go to my heart. He may be proud of me as a friend, but that doesn’t mean he’s interested in being more than that. Especially not when he’s always into his ever-changing bandmates. He buys them drinks after shows and they leave together from the bar. I wish I didn’t keep track of how many he’s had. Fifteen.

A swath of thick brown hair falls across his forehead as he plays, arms flexing in his black T-shirt. His jeans fit more than well and I try very hard not to stare at the perfect lines of his thighs as he balances a foot on the rung of his stool. His black boot bounces in time with the song.

He’s so at peace when he plays, a settling of his brows that isn’t there when he rushes through the café every morning on his way to his auto shop. He orders black coffee and two cinnamon rolls, says he saves the second for an afternoon pick-me-up. He’s always in navy-blue coveralls, the unofficial uniform of Adam’s Auto, where he fixes anything that revs with such expertise he’s been voted best mechanic in the mountain communities since he opened a few years back, around the time I opened the bakery.

Even thoug. . .