Baked In Book Novels & Stories

Lena Torres burst inside with a tray balanced expertly on one hip. “Breakfast muffins!” she declared triumphantly. “Chocolate chip, blueberry, cinnamon swirl, and one experimental lavender honey that might be a disaster.” Clara laughed despite the heaviness lingering in her chest. “You baked at dawn?” “Of course. Emotional stability requires carbohydrates.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “Unbaked emotions are dangerous,” Lena continued. “If you don’t let them rise properly, they collapse.” Clara froze at that. Unbaked emotions. Collapse.

a familiar voice drawled, “you got lost and stumbled in here looking for more romcoms.” I turned sharply to see Enzo leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes flicking to the books in my hands. He didn’t even try to hide the smirk spreading across his face. “They’re not romcoms,” I said defensively. He pushed off the doorway and strolled closer, plucking the top book off my stack without asking. His brow arched as he glanced at the cover. “Right. And this one about two rival bakers falling in love is clearly a political thriller.”

If Stefan could just stay in New York forever, I might remember what it’s like to breathe without flinching. Margaret has become my quiet refuge, between her motherly presence and our baking lessons, I have found a strange kind of therapy in flour, butter, and sugar. Since I’m not allowed to leave the house, I fill my days with recipes, sketching designs that will never leave these four walls, and baking cookies. I’ll probably never serve to a man who refuses to touch anything that didn’t come from his five star chef. This afternoon, the scent of vanilla and warm chocolate fills the kitchen as I pull a tray from the oven. Margaret claps her hands, beaming.

“Tourists don’t look like that.” The baker squinted toward the café. “Like what?” The butcher lowered his voice instinctively. “Like they’re measuring the place.” The baker frowned. Measuring. Yes. That was the right word. Inside the library, Elaine tried to act normal. The small building sat at the edge of the square, quiet and welcoming with its large windows and rows of neatly arranged bookshelves. It had quickly become her safe place in the village—a space where life felt simple and predictable.

“Sorry to say, but running for my life kicked my ass. I passed out on the couch.” I frowned, pulling the book across the counter to me as Matt kept pulling stuff out of the cabinets. “A bookstore?” He hummed. I skimmed the cover. “Potion Efficacy for the Everday…” He hummed. As I flipped through the pages, I realized that it was more of a potions textbook than a recipe book, though a lot of the dishes were ones that Matt had made. The beef stew from the night before was inside. I scanned the pages, noting Matt’s handwriting in the margins and all the sticky notes that had been added. My lips twitched. Hadn't he brought home books from college like this?

Quickly, I find myself kneeling close to the warmth of the fireplace. I see torn pages lying around, their edges scorched and black. I stretch out my hand and feel the smooth texture of the parchment with my fingertips. Bran squats down beside me, getting close to the ground. "Is that-?" I inhale deeply and struggle to swallow. "Pages from the cookbook." But they're not just lost. They were burned. There's this crushing sense of dread in my chest that I can't seem to shake off. Looks like someone was here before, and they knew about the cookbook.

The floor looks like it’s a warm cherry wood, and they have foam mats in front of the sinks, stoves, and a few along the counters. “Would I be able to bake in here?” Ashton pops his head up from the cutting board, a look of shock across his face. “Of course, you can! You can use anything in the pack house and save the packs individual houses you can use anything in our territory. I didn’t know you could bake though!” “I do here and there, I'm no chef, but I enjoy it.” “Then I look forward to tasting some of your creations.” “I think we left two of my favourite baking cook books back in Scotland. I don’t think that is something Cal would have thought to bring. Do you think we could get anothe

I heard that information from my friends. His mouth curved into a smile. "Yeah, admirably isn't it?" I smile back before nodding. "Is there anything that I can do for today?" I ask. Blake snap before turning his back at me and search for something. "Yeah, We have the simple recipe that you can easily learn here." Blake give me a thick old book. I frown. Does the owner of this book is a fan of gothic styles? "Is this our Boss's recipes?" I ask. Blake nodded his head.

"I tried to save the bakery. And now I'm trapped." The book smelled of flour and vanilla, of home. I opened it gingerly, stroking his handwriting in the margins. Instructions. Tips. Little notes. And then I noticed something that I had never seen before. There in the corner of the sourdough starter recipe were numbers. Not measurements. Something else. They were almost like coordinates, or chemical notations. Strange symbols that didn't belong. My heart started beating faster. I flipped to the next recipe. More numbers in the margins. Different but similar in structure.

My gaze wandered over the spines, and my heart skipped a beat as I spotted a familiar title nestled between two larger books - my own book, its silver spine glinting in the soft light of the room. As Roxy disappeared into her room, I took the opportunity to explore the rest of the apartment. I wandered into the kitchen area, and my eyes widened in surprise. The kitchen was a culinary paradise, fully stocked with an impressive array of cookware, utensils, and gadgets. Every available surface was adorned with jars of spices, baskets of fresh ingredients, and cookbooks that seemed to span every cuisine imaginable. It was clear that Roxy had a passion for cooking, and that this kitchen was her h