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DAISY SINCLAIR’S PHONE came alive on her desk, jumping and jiving to “Candy” by Foxy Brown. She’d been so absorbed in entering information into Accounts Payable that the sudden noise startled her silly.
“What’s up?” Daisy said aloud, picking up the device and checking the message on the screen. It was the reminder she’d set four weeks ago. Four hellish weeks ago. And now, four weeks later, the reminder was telling her it was time. Time to face the music. Time to see whether the torture she’d put herself through had all been worth it.
After nudging the scale out from beneath her desk, Daisy tiptoed to her office door and shut it. Then she gave herself a once-over in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. There was a streak of flour on her cheek that she rubbed off with the back of her hand before her gaze dropped. Hmm. The apron she wore made her look boxy.
She untied it and slipped it off.
Unfortunately, the well-worn jeans and loose cotton blouse weren’t much better, so she stripped those off, too, dropping them in a pile by the door.
There. Now she could see what was what. She’d avoided the full-length mirror for four weeks for just this purpose. The celebrity gala that her mother had managed to get her a ticket to was on Saturday, only five days away, and she was determined to look her best in her fabulous new red dress—hence the month of hell she’d endured. Daisy swiveled in front of the mirror, eyes narrowed, searching her figure for the changes that had to be there.
Generous hips.
She turned to check out her butt.
Round ass.
Standing in profile, she cupped a hand under her breasts.
Biggish boobs.
Daisy sighed. She looked exactly the same.
Healthy. Nana Sin’s voice was so clear it was as if her grandmother was standing right beside her, smiling, holding a tray of freshly baked caramel-nut cookies.
Stubborn cow was the endearment Daisy’s ex-jerk-of-a-husband had for her. But then, she’d had a few choice names for him, too, over the course of their short marriage. The divorce would have been done with by now if it wasn’t for Nana Sin’s bakery.
Ahh, the bakery. Daisy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The cinnamon buns must be fresh out of the oven because the aroma of cinnamon with an overtone of raisins, sweet and sticky with brown-sugar yumminess, was heavy in the air. Heaven. This had to be what Heaven smelled like.
Okay, once this business with the scale was over, she was going to reward herself with a bun. She deserved it.
With a deep breath and then another, she stepped up onto the scale and peered cautiously over the tips of her candy-floss painted toenails.
Daisy blinked.
She blinked again.
No.
She stepped off and checked the setting on the scale. Yes, it was at zero. She gave it a few good shakes to reset it—or whatever a good shake was supposed to do—and carefully stepped back onto the thing, thinking the lightest of thoughts. An image of impossibly thin phyllo pastry, brushed with melted butter and filled with nuts and honey, came to mind. She envisioned herself sliding the baking sheet out of the oven, the phyllo a golden brown. She could practically taste it, light as a cloud, melting on her tongue, honey trickling sweetly down her throat...
Hmm. Those were probably the wrong kinds of “light” thoughts to be having.
Daisy squinted hard at the number dial on the top of the foul instrument sent from Lucifer himself.
No, no, no, no, no!
How could she have spent four weeks on the Summer Size Diet Plan and not have shed one pound? Not only that, how could she have gained five? It defied sense. It was contrary to reason!
Four weeks of abstaining from tarts and pies.
Four weeks of drooling over sweet breads and butter-frosted cupcakes, only to pass them up.
Four weeks of avoiding cheese buns and chocolate mousse tortes and baklava and angel food cake and whipped cream and apple strudel and...all for nothing?
Daisy paced her office while she contemplated the miserable joke the universe had played on her. It wasn’t fair. She’d been a saint, exercising and cutting back and avoiding the baked goods, which was tantamount to pure torture when she owned the flipping bakery. And her bakery wasn’t just any bakery, but the best damn bakery in Bucktown, the city of Chicago, the state of Illinois—why, maybe even the whole country, for all she knew. Sure, that was hard to prove, but the point was, she’d managed to abstain from some pretty fine friggin’ food and the result was a gain of five pounds?
Daisy kicked the scale.
Dammit!
She lifted her foot to massage her stubbed big toe while hopping around on the other. Once the throbbing stopped, she picked up the offending scale and waved it in the air, speaking to whoever might be up there listening. “Do you think this is funny? Do you think you can knock me down? Ha! I’m not some fragile waif, so bring it on, Universe. Come on. I dare you. I can take whatever you dish out.”
With the scale poised above her head, its destruction imminent, she watched the door to her office open. A tall, broad and, most importantly, clothed man walked in.
He was followed closely by Lizzie, her assistant baker, who ended up bumping into the back of him because he’d stopped to stare—with his mouth hanging open.
“Boss!” Lizzie cried. “What the—”
Her heart went thrump and Daisy felt her face turn the shade of maraschino cherry juice.
“Oh.” The man—who was so conveniently dressed—just stood and stared.
Daisy tried in vain to cover her bits and pieces with the scale. “Get out!” When the man didn’t move, she shouted, “Hello? Out!” She pointed to the door.
Lizzie scampered through the door but the man did not. He stood frozen like the ice-cream cake stashed at the back of her freezer.
“Is something wrong with you?”
He
