Chapter 1: Good Morning, Vietnam

Veronica

There's a moment, every morning right before I open my eyes, when I remember. That's when it hits me—everything that still hurts, everything that's changed. It's been three years. Every self-help book says it should be getting easier by now. I guess that's why I don't read much anymore.

Instead, I take an extra second to absorb the hit, and then I get up, and I get even.

First is the dog food.

A bowl for my actual dog, who's doing a tag-jingling dance of delight across my hardwood floors. And a second, fouler-smelling bowl out in the hall.

Second is the music. I turn off the quiet vibration of my real alarm and crank my speaker like it's a clock radio that just came on, because my neighbor's an asshole and he keeps vampire hours. Up late because his shop doesn't open until the leisurely hour of eleven, and out late with who knows who and her push-up-bra'ed sister. He doesn't even bring them home anymore—just whams and bams them at their place and then ducks out. Most nights, he comes up our back stairs at one or two, with steps so light I almost can't hear him. Sometimes even three am. Never too late to miss my little wakeup call, though, because I have to get up at 3:30 to bake.

This morning it's Paint It Black. The driving beat of the Rolling Stones boots me right into the holy trinity of coffee maker, shower, and clothes and the vindictive thrill of the volume carries me through how very much of a morning person I am not. At least until I pause halfway through pulling on my white chef's top and realize I haven't heard anything back from the other side of the wall. Could he possibly be he sleeping through this shit? Or did he never come home at all? Maybe he found a Bourbon Street Betty with enough stamina to keep him all night long.

I toss away the baggy chef's bottoms I was going to wear and slick on my tightest yoga pants instead. I'll be dusted with flour and need to change before my big meeting anyway. I kiss my palm and slap it on my now-tightly-wrapped ass. "Read 'em and weep, jerk-face." I know my opponent, and I know how to make him sweat.

I throw my blonde hair up into a messy bun and slick on my meanest, reddest lipstick. Then I roll the volume knob up. I've got to be downstairs to unlock soon or risk Tyana's wrath for making her dig for her keys at "the crack of God's backside" as she calls this hour.

"Methinks he didn't come home last night, Pony," I murmur to my dog. "Somebody's probably got chlamydia…" I sing-song over the suddenly acrid pinch in my throat.

From the other side of the wall, another stereo finally kicks on. Playing "Walking on Sunshine."

I grin, careful not to laugh loudly enough that he'll hear me. "Up and at 'em whether you like it or not, Casanova."

Veronica: 1

Logan: 0

I mentally mark my victory, and flick off my speaker. On my way out, I lay a water bowl out in the shadowiest corner of the hallway, then push my eager dog back into the apartment and lock him in.

The back stairs trip away under my feet and I bop through the unlocked door to my own little kingdom. Industrial steel shining like a knight's armor, immaculate, and shelves full of just the right tool for every job. "Cinnamon-swirl King Cake, almond croissants, maybe a Death by Chocolate Mousse cake?" I mutter to myself, finishing up the roster I started last night before I fell asleep on my list. Definitely ginger-cardamom-black pepper for the freebie cookies today. I'm feeling spicy.

New Orleans is the perfect place to open a bakery. There's an abundance of unique flavors to play with in the local French Creole cuisine. Nobody's afraid of a little butter around here, and we all love color. Love the flamboyant, the over-the-top. Plus, something about the humidity is just right to make the flakiest pastries perfectly crisp, the biscuits all but weightless. Try and launch a bakery in LA, on the other hand? It better be gluten-free, fat-free, sugar-free and loaded with kale. Blarg. I could never live anywhere else but here, no matter how much the streets of this place sometimes seem to be haunting me with my own history.

And no matter how much I hate the neighbors.

Upstairs, Logan's music has shut back off along with mine. I twirl around the room like I'm leading the only partner I want to dance with these days, sashaying as I sift flower into one bowl and flick cinnamon into another. By the time the knock comes from up front, I have the first batch of batter put together and I flip on the Kitchen-Aid and leave it to fold ingredients. Up front, I thread through the dark bakery with its flipped up cherry-red chairs on matching bistro tables.

Out of long habit, I only place my feet directly into the center of the black and white squares of tile. Step on a crack, break your mother's back. There was a time when I'd stomp on every crack out of the same kind of spite that made me put out dog food in the hall this morning. But it seems a little chancy even for me to be messing with curses when I don't even know what state my mother is in these days. Much less if her back is intact. Plus, the last thing I need is to call in bad juju on the day of my big meeting.

"Morning." I pull the door open and rattle up the external grate. Tyana grunts in greeting, dark circles showing the fact that we've both been here opening and closing every day for the last three weeks, no time off for good behavior, laundry, or having literally any kind of a life. I prod my own under-eyes in the reflection off the glass, checking to see if my eyes are in as bad of shape as hers.

Outside, the streetlights glow eerily from the embrace of the huge live oak trees lining Carrollton Ave. I add a fresh strip of tape to the sun-faded sign that says "Help Wanted" and make a mental note to dab a little concealer under my eyes before eight am. The yoga pants taunt won't land as well if I'm packing bags big enough to be made by Samsonite under my baby blues.

I am just about to close the door again when I see them—overflowing trash cans by the street. Crap, is it Monday again? That bastard had beaten her to it again. Probably had them on the curb at 9:02 last night, the instant after she'd turned off the lights and gone up to bed. And he put them directly in front of her shop. Because nothing says, "Yummy baked goods," like an overflowing heap of garbage.

Logan: 1

Veronica: 1

"Perfect match for your soul, Logan," I mutter, marching out front and moving both cans down the sidewalk to sit in front of his shop instead. Now, they sit directly in front of the S on his Sinsations sign.

Veronica: 2

Logan: 1

"Coffee's—" I begin once I get back inside, then register the now-empty carafe. I grab the can of chicory blend. "I'll make more. Just let me finish the—"

"Already did," Tyana interrupts, just as I hear the coffee pot gurgle back to life. She snaps off the light teal Kitchen-Aid and starts to load up the sunshine-yellow one next to it. "We doing cinnamon roll for today's King Cake?"

"Cinnamon swirl," I say. "Listen, why don't you take Tuesday off and catch up on your sleep? I can handle a Tuesday on my own."

She snorts. "You'd drop dead without me, Little Bit. You'd be sleeping under the counter before we even opened. Two eggs."

I pass over the eggs from one of the coolers and we drop into silence, measuring sugar and creaming butter, never crossing each other's paths because we have all our own rhythms mapped out. The thing I love about kitchens is, there's always another task. Something else to check in the oven, something to ice, something to clean. I can handle nearly anything in this shitty new phase of my life, as long as I don't have time to remember how different it used to be.

The first time I have a thought again, it's nearly eight. I pop into the bathroom, then flush the toilet so Tyana doesn't suspect what I was doing in here.

I come back out at 7:57 and Tyana lifts an eyebrow beneath today's cupid-print head wrap, knotted in a neat roll right above her forehead. "I thought the latest idea was four minutes after. Late enough to piss him off but not so late he come down looking for you."

I fight a smile. "Eh, I'm not that predictable."

"Mm-hmm," Tyana says, and dabs to smooth out the concealer under my left eye. I glance away.

With her interruption, I barely make it to the top of the steps by the time Logan's door opens. Prompt as a priest, these days. He sees the dog food mid-step and does a little hop-jump faster than a human person should be able to. Except catching his own agile balance lands him right in the middle of the water bowl he didn't see, slooshing water all over the shining hall floor. I stuff both my hands against my mouth, red lipstick smudging the white cuff of my chef's coat as I struggle to keep in my second genuine laugh of the day.

Veronica: 3

Logan: 1

"Shit," he mutters and drops to his knees, righting the bowl.

"Getting clumsy in your old age," I drawl, climbing the last few steps and clucking my tongue. "Must be the lack of sleep."

He snorts. "Uh-huh. And tell me why it is again that our dog's bowls are in the hallway when he's locked in your apartment?" He looks up and his eyes glitch on the yoga pants, then flare a little wider at my homicidally red lipstick. "Oh, so we're going nuclear this week, are we?"

Veronica: 4

Logan: 1

"Don't know what you're talking about," I say primly. "I was just coming to get my dog out for you. And for your information, it's nice for my dog to be able to get a snack for later, without you having to go inside my apartment.

"Right. Because I don't already keep bowls for him in the shop."

I ignore this. "You'd better get a mop for that mess before it leaks through the ceiling."

"Oh, I'll take care of that. Don't you worry." Logan's eyes go wicked and he pulls off his shirt.

Logan: 2

Veronica: 4

I jerk my eyes away and stare holes in my apartment door as I pat all my pockets for my keys. Logan uses his shirt to dab at the splash of water on the tiles and I do not look. At the wide stretch of his back, the muscles of his shoulders so much thicker than they were when I used to dig my nails into them. The way his waist has narrowed into the perfect V of a cartoon superhero. I hate all the ways I can see he's better off without me, and I hate that I have to see every single one of them, every single day.

My key nearly breaks off in the lock, I ram it inside so hard.

"What are you feeding him, anyway? This crap smells like a possum turned inside out." Logan finishes mopping up and wrings his shirt over the fake dog water bowl, making every one of those ridiculous muscles flex all over again.

I rattle the key in the door, glaring when the latch doesn't give way.

"Lefty loosy," Logan murmurs, brushing my wrist as he reaches past me to turn the key the correct way. I leap away, bashing my elbow into the doorframe.

Logan: 3

Veronica: 4

"Personal space!" I yelp at him.

He just blinks once, slow, those long eyelashes going down and then up as he blots his chest with his damp shirt before shaking it out and taking his sweet ass time finding the armholes again. He's already glistening with sweat, that jerk. What does he do, work out before his work out? I can just imagine him rolling straight out of bed and into two hundred pushups on the floor, probably another two thousand situps before he starts a long day of tormenting me. What an asshole.

"You know, you could save yourself all this trouble if you just left the door unlatched for me. Or let me have a key." Logan finishes unlocking my door, flips my keys around his finger on the ring once like he's trying their weight, then offers them back. Reluctantly, like he's about to pass me a scorpion, I extend my hand.

"And let burglars and murderers waltz right in?"

The corner of his mouth kicks up. "Past the locked external doors? And the security system? And Pony himself, who could eat them up in one bite? Fat chance. Think the only danger inside these walls is yours truly."

I give him a narrow head-to-toe look. "Tell me about it. You know, you could just let Pony sleep over at your place, then you'd have him in the morning for his run."

"Nah. I don't miss him that much." Logan opens the door and my dog, waist-high on me and weighing roughly as much as a washing machine, comes barreling out. Logan drops immediately to his knees, an easy grin crossing his face that I rarely get to see anymore. He kisses the dog on his head. "Isn't that right, Pony-boy? I don't miss you one little bit."

Logan: 4

Veronica: 4

He scruffles the dog's ears and I look away, yanking on my necklace so the chain bites the back of my neck and distracts me from the burn in the bullseye center of my chest.

I don't want you to be lonely.

It was what he said in our lawyers' office when he insisted I take Pony, the dog Logan loves more than ice cream, Christmas, and Mardi Gras put together. And Logan hasn't taken him for a single night since, no matter how sad both their sets of brown eyes get when he brings Pony back to me every day.

"Don't keep him out so long the pavement gets too hot on his paws," I warn, and whirl to stomp down the stairs. If he cared so much if I was lonely, I guess he shouldn't have divorced me.

Logan: 100

Veronica: 0

#

We're smack in the middle of the morning rush and I haven't had a single thought in a blissful hour and a half when Tyana ruins it by murmuring, "Himself's back early. Wonder if Pony's paw is bugging him again."

My chin snaps up, only to see Logan moving the garbage cans from in front of his store back to the curb. In any other city, the trash collectors would have been here and gone before the morning rush, but in New Orleans? They'll saunter by sometime this afternoon. Or maybe tomorrow.

Logan grabs the second can and rolls it away from his front door. To the naked eye, he places them right in the middle of our two stores. But it's just slightly over the line in favor of mine if you gauge by where the pink awning ends and the blue one begins. I have a sudden flash of the pink and blue days on my parents' custody calendar, back when they still cared enough to argue over me. I blink, refocusing down on Pony. Even after over an hour of running, he's still jumping and dancing at the end of his lead, licking at Logan's fingers.

"Pony's paw looks okay," I observe, handing over a bag of croissants to a customer with a smile brighter than my words. "Logan's probably just getting old. Losing his stamina."

Tyana clucks, taking the Death By Chocolate sign out of the case since we sold the last piece. "I always did wonder how that boy could run for two hours straight together. I ran half a block last Sunday trying to catch my grandbaby before he got out into the street and I liked to think my heart was gonna explode."

"Eh." I wave a hand. "He probably goes to a bar, hangs out for an hour and forty-five, then spritzes himself so he looks sweaty enough to come home."

Tyana laughs. "You think those abs be falling from the sky for free? You are fooling yourself, girl."

"So much exercise." I make a face. "It's unnatural. But that's just Logan 2.0. His bed is made, his sheets are white, his breakfast is green. Kill me now."

It's all so virtuous it makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit. It's like he wants to shove it in my face how healthy and balanced he is now that I'm out of his life. Back when we were together, it was him who was throwing up in his mouth a little bit, but that was from all the scotch. That he apparently had to drink. To deal with being married to me.

"It ain't right," Tyana agrees readily. "Boy needs to untwist his boxer shorts a little bit now and again. What can I get you, sugar?" The last was directed to the next customer in their line that now led all the way out the door. To where Logan had finished moving the trash cans and was pulling off his shirt to dab at the sweat on his afore-mentioned abs.

"Twice in one day?" I groan. "Gross."

"Two Fuji apple fritters," Tyana says to me, but I stomp out around the counter to snap down the shades instead. Which does me no good when Logan saunters in barely a second later, giving a little mocking bow to the last girl in line as he spins past her to get through the doorway.

I snatch out two muffins and shove them toward the first customer in line. "No shirt, no service. Actually, we're too busy for you, shirt or no, so scram."

"Mmm." Logan gives me a lazy smile, the one that used to make my heart go as crooked as a curve in the Mississippi River. "It's been a pretty long time since service from you was on the table at all. But if all it takes is putting my shirt back on, I'm game. After all, I wouldn't want my body to…bother you."

Heat flushes up my neck until I can feel every link in the chain on my charm necklace. The one that's worlds cheaper than any of the gold ones he ever bought me. I flip the four-leaf clover charm out of my own shirt in case he hasn't noticed I'm not wearing any of the jewelry he used to love to spoil me with.

"Um, actually I ordered fritters but those look really—" The customer starts.

"Sorry about that." I swap out the muffins for fritters. "And don't forget to take one of our cookies. Free for all, just so everybody can walk away with something sweet." I coax up a smile for them, but Logan's big hand barges back into my peripheral vision as he reaches for the plate of them. I slap it. "Not for you." I glare. "For real customers. Not trespassers. What do you want, I'm busy."

"Brought your mail." He waves it with his un-slapped hand. I installed a mail slot in my own door when I put up the Sweet Apple Bakery sign when I opened, but our mail carrier is older than the Lousiana Purchase, and I bet she'll be changing her ways right around the time the USA goes broke enough to have to sell us on down the chain to somebody else. Until then, she just keeps dropping all my mail in Logan's slot like the official address of our shop hadn't been divided into Suite A and B along with the remodel.

My sign is a hammered copper silhouette of an apple. Wholesome, classy, lit from above with an old-world lamp. His is neon and black iron, a snake curling sensually around an apple, fangs clearly in evidence. "Sinsations" writhing in a fluid font beneath. Three guesses on who named their shop first.

"Notice from our landlord in there," he notes. "Better sell an extra cupcake or two, Cupcake."

I snatch the envelopes out of his hand fast enough to give him a paper cut. I hope.

"I'm not late on my rent." I sneak a look at the envelope just to see if there's anything incriminating stamped on its front. "I'm not late on my rent!" I raise my voice for the benefit of my line of customers at large, and tack on a perky smile. "We'll be with you shortly, thank you for your patience, please take a cookie while you wait."

Logan reaches for the plate again and I skewer him with murder eyes. His lips twitch at my reaction, then he clears his throat, shifting his weight.

"Shirt," I hiss. "And dog. Health codes for 400, Alex? Now get out before you cost me even more than you already have."

He flinches at that one, and something shrinks in me. I don't owe him an apology, though. It's only the truth. But the gates have slammed down over his eyes and he gives me a charming, very shallow smile.

"Pony's outside," he says, triumph curling gently through the syllables because apparently I was so focused on his shirtlessness I failed to notice the absence of one hundred and twenty pounds of exuberant rescue mutt. Right.

"Out!" I snap, pointing for the exit, before I dig my hole any deeper.

"Thanks for the mail, baby doll," Tyana calls after him. "Don't you forget to get yourself some breakfast before you go in to work or you be fainting like a southern belle." He waves to her on his way out and I scowl.

If she had any loyalty at all, she would at least pretend not to adore Logan. But Tyana only answers to God and her grandbabies, as she loves to remind me anytime I get "too big for my britches" as she says, or "act like her actual boss" as I like to put it.

Tyana snaps off an order of eight different items and I yank on new gloves and start dropping things in fresh white bags.

"You know he just do that to get your goat," Tyana says to me once the door swishes closed behind the last customer and we have a second to breathe.

"He's got my goat. He's had it for thirteen years. And he's strangling it." I drop my head onto the counter. "We've gotta move Uptown. How fast did we sell out yesterday?"

"Two o'clock."

If we sell out by two o'clock today, it'll look great for my shiny new client, who happens to be coming in at precisely that time for our meeting.

"Good. Another couple months like this and we might be able to afford to buy my way out of this never-ending lease. Maybe even do a little price shopping on Magazine."

Tyana laughs. "Now I know you dreaming. Magazine Street, shit."

"I think the blind King Cake flavors are really working. Everybody that comes in to check today's flavor ends up buying something, even if they don't go for a full King Cake. Plus, Mardi Gras season is extra long this year, praise be to the Catholics. By Fat Tuesday, I think we might have a real chance."

"You been talking about moving this place Uptown since my first day here, and that was before my first grandbaby was even born. Face it—we're Mid-City and we staying that way."

"We'd already be gone if I'd gotten on that last baking reality show." I restock the stack of white paper bags from the cupboard in the back, each stamped with my Sweet Apple logo.

"I told you to wear the push up bra…" she sing-songs under her breath.

"They told me I was too pretty. How's a push up bra going to help that?" I throw my hands. "Now I've been rejected from those damn shows for everything! They said I didn't get upset enough during the auditions and that my cakes were too meticulous. Apparently no one wants to see a pretty blonde girl who has it 'all together.'" I heavily air-quote the last part and Tyana still starts snickering.

"Guess those producers didn't know you've only got one hot button and it's spelled L-O-"

"Do not speak of He Who Shall Not Be Named in this establishment," I interrupt. "Anyway, never mind the reality show. That bride that's coming in for the 2:00? I googled her. She's some kind of influencer, has more followers than Beyonce. That kind of exposure could get us to a shop on Magazine."

"Sure thing, child." Tyana re-arranges the muffin display so it doesn't look quite so un-purchased. I make a mental note to try skewing scone over muffin for the next few weeks.

"I've already got the appointment. It's as good as in the bag. Not even my ex-Satan can ruin this for me."

"You just keep telling yourself that, doll. While you keep putting on those tighty pants and all that pretty lipstick and handing over your goat every morning to that man right along with your puppy dog."

I ignore nearly every word of that statement, because she's faster and more efficient than any assistant I've ever had, and she doesn't care if I'm nice. "Yoga pants, Tyana. They're called yoga pants and they're comfortable."

"Mmm-hmm. If you're getting horny enough to be wearing the tighty pants again, you oughta let me fix you up."

"The last time I cried was the last time I went on a date. Coincidence? I think not. That's a ope-nay on the blind ates-day." I snatch up a rag and go out to wipe the crumbs off the tables before the next round of customers.

"It's been two years since you cried?" My employee's mouth drops open. "Sweetie, that ain't healthy, I don't care who you are."

"Oh, are we into healthy now?" I quirk a smile, waving a hand at the case of early-heart-attack and pre-diabetes all displayed in luscious rows with swirls of frosting on top. "Hey, it's still early on the rush. You think if I churn out another Chocolate Mousse Cake, we could sell it off by the end of the shift?"

"Sure enough I do. Maybe get you a start on that raise you owe me. Hey, weren't you thinking about trying a souffle layer in there? I think it'd lighten up that dense cake and be real nice."

"You got it." I shoot her finger guns and disappear into the back, happy to not have to see any human faces for a while.

At least until the wall starts to vibrate.

I flip off my Kitchen-Aid, quick, before the extra level of vibration can murder my souffle layer. "I'm going to kill him."

"Don't you take my baby's name in vain, nu-uh, not on my shift," Tyana calls from up front.

"Evil at his level doesn't have a name. He's like Voldemort. You don't even have to speak it to know which him needs to be killed."

The cash drawer slams and then she comes back, slanting an amused glance at the shared wall between our shops. "Just do your mixing on the far counter, sweet thing. That there's the sound of God's work being done."

The vibrating turns to a deep, throbbing pulse.

I dust off my hands, carefully carry my Kitchen-Aid to safety, and rip off my apron. "Just ignore the screaming when it starts." I give her a tight smile. "It's God's work being done. And if the flour delivery comes in before I get back, get a receipt."

She follows me to the back door, clucking away like a displeased hen. "Damion's been delivering to us for three years now, and not once has he tried to scam us for an extra payment. Wouldn't kill you to trust a little."

"Receipt!" I call, and slam out of my shop and into Logan's lair.

#

Author's Note: New Orleans gave me this story idea, as it's gifted me three others with effortless generosity: Unbreak Me, Serial Killer Wanted, and Untitled: an art fantasy magic system inspired by New Orleans porches this spring.

The book idea came from a roadside barrier, abandoned by the New Orleans police in their very laissez faire approach to blocking and unblocking roads for parades. It was along Moss Street, on Bayou St John where I take my daily walks whenever I can afford to come back to the city for a few weeks or months. Painted on the barrier was Kink Cake with a backwards second K.

I stopped dead and texted my CPs like, "Rom-com. Baker + a sex toy shop owner in New Orleans. Who's gonna write it for me?" As soon as I fired it off, I texted back just as fast, "Never mind, I'm going to write it myself."

Apple fritters are for NatashaRostov and her reviews that are the delight of my life. My gratitude and floating, sparkling heart emojis to Cheeeky, Lorie03, missjaybird, dark, IKnowTheEnd2, Louise88, MariaSharp, AMIP, OliveKSmoked, pwhitty, Cattyk8 and Grayce for such an incredible welcome back on Discord.

Believe it or not, I've been putting in requests to my muse for months for more VMars ideas, not as much because I miss the characters but because I miss the FANDOM. Y'all over here are the most fun and I've really missed being a part of all this. Thanks to my cranky, contrary muse for finally obliging me.