“Probably.” Mackenzie put her free hand over her rapidly beating heart.
“Just close your eyes and take in long, deep breaths. You’ll feel better in a minute.”
“Okay...”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m parked. I didn’t feel...stable enough to drive.”
“That was smart,” Rayna said. “Look—just take your time, pull yourself together and then come over. We’ll figure this out. Hope’s still at the barn?”
“Yeah. I pick her up at seven, after they bed down the horses.”
“Charlie’ll be home by the time you get here—we’ll commiserate over pasta,” Rayna said in her typical take-charge tone.
“Thank you.” Comfort food with friends sounded like a great idea.
“And, Mackenzie?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s going to be okay,” Rayna said. “God is answering our prayers.”
Rayna was one of the pastors for her nondenominational church of like-minded hippies and saw all life’s events through the lens of a true believer.
“Hope’s prayers,” Mackenzie clarified. “Hope’s prayers.”
“Hope’s prayers are our prayers. Aren’t they?” Rayna countered gently. “Listen—I’ll put on a pot of coffee and I’ll see you when you get here. Be safe.”
Mackenzie hung up the phone but didn’t crank the engine immediately. Her mind was racing but her body was motionless. After ten minutes of taking long, deep breaths, Mackenzie finally felt calm enough to drive and set off for her friend’s Balboa Park bungalow. Rayna was right. Her daughter’s prayers were her prayers. She just hadn’t been prepared for this prayer to be answered so quickly.
* * *
“Little one!” Molita Jean-Baptiste, the bakery manager, poked her head into the kitchen. “There’s a young man out here who wants to talk to you.”
“Okay,” Mackenzie said as she slid a large pan of carrot-cake cupcakes into the oven. “I’ll be right there.”
Mackenzie closed the door of the industrial baking oven and then wiped her hands on a towel before she headed for the front of the bakery. She put a welcoming, professional smile on her face as she pushed the swinging doors apart and walked through. But her smile dropped for a split second when she saw Dylan standing next to one of the display counters.
“Hi,” Dylan greeted her with his friendly, boyish smile. “Nice place.”
“Thank you.” Mackenzie glanced over at Molita who was restocking the cases and pretending to mind her own business. “Are you here to order cupcakes?”
“No.” Dylan laughed. “I’m here to see you.”
“Oh.” Mackenzie frowned. “Okay.”
For the last week, she had lost countless hours of sleep trying to figure out what to do about Dylan. And after so many sleepless nights, she still hadn’t figured out how to blindside the man with a ten-year-old daughter.
“Would you like something to eat, young man?” Molita asked. Haitian-born and in her sixties now, Molita was as round as she was tall. Whether Molita was having a day of aches and pains or not, she always greeted the customers like family. She was the backbone of Nothin’ But Cupcakes, and Mackenzie often joked that customers came to see Molita as much as they came for the cupcakes.
“No, thank you.” Dylan put his hand on his flat stomach. “I’m trying to watch my girlish figure.”
“Well...” Molita smiled warmly at Dylan. “You’ll let me know if you change your mind. I just put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
Dylan thanked Molita for the offer and then asked in a lowered voice, “Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Um...yeah. We can talk in my office, I suppose. But I only have a minute.”
“This won’t take too long,” Dylan said.
“I’ll be right back, Moll. I’m just going to step into my office for a minute or two.”
“You know I’ll call ya if I need’ja,” Molita called out from behind the counter.
Dylan followed her to the office. She didn’t typically take anyone to the office, and it struck her, when she opened the door, just how tiny and cluttered it really was.
“Sorry about the mess.” Mackenzie shuffled some papers around in a halfhearted attempt to straighten up. “Believe it or not, I have a system in here...”
“I’m not worried about it.” Dylan closed the door behind him. If Jenna didn’t use a coaster under a glass, it bugged him. But, for whatever reason, Mackenzie’s untidy office didn’t bother him so much.
Dylan squeezed himself into the small chair wedged in the corner on the other side of Mackenzie’s desk.
“It smells really good in here.” Dylan shifted uncomfortably, his knees pressed against the back of the desk.
Mackenzie hastily shoved some papers in a drawer. “Does it?”
“It does.” Dylan looked around the office. “Now I know why you smell like a sugar cookie.”
Surprised, Mackenzie slammed the drawer shut and stopped avoiding the inevitable eye contact with Dylan.
When Mackenzie looked at him with those unusual lavender-blue eyes, Dylan felt an unfamiliar tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach. There was something about Mackenzie’s eyes that captivated him. He hadn’t been able to get those eyes out of his head since the party.
“So...” Mackenzie said after an awkward lull. “What can I do for you, Dylan?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the framed picture of her daughter, Hope, and resisted the urge to turn it away from Dylan.
“Actually...” Dylan tried to cross one leg over the other in the tight space and failed. “I wanted to do something for you.”
Mackenzie pushed her long sleeves up to her elbows. “What’s that?”
Dylan took the picture of Hope off the desk. “Cute kid. Yours?”
“Yes.” Mackenzie’s pulse jumped. “That’s my daughter, Hope, at her fourth birthday party.”
Mackenzie waited, anxiety twisting her gut, and wondered if Dylan would recognize his own flesh and blood in that picture. When he didn’t, part of her was relieved and the other part was disappointed. Dylan put the picture back on the shelf without ever realizing that Hope was his. Mackenzie moved the frame to her side of the desk and turned it away from Dylan.
“Is
