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  FINDING FATE

  Stuck behind the counter at the family bakery, Isabella Cressley watches the world pass by her. Just shy of turning twenty-six, this was not how life was supposed to be. Her best friend, Becca-Ann, is in Paris, leaving Isabella feeling even more alone. Her grandparents have long since passed away and her mother's drinking problem makes it impossible to get any help in the bakery... or with life outside of it.

  All Isabella wants is a chance... at fate.

  Colt looks like a bad boy, riding into town on a motorcycle, flashing tattoos on his arm. His good looks and smile are enough to catch Isbaella's attention, but she quickly finds herself annoyed with him. First off, he's cocky. Second, he calls her Bella. Even still, Isabella can't stop thinking about him.

  Soon Colt gets her to step out from behind the counter, and explore what she wants. The more Isabella explores herself, the more she falls for Colt, even against his caution. There are secrets Colt is hiding, parts of his past - and present - that make him almost impossible to fall in love with. But Isabella does anyway, telling herself that the only thing that matters is the future... but can Colt become a part of it? Or will his haunting secrets tear him away once and for all?

  -Chapter 1-

  I hear the sound of the small bell above the door ring and I look to my right, from the counter, my hands covered in flour, fingers one knuckle deep in a fresh ball of dough that will become my grandmother’s legendary well known bacon bread.

  My first customer of the day is five minutes too early but it’s my own fault for leaving the front door unlocked.

  I can hear my grandmother as though she stood next me.

  “Isabella! You can’t leave that door open like that! What if you were in the back and someone cleaned out the register?”

  Chances were, in town, most people would clean out the front case over the register. There was more perceived value in Grammie’s baking than in cash. Go figure, right? In such a crappy economy I can almost see people running down the street with a hunk of bacon bread sticking out of their coat, small pieces of salty pork falling to the ground, leaving a trail behind them.

  My customer is Mr. Jens. He’s almost ninety but tries to act fifty. That’s not very much younger to me, considering I’ve yet to see twenty-two. I just started to be able to drink - legally, that is. I miss when life was simple, when life was fun, and when I didn’t have to be in a bakery at four in the morning, baking because nobody else could.

  I feel the anger rise up in me, wanting to hate my mother, but I hold it back. I think about Grammie, and if I close my eyes, I would feel her long, boney fingers as she rubbed my shoulders or scratched my back. I have no idea how a woman like her managed to bake so well with long nails, but I loved those nails.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jens,” I yell.

  I’m not sure if I need to yell or not, but I tend to do so with elderly people because I don’t want to repeat myself.

  Mr. Jens mouth is moving like he’s chewing on his tongue. I can’t blame him for that, the smell of the bakery is like a drug. When my Grandpa built the place, he did so like a genius, making it so the smell filtered through the entire bakery and filtered up and out into town. When I start baking, it takes all of twenty minutes for a blanket of aroma to lay itself around town.

  It lures people in like one of those zombie books. Only instead of looking for bbrraaiiinnnsss, they’re looking for bbrreeeaaddd...

  Sigh, I’m lame.

  And desperate.

  Since taking over the bakery, I’ve had no time for anything. No relaxing, not much sleeping, and in the category of love life, it’s got so much dust on it, I’m afraid to exhale because I’ll start sneezing.

  “Isa,” Mr. Jens said with his strange accent. “How’r you?”

  I asked about Mr. Jens accent a few times and everyone tells me he’s from the old country. I don’t get what that means because aren’t all countries old?

  “I’m fine,” I say. I hold my hands up and wiggle my fingers, the dough making my fingertips look fat, and delicious. “I’m not open yet for a few minutes.”

  “Oh, am I early?”

  I nod. I’m not sure if he can see me. I mean, his eyes are looking at me, but their wide and always confused.

  Poor guy.

  He lost his wife three years ago. The woman had cancer, fought it, and beat it. A week later, she was backing out of her driveway and a truck hit the car. She survived that too but had a heart attack when leaving the hospital. The third time got her. Everyone said that Mr. Jens would go next but he didn’t. He’s still hanging around, obviously.

  He leans against the counter, heaving like he ran a marathon.

  “Damn,” he whispers. “Was hoping for a sliver of banana bread.”

  “Tell you what,” I say, “give me a minute to wash up and I’ll get you bread and a coffee.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure. Unless you want something stronger.”

  “Like’a whiskey?”

  He smiles.

  I shake my head. “How about a Red Bull?”

  “Bull...?” he asks.

  I laugh.

  Coffee it is.

  I can’t imagine Mr. Jens on a high octane caffeine drink.

  I have a coffee pot in the back of the bakery because I need it. There was a time in my life when I’d go to bed at four in the morning, not go to work.

  Funny how life can change so quick.

  Grammie used to tell me it could change on a dime. I’d prefer it to change on the winning millions lottery ticket, but if I told her that, she’d get mad because she hated the lottery. Grandpa spent a lot of money on the lottery, more than I know or care to know.

  I pour Mr. Jens a coffee and walk it go him. His shaky hand lifts the cup and I watch the liquid test the edges of the mug. Somehow he doesn’t spill it. It’s quite amazing to see.

  This is how sad my life has become.

  I get Mr. Jens his slice of banana bread and serve it on a small plate. There’s a few chairs in the bakery, most of them unused all week. Grammie had a dream of expanding someday but someday never came for her.

  Or my mother.

  And now it all rested on me.

  Nothing like being a twice college dropout, now serving coffee to an old man while I knead some dough. Somehow it feels simple and beautiful but yet it hurts. My best friend in culinary and pastry school, Becca-Ann, is in Paris, enjoying herself as she’s lost in art, food, and Paris boys.

  That’s what she calls them.

  Paris boys.

  She texts me every night, giving me a one liner of the beautiful boy she’s met that day. My gosh, she’s wild. I try not to be mean, but I hope she doesn’t come home pregnant with a little French baby inside her.

  Then again, wouldn’t that be crazy?

  Talk about visitation rights...

  “Did you bake this, Isa?” Mr. Jens asks.

  I smile, cringing on the inside that he calls me Isa. He always does. My name is Isabella. I don’t like anything shorter than my actual name. If you don’t have the time to say my full name then I don’t have the time to talk to you.

  Unless you’re Mr. Jens. I can’t get mad at an old man. That would be rude.

  I finish my work, cutting up the dough and shaping it into what will be perfect loaves of perfect bread.

  I realize I hadn’t answered Mr. Jens question, not that he really notices.

  “Yes, Mr. Jens, I bake everything now,” I say.

  “That’s good,” he says. “As good as your grandmother. Oh, that woma
n could bake. You know, between you and me...” He smiles, his face so full of wrinkles that he looks like a cute puppy dog. “... my wife, Althea, used to get jealous of your grandmother.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  Oh, nothing like some elderly drama.

  “Oh yeah,” Mr. Jen says, spitting some crumbs to the glass counter.

  I cringe knowing I have to clean up dribble and banana bread.

  “Well, I’m sure you loved your wife.”

  “Still do. But I had a thing for your grandmother. Hey Isa, you know you look just like her?”

  Now I cringe for real. I try to hide my face in disgust, but how could I? Did an almost ninety year old man really just hit on me?

  Great.

  And I’m alone in the bakery before opening.

  What a great position to be in.

  I have no choice now but to turn and put the bread in the ovens.

  We have ovens in the front and back. The ovens behind the counter have lights turned on and big glass doors so people can watch the bread bake. I’m not sure if anyone actually ever watched the bread bake but it’s another cool thing my Grandpa did for the place.

  I have to bend over to put the last bit of bread into the bottom oven. I can only picture Mr. Jens’ big, bloodshot eyes going wide as he licks his lips, enjoying the sight of such a young woman as myself.

  It’s gross, but whatever.

  He’s old. Let him have one last fantasy before his heart kicks out.

  My gosh, is that mean?

  As I’m bent over sliding the bread into the oven, I hear the bell ring again.

  Damn!

  I forgot to lock the door after Mr. Jens came in. Then again, I’m not so sure it’s legal to lock a customer in a business.

  I turn, my mouth open, and I manage to get out, “I’m sor...” before I lose my words. I freeze, my body suddenly feeling very strange but very good. I see a hot guy standing at the door, his arms folded. His left arm is rippled with muscle and his right arm is covered in colorful tattoos. It’s instant turn on material as I gaze up to his plain white t-shirt, hugging his body, leading the way to a chiseled chin and a beautiful face complete with a set of dark eyes that are staring right at me.

  “Your lights aren’t on,” he says to me.

  “That’s because we aren’t open,” I say.

  I glance at Mr. Jens and he happily eats his bread, unaware of what I just said.

  “Is this your father?” hot guy says and points to Mr. Jens.

  I shake my head, still trying to find a way to keep my mouth moist. I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone in person so hot to make my mouth run dry. It’s funny... my mouth runs dry while something else… isn’t so dry…

  I can’t believe I just admitted that.

  Wow, it’s been way too long since I’ve had a guy in my life.

  “Grandfather?” he asks.

  “No, a customer. Do you need something?”

  “I need plenty,” hot guy says. “You offering?”

  I curl my lip. Was that a come on? Wow, guys are getting desperate these days. Must be the bad economy.

  “I’ve got plenty in the front case here,” I say, trying to remind myself that he’s a customer. No matter how annoying or how make-me-drool sexy he is, the guy is a customer.

  “Not interested in the front case,” he says. “What’s your name?”

  “What’s your name?” I shoot back, bitchy. I regret sounding bitchy but face it, this guy is pissing me off. And plus, I’m not even open yet.

  “I asked first,” he says.

  Oh, here we go, the high school banter. I hate when guys act like boys. Where are the men at? Seriously.

  I open my mouth, ready to fire away at him, when Mr. Jens takes a drink of his coffee and makes a loud smacking sound with his lips.

  “Still the best damn banana bread I ever had,” he says. “You know, I miss my Althea every single day but I’m sure glad I’ve gotten these years to enjoy this bread in peace. She used to try and copy your grandmother’s recipes.”

  My eyes are stuck on Mr. Hottie with the Ink. He’s got a half smirk on his face, enjoying Mr. Jens is word vomiting my family’s history. But damn, when he smirks, he has these dimples...

  No, stop it Isabella. Just... stop it.

  I look at Mr. Jens.

  “Okay, well you have a great day Mr. Jens,” I say, still screaming, hoping the old man understands me.

  “She would get so mad,” Mr. Jens continues, “because I’d try her bread, you know, and it wasn’t half as good as this. She could see it in my face and if I lied to her it only made it worse.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Mr. Jens looks at me, finally, and sees the expression on my face.

  The hint is finally taken and he looks over his shoulder as Mr. Super Sexy and then looks at me surprised. He leans forward, trying to whisper, but he can’t.

  “In my day, we didn’t need to color our arms to impress the girls.”

  He takes out a ten and slides it towards me. It’s way more than he needs to pay but Mr. Jens doesn’t take change. Ever. I fought with him once and he told me if he walks with change then everyone will know he’s coming and he prefers to be sneaky. I’m not so sure how an almost ninety year old man can be sneaky, considering most of the time he has some kind of cough or cold.

  But whatever, it’s a decent tip for me.

  Joy.

  He turns and hobbles his way from the bakery, pausing at Tattoo Boy.

  “Take care of that girl,” Mr. Jens says.

  “No,” I cry out but it’s no use.

  “She’s special,” Mr. Jens continues. “She works magic with her hands.”

  Oh gosh, did he just say that?

  I cringe and blush as Hot Guy looks at me and winks.

  “I’m sure she’s magical,” Sexy says and pats Mr. Jens on the shoulder.

  “If I were your age, I’d take her out to dinner.”

  No, no, no, no...

  “She won’t go with me,” Hot Guy says, now using Mr. Jens as some kind of pawn.

  Mr. Jens looks at me. “I was only joshing about the tattoos, Isa.”

  Damn! He said my name! Part of it too.

  “Isa,” Hot Guy says and nods.

  “You two be safe,” Mr. Jens offers and I’m not sure what he implies by saying that.

  He leaves, finally, and now I’m stuck with Hot Guy.

  He struts towards the counter and puts his elbows on it. His arms look big and strong, and I start to catch sight of his ink. It’s an array of designs, patterns, everything working together creating some kind of story.

  I’d love to hear that story... and see if he has anymore ink on him.

  Now I feel desperate.

  “Isa?” he asks.

  “Isabella,” I say. “I hate being called Isa. Only Mr. Jens does it.”

  Why am I talking to him? And why am I talking so casual? I hate myself right now but I can’t help it. It’s been way too long since a hot guy has talked to me. Not many good looking guys my age come into a bakery looking for a snack or a date.

  Maybe this just my lucky day.

  My eyes shift from his eyes and his tattoos. The colorful artwork on his skin is just so sexy and tempting. I imagine him sitting in a tattoo parlor with no shirt on, the whirring of the needle tearing his skin open, depositing ink.

  “Funny thing,” Hottie says, “I’ve spoken with that man at least half a dozen times. But he still doesn’t remember me.”

  “Are you from around here? I don’t remember seeing you.”

  He smiles. Ugh. So cute. Hot. Sexy.

  “I’m everywhere,” he says with a cockiness that he could back up. “Just got back into town yesterday. Helping with the family business.”

  “And you are...?” I ask, desperate for his name.

  “Colt,” he says.

  That just about explodes my tender heart into pieces. The name is hot, but it has an innocent sound to it, doesn’
t it?

  Colt.

  I’m not sure if he looks like a Colt or not but I know for sure that anyone else I ever meet named Colt will be second best to the Colt standing before me right now.

  “You should serve coffee out here and sell it,” he says and taps the counter.

  “Thanks for the tip,” I say.

  I turn for a second to check on the ovens and give my body a break from Colt’s delicious look and tempting eyes.

  He says, “I’m just offering a suggestion. Clean this place up a little and turn it into a café or something, right?”

  “A café? For what?”

  “For people. Nice little hangout spot.”

  I freeze, watching as Colt eyes the place like some high profile realtor looking to make a sale or find reasons why the place should be closed down. His look doesn’t fit what he’s doing.

  It intrigues me.

  “And you would know?”

  He’s turned now, his back facing me. He looks over his shoulder and says, “I’d know. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? I don’t know you. Are you buying something?”

  “Didn’t we already go through this?”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Smells good,” he says. “Thought I’d check it out.”

  “I’m not even open yet,” I say.

  “I’m sure you will be soon enough.”

  He’s so fast and so hot, my mouth now shuts and I have nothing.

  I hear him saying it...

  “I’m sure you will be soon enough.”

  What the hell did that mean? Was that some kind of sexual thing? Or just a normal, waiting for the business to open kind of remark?

  I just met Colt and he’s already frustrating me. I wish guys could find the balance between aggressive and passive. They should have a class in high school for it. Either I have guys trying to tongue me before introducing themselves or I have a guy like Colt, a guy so freaking hot, but he’s more interested in the cobwebs in the corners of the bakery.

  “I have to get to work,” I say, bringing myself back to a lonely reality of not having the freedom I dream of.

  The ability to meet a guy and just run off and have a fun day or enjoy myself. The bakery used to be open four days a week and then five and then six. Everything family problems crept into our lives, the bakery opened more. There was a spoken word about seven days and I had to walk away from the conversation. Nothing like seeing your mother sitting at the kitchen with her only love, staring between cracked blinds, dazed and lost, suggesting I work seven days a week.