Page 3 of Riptide
Cara released her breath slowly, then turned to her new customer with her best bakery-owner smile.
He left, and Cara released her breath slowly, then turned to her new customer with her best bakery-owner smile.
The woman was young—early thirties, maybe—and looked like she'd walked out of a lifestyle blog. Perfectly highlighted blonde hair in beach waves, designer athleisure that probably cost more than Cara's entire wardrobe, and that carefully curated glow that said either exceptional skincare or excellent filters. She held her phone up, angling it around the bakery like she was documenting everything for social media.
"Wow, this place isadorable." Her voice was bright, enthusiastic, with that particular cadence of someone who lived online. "Like, seriously, the vibes are immaculate. Very coastal grandma meets artisan bakery. I love it."
Something in Cara's gut twisted, a feeling she’d learned never to ignore, even if she couldn’t explain it.
The woman lowered her phone, smiled wide. Too wide. Like someone performing happiness rather than feeling it.
"Can I help you?" Cara kept her voice pleasant, but her con artist instincts were screaming. This woman didn't belong here. Wasn't local. Wasn't a normal tourist.
Was most definitely performing.
"For sure! I need, like, all your best stuff. What's good?" She pressed perfectly manicured hands against the display case, genuine delight crossing her face. "These cinnamon rolls lookamazing. Are they locally sourced? Organic? I'm trying to be really intentional about what I consume, you know?"
"They're made fresh this morning. Local flour, butter from Oregon dairies. Grass-fed, of course."
"Perfect. I'll take two. And—oh, are those cardamom buns? So retro. I LOVE theaesthetic. I'll take three of those too." She pulled out her phone again, snapped photos of the display. "Do you mind if I post these? I have like sixty thousand followers who areobsessedwith hidden gem bakeries."
"That's fine." Cara boxed the pastries, hands steady despite the warning bells.
The woman paid—designer wallet, American Express Black Card that she somehow made look casual—and accepted her bag with another brilliant smile.
"I'm Blaire, by the way. Blaire Mitchell." She extended her hand across the counter.
Cara shook it. The woman's grip was firm, confident. "Cara Sweet."
"Sweet! That's perfect for a bakery owner. Is that your real name or like, a branding thing? Because if it's branding, it'sgenius." Blaire laughed, bright and empty. "I'm actually in town doing some research. I'm a freelance journalist—well, content creator, really, but I do longer form pieces sometimes—and I'm working on this whole thing about generational businesses in small coastal towns. You know, the whole vibe of legacy and community and keeping traditions alive."
The explanation came out smooth, practiced, like she'd rehearsed it.
"That sounds interesting," Cara said carefully.
"Right? So authentic. So real." Blaire leaned against the counter, all casual friendliness. "And this bakery isperfectfor it. I did some preliminary research, and I saw that you inherited it? From your great-aunt Margaret? That's such a beautiful story. The grandniece keeping the family business alive."
Cara froze. She'd never told anyone except lawyers and bankers the exact relationship. The documents said grandniece. Blaire shouldn't know that unless she'd been digging.
Deep.
Blaire's smile never wavered, but something flickered in her eyes. Something cold. "Margaret Sweet owned this place for, what, forty years? Super impressive. She must have been an amazing woman."
"She was." The lie tasted like ash.
"I'd love to interview you about her sometime. Get the whole story, you know? What it was like inheriting this legacy, stepping into her shoes, carrying on her traditions." Blaire pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. "Can I get your number? We could grab coffee, chat about Margaret, really dive into the whole beautiful narrative of family and place."
Every instinct Cara had screamedno.
"I'm pretty busy with the bakery. Maybe email instead?"
"Oh, totally, I get it. Small business life iscrazy." Blaire pulled a business card from her designer bag, slid it across the counter. Minimalist design, just her name and a phone number. No company. No social media handles. Nothing that could be verified.
Red flag after red flag.
"But here's the thing." Blaire's voice dropped, lost all its bubbly enthusiasm. The shift was jarring, like watching a mask slip. "I actually knew Margaret. Not well, but my mom and Margaret were friends back in the day. Portland area, early seventies. They lost touch, but Mom talked about her sometimes."
Cara's blood turned to ice.
