The Books

STOMPIN' ON STETSONS

CHAPTER ONE

The sweet allure of vanilla extract and cinnamon chips tickled Jules Lichtenstien’s nose.

She inhaled with the gusto of a yoga master, coaxing her subterranean, larger-than-life-sustaining breath to steady her discombobulated nerves. Short of abandoning the kitchen in favor of her yoga studio, meditative breathing was her only hope of achieving a state somewhat resembling the elusion of sanity.

“Push. Pull. Fold.” Chanting her pastry chef mantra, she worked her mind in place of over-working the dough.

Using the heel of her hand, she pushed the dough away then back, folding it over as she pulled. With each choreographed motion, she envisioned her masseuse kneading her muscles with the same concentrated pressure.

Handling the powdery ball with schooled finesse, she patted it into a ten-inch circle then reached for a cookie cutter. Pressing the cutter’s metal edges into the dough, she punched out a baker’s dozen, wishing she could separate her thoughts as easily as scones.

As if her head were a gigantic tube of icing about to spurt into action, she closed her eyes, squeezing her warring thoughts into a tiny tip of reason.

Placing the scones on an un-greased baking sheet, Jules relaxed her shoulders and settled into her routine. Craving nothing but culinary love in the form of a hot, gooey tea biscuit, she poured her restless energy into pastry chef mode, focusing on the confectionary magic beneath her fingertips.

She brushed the scone tops with beaten egg whites and added a dusting of sugar. Sliding the sheet into the oven, she poked the arrows on the control panel keypad until the numbers ticked off second-by-second. She didn’t have the eighteen minutes it took scones to bake. But if she didn’t feed her tormented ego, along with her work plan, she’d never psych up for her meeting with Music City socialite Sienna Cruz.

Pressing her thumbs into the tingling flesh at the back of her neck, Jules moved her fingers in rhythmic circles, rubbing out the pings of stress hammering the base of her skull.

The renovation of the building for her new bakery and catering company was on schedule. Sort of. Sort of being not close to acceptable considering she’d landed the meeting with Sienna for the company’s first big catering event. She should feel great. Terrific. The Cruz gig, if successful, would go a long way toward securing the CMA Fan Fest food service contract. And that job would be Jules’ golden, candy apple. The belle of her bakery’s dough balls.

Hypothetically, her double boiler should be bubbling over with good fortune. Apparently, however, hers was simmering with nothing but pessimism. Hissing streams of doubt gurgled in her stomach. Her normally confident exterior was overtaken by Mount Vesuvius proportioned, what-the-hell-were-you-thinking eruptions.

She flipped on the coffee grinder, cranking the dial from medium to finely ground, counting on the robust flavor to drown out her espresso strength hesitation. With the grinder whirring down to its last, desperate chugs, she coached her inner Buddha to dig a deep refuge in the name of culinary enlightenment.

Doing her best to keep her nerves as level as the quarter-cup into which she measured the ash-like grounds, Jules glanced at the clock on the oven. Quarter after nine. Damn. Before she could call an end to the latest in a string of exhausting days, she had to make the berry pudding and get it into the refrigerator.

Where the hell was Cody with her berries?

She loaded the dishwasher, trying to unload her irritation, dangling the enormity of Sienna’s wedding in front of her muses, hoping like hell they’d save her ass.

Foreseeing her company’s demise at the hands of her over-zealous ambitions, she wandered the streets of self-pity-ville. Hearing the doorbell chime, she sidestepped a deep gutter of gloom in favor of the ass chewing she’d dish Cody.

How was she supposed to make Sweet Destiny a success if she couldn’t count on her produce man to deliver on time? Good thing he was a terrific guy, fantastic friend and fabulous looking. Otherwise, he’d be replaced.

She opened the door, her lips set to hurl him a stern warning. But once her eyes took in his sweet as maple sugar smile, her vocal chords froze stiffer than her award-winning meringue.

Cody Weiss, the best fruit and vegetable man in Nashville, Tennessee, stood on her porch with a basket load of gorgeous, fresh-picked raspberries, blackberries and blueberries.

Damn his perfect fruit. And damn his dreamy, Stetson-covered head.