A Teaspoon of Trouble Read online

  A Teaspoon of Trouble

  A Bachelor Bake-Off Romance

  Shirley Jump

  A Teaspoon of Trouble

  Copyright © 2017 Shirley Jump

  Kindle Edition

  The Tule Publishing Group, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-945879-80-7

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  The Bachelor Bake-Off series

  Excerpt from A Spoonful of Sugar

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The dog was going to be a problem.

  Carolyn Hanson stared at the dog. He stared back, tail swishing against the white tile floor in a fast semicircle. Hopeful, friendly, determined. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “We gotta take him, Aunt Carolyn.” Her niece Emma put a protective hand on the dog’s collar. “Roscoe is my puppy and I love him.”

  Puppy was being used loosely, considering the dog weighed at least fifty pounds and stood three feet off the ground. He was some kind of mutt mix, with a square boxer face and big ears: one that flopped to the right, one that stood straight up. He seemed like a nice enough dog, so far not much of a barker or jumper, but Carolyn was most definitely not a dog person.

  She wasn’t a kid person, either, but that hadn’t stopped her sister from naming her as Emma’s guardian when a car accident took both Sandy and her husband Bob in one fell swoop.

  Sandy. The thought of her late sister shot a hot river of searing grief through Carolyn’s chest. Almost a month ago, a drunk driver had crossed the median, slamming headfirst into Sandy and Bob’s car. They’d been out on a rare date, something Sandy had been looking forward to all week. And just like that, they were gone, and their only child, a precocious four-year-old named Emma who Carolyn had only met a handful of times, was now…

  Her responsibility.

  For a woman who regularly worked eighty hours a week as a sous chef at a busy restaurant in Manhattan, raising a kid and a “puppy” was going to be impossible. She lived in a tiny cramped apartment of a five-story walk-up in the meat-packing district. So she had asked her boss for a two-week leave of absence so she could pick up Emma and go back home to Montana and figure out a plan.

  Plans gave her comfort, direction, structure. She knew what time she was going to get up, what time she’d get to work, which day she would do laundry, which day she’d grocery shop—everything was listed in little bullets on the running list on her refrigerator at home.

  What she hadn’t planned for was a four-year-old and a dog. Why had her sister thought Carolyn would make a good guardian? She worked into the wee hours of the mornings, lived as sparsely as possible, hadn’t had a real relationship in two years, and had always vowed she’d never get married or have kids. If there was a list of the top 100 people who should be Emma’s guardian, Carolyn would be number 101.

  After the accident, Bob’s parents—who lived just two towns away—had taken Emma and the dog. Then the lawyer had called Carolyn and told her she had been named guardian. Bob’s parents were in their late seventies and overwhelmed by the addition of a small child and a dog to their home, and as sad as they were to see Emma go, Carolyn could almost feel their relief. That left Carolyn in charge, the least motherly person in her family.

  The dog’s tail swooped across the floor, back and forth. Sandy’s house was much like Sandy herself had been—comfortably messy and warm. Toys littered the floor, photos perched on every available surface, and the air smelled of cinnamon and sugar.

  Sandy had loved being a mom, loved everything about the experience. She read the books at night, went to the Mommy & Me classes, did the long days at the playground and the afternoons under tents made out of sheets and couch cushions. Every conversation Carolyn had with her sister had been about Emma, as if everything else in Sandy’s life disappeared the minute she gave birth. It was a concept so foreign to Carolyn, it might as well have been another language.

  So now she stood in the sunny yellow kitchen of Sandy’s house, missing her sister with an ache that ran deep and sharp, and wondered what the hell she was going to do.

  “I love my puppy,” Emma said and wrapped her arms around Roscoe’s neck. “Please, Aunt Carolyn?”

  It was the please that got her in the end. Emma had lost her family and was now having to leave the only home she’d ever known. Carolyn looked down at the little blond girl, bouncy ringlets surrounding a cherubic face and big blue eyes. Ever since Sandy had died, Emma had taken to carrying around one of Sandy’s sweaters. She held it now, clutched between her and the dog, the red knit standing out like a beacon. Emma’s eyes welled and her lower lip trembled.

  Carolyn thought of the suitcases in the hall, all of Emma’s life reduced to two wheeled bags. Once Carolyn had figured out a permanent solution, she’d come back and deal with the house and the furniture, but for now, all Emma had was two suitcases, a thick sweater, and Roscoe. How could Carolyn possibly ask her to leave her dog behind, too?

  How bad could it be, right? Besides, she’d be at her parents’ house in Marietta. Surely they could help with Emma and with the dog. Do whatever it was that a dog needed. She was going to have to figure out how to get a dog from Wyoming to Montana, along with her niece and all the luggage in the same car, but surely it was doable.

  She bent down to Emma’s level, but stayed a little to the right of the dog. He looked like he wanted to lick Carolyn’s face or crawl into her lap. “Okay, Emma, we’ll take him with us.”

  Emma’s smile spread wide and fast. She jumped forward, wrapping Carolyn in a tight hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “You’re…” Carolyn drew back a bit, awkward with this whole kid thing, a kid she barely knew, a kid who hugged everything from the dog to the sofa, “…welcome.”

  “And then when Mommy comes home, I can tell her all about Roscoe going to Grandma’s house,” Emma said.

  “Your mom…” Carolyn struggled to find the words. Hadn’t Bob’s parents had this talk with Emma already? How could Emma still not know, all this time later? Were they just waiting for Carolyn to have this talk? Carolyn, the last person on earth who knew how to comfort a grieving child? “Your mom…isn’t coming home, Emma.”

  “Yes, she is.” Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “Stop saying she’s not.”

  Carolyn had talked to a friend who was a psychologist last week, when she’d found out about Emma. Carolyn had never had to deal with a kid, and needed advice on how to handle the whole transition thing. She’ll accept the truth when she’s ready, the psychologist had said. Don’t push it.

  “We need to finish packing for your trip to Grandma Marilyn’s,” Carolyn said. Maybe if she distracted Emma with something to do, it would erase that sad but defiant look in her eyes. Carolyn only had a couple hours before they needed to get on the road—which meant Carolyn needed to find a way to transport that puppy to Montana.
>
  More and more, it looked like the most likely option was putting Roscoe in the back of her SUV and driving him. Carolyn could only picture her seats shredded and gnawed. Was there some kind of state-to-state dog delivery service? “So, what do you want to take for food in the car?”

  “Spaghetti.”

  “Uh, we can’t take that in the car. It’s pretty messy.”

  “Spaghetti is my favorite. Roscoe likes it too.”

  Carolyn let out a breath. “How about we have something else? Like a sandwich. Do you want a sandwich?”

  “Mommy makes me san-wiches,” Emma said. “I want Mommy’s san-wich.”

  “She…she can’t do that right now,” Carolyn said. “Just tell me what your mommy puts in the sandwich and I’ll make the same thing.”

  Emma shook her head. “I want Mommy to do it.” Then her cheeks reddened, tears filled her eyes and ran down her face in fast rivers. “I don’t want you to do it. I want Mommy to.”

  Carolyn stood there, feeling helpless, wishing Emma’s grandparents were here or Sandy was here, or anyone at all, to help explain the situation to Emma. She got down to Emma’s level again. Change the subject, reroute Emma back to something else. “We’re going to Grandma Marilyn’s house today. Isn’t that going to be fun?”

  Emma’s lower lip trembled. She held Carolyn’s gaze for one long second, then glanced at the floor. She clutched the sweater close to her chest. “I don’t wanna go. I wanna stay here.”

  Carolyn sighed. She had no idea how to make this better, how to help Emma. Except to take her to Montana where hopefully Carolyn’s parents could handle her better than Carolyn could. She kept her eye on that destination. “We can’t do that, Emma. But we’re going to take your dog, and we’re going to see Grandma, and it’s going to be fun. I promise.”

  Although Carolyn had no idea what made for fun with a four-year-old, or how all these changes in the little girl’s life could possibly be labeled as fun. It just sounded like the right thing to say.

  “I don’t wanna go!” Emma turned on her heel and ran out of the room. A second later, there was the slam of a door.

  Or maybe “it’s going to be fun” was the absolutely wrong thing to say. Carolyn sighed.

  Just when she thought she’d escape unscathed, the dog leaned over and licked Carolyn’s face, leaving a trail of slobber from her chin to her temple. It was going to be one long trip to Montana.

  *

  Matthew West had seen three pregnant cats before lunch. Was there some kind of pregnant cat epidemic in Marietta that he had missed? Or more likely, Mrs. George’s randy tomcat had had one hell of a night on the town a few months ago. The frisky orange tiger was known for being a busy bachelor cat. Matt cradled the gray tabby in his arms, then headed out to his front office. He’d set up his veterinary practice in Marietta six years ago, after going away for college, an experience that confirmed there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than this quaint, warm town. His office faced the Java Café, the two of them on opposite sides of 3rd Street, which meant he always had the scent of fresh coffee and baked muffins wafting in through the windows. Between him and Emory Bishop, the large-animal vet, creatures great and small were covered in Marietta.

  “And who belongs to this little girl?” he said, giving the tabby a tender rub on the head.

  Brooklyn Murphy popped to her feet. She was eight years old, dressed head to toe in pink, her long brown hair held in place by a sparkly pink headband. Her mother, Meg, sat beside her on the orange vinyl chair. “Me!” Brooklyn said. “That’s my cat Milly.”

  “Well,” Matt said, bending down to Brooklyn’s level, “Miss Milly here isn’t sick. She’s actually going to…” he glanced up at Meg, “…be a mom.”

  Brooklyn’s eyes widened. “She’s gonna have kittens?”

  Meg gasped. “Wait, she’s pregnant?”

  “Yup. And in about four weeks, you’re going to have a few little ones. I counted four, but sometimes there’s one hiding back there.” He always loved this moment, the adventure and excitement of a new life. It made up for all the days when he had to deliver sad news to a pet lover, and the stressful days when it seemed he had more patients than time.

  “Kittens.” Meg sighed. Matt could see her already calculating the extra chaos a bunch of kittens would bring to her house. Meg was already involved in an animal rescue program that had placed a lot of strays in town with good families. This particular stray, Milly, had stolen Brooklyn’s heart and become part of the family.

  “I can take care of them,” Brooklyn said. “I’ll love them and feed them.”

  “Their mom is going to do a lot of that, Brooklyn,” Matt said. “When they’re big enough, you can bring them here and your mom and I can find them some great homes.”

  Brooklyn pouted. “But I don’t wanna give them away.”

  “Whoever adopts one of these kittens—when they’re old enough—is going to love them as much as you do and treat them extra special. Do you remember how happy people are when they adopt from your rescue program? That’s how they’re going to feel about these kittens. Plus, I bet you’re going to be able to visit them and play with them whenever you want,” Matt said. That was the good thing about a small town. People here all knew each other, and treated each other like family.

  Relief filled Meg’s features. “Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Dr. West.”

  “Anytime.” He handed the cat to Brooklyn, and gave the tabby one more pat. “Take good care of her and make sure she gets plenty of rest.”

  “I will! I promise!” They crossed to the counter, paid the bill, then headed out the door, Brooklyn chatting the whole way about the new kittens and what she wanted to name them. Matt chuckled. Yup, it was a good day in the office.

  Matt crossed to the small window beside the receptionist’s desk. “What’s next, Sheryl?”

  “Just one more for the day, and then we’re done.” She handed him a chart. Brunette and stout, Sheryl was organized, efficient and friendly, and a total pushover for anything with four paws. She’d been his receptionist since day one, and he couldn’t imagine running his office without her. “Oh, and Jane McCullough dropped this off this morning. Don’t forget the Bake-Off is next weekend.”

  Matt groaned. He had forgotten about that, even though he’d signed up as one of the sponsors, and then gotten talked into signing up as one of the bachelors who had to bake on stage. A marketing ploy, Jane had assured him, to get more attention from the media and a friendly amount of bidding from the single women in town. All for a good cause, too—to benefit the drive to fund something to memorialize Harry Monroe, who’d died back in September.

  Matt had known first responder Harry Monroe pretty well. The twenty-seven-year-old had been killed on Highway 89 a few months ago, after he’d stopped to help an elderly couple change a flat tire. His family, who owned the grocery store in town, were well respected, but also grieving over the loss of their son, as was the rest of the town.

  The Chamber of Commerce had the idea of turning an empty house in town into a community center for kids and teens—a cause dear to Harry’s heart—and they’d come up with the Bachelor Bake-Off as a way to raise money to renovate the house. There was a time crunch, too, since an investment company was looking at buying the property. Pretty much everyone in Crawford County wanted to see Harry memorialized with a boys’ and girls’ center, hence the Bake-Off, part of a series of fundraisers.

  Matt hadn’t hesitated when Jane, who worked for the Chamber of Commerce, proposed the idea. In 1914, the town had done something similar to draw attention to the reopening of the Graff Hotel. The Bake-Off was part of what Matt loved about Marietta—how the town worked like a big hug—and what had made him insanely agree to participate in a bachelor bake-off fundraiser.

  Problem? He couldn’t bake. The last time he’d bought one of those ready-made tubes of cookie dough, he’d ended up with an oozing burnt glob on the bottom of his stove. Six months later, and he co
uld still catch the scent of burned chocolate chips whenever he opened the oven to warm up a pizza.

  “So, what are you going to bake?” Sheryl asked.

  “Cookies from the supermarket.” He grinned. “Think I can get away with that?”

  “Uh, considering it’s a live, on a stage baking contest…no.” Sheryl shook her head and smirked. “All I can say is good luck and I’m going to be in the front row, watching you crash and burn. Because I’m a good friend like that.”

  “Gee, thanks. Remind me to dock your pay next week.”

  Sheryl laughed. “Go ahead. Maybe you can put it toward a lucky charm for the Bake-Off.”

  “I don’t need luck. I have skills.” He grinned again, then turned his attention to the chart. One more patient and his day was done. He flipped through the sheets, a quick scan of the facts about his patient, a dog—mutt, fifty pounds, with a complaint of him acting out and not eating. Matt came around the corner and entered the waiting room. “Roscoe?”

  A blonde in the corner looked up from the magazine she was reading, and when her green eyes connected with his, his heart did a familiar skip-beat. He knew those eyes. Knew that blonde. Even in a thick winter coat, he could recognize her from ten miles away. Holy hell. What was she doing back in town? “Carolyn?”

  The dog popped up, as did a little girl, maybe four years old, with blond ringlets and big green eyes. Carolyn’s daughter? Was she married?

  And why did that thought disappoint him? He hadn’t seen her in ten years, since senior year of high school, since the day she left him in her rearview mirror. I want more than this small-town life, she’d said. I want more than…

  Us. That was the word she had left unsaid. The word that had stung.

  He cleared his throat. Went for cool, casual, you-didn’t-break-my-heart. “Hey, Carolyn.”

  She gave him a little nod. Also going for cool and casual, but more in the we-hardly-knew-each-other way. “Hey, Matt.”

  From the exchange, no one would know that he had once been wildly in love with her. That his entire world had centered around her, and her smile. And how the day of graduation, their paths had diverged and he had realized he had never really known the girl he had loved. Ancient history. Which was where his thoughts about her should stay.