The Baker Novels & Stories

Baker the nastiest of glares. “I hope you’re right. Either way, it’s a good idea to keep that one on a short leash, or any leash!” She gave Bruiser a wary look as she played with the pears on her necklace. “I’d hate to see someone get hurt because of a mutt.” As she spoke, her tone turned bitter, and she returned Bruiser’s glare. In a blink of an eye, Mrs. Baker turned to Gail and gave her a bright smile. “Well, I was coming over to ask you for a cup of sugar, as cliché as that sounds. My boys are out of town or too busy with work to stop by the store for me and I have a hankering for my special double chocolate fudge cake.”

She showed him the list of activities that were available and he helped her choose some, "You must go for pottery, Aria. Your mother was a fine Potter. I'm certain you've got the genes from her." "I will, Dad. Thank you." She noticed his eyebrows knit together as if he was not happy about something. "Baking, too. It's been a while since we ate homemade bread and the Mr. SweetBaker's one of the best bakeries in the pack. His recipes are traditional and make you want to take another bite. He's also very good to work with." Zavier said, behaving like he was never bothered. "You'll love his bakery as well. Go for it."

I hear his audible sigh as he carries the platter of food and pushes it in front of me. Waffles and eggs. A bowl of assorted fruits is on the corner and he smiles wistfully at me. "I didn't know what you wanted after being hungover, but believe me, I knew you would be hungry, now, dig in," he tells me as he hands me some cutleries. I don't wait for a second invitation to dig in. The waffles melt in my mouth as I moan. "Jeez! This is so well made," I tell him. "I am a baker and I own a bakery downtown," he tells me grinning from ear to ear.

"one caramel pudding plz" another order is there, so soon. Nowadays there are lot more customers and visitors in my cafe. Me and mom opened the cafe called "BAKE MY LOVE" because my mom loved baking and she only taught me amazing recipes which are still bringing happiness to me. Most of the teenagers visit the cafe , there are books, perfect music and of course perfect food. they say this is the perfect place to relax. But day by day my schedule is getting hectic. .

The owner's wife and child were at the front while I was in the kitchen, asking the baker how to make the bread softer. "Hey, Allison, I'm the boss here. No one knows better than me how to bake bread!" The owner nudged the baker aside, who left while rolling her eyes. It was clear why the baker wasn't fond of the owner—his baking skills were lacking. "Thanks, but I already know how to bake the bread. I should go help at the counter now." I brushed past the owner, making my way to the cash register. He halted me by grabbing my arm. "Hey, Allison, why the rush? There are hardly any customers out the

But make no mistake: you do not mess with me, my brothers, or their old ladies. ​I climbed down from my bike. The house wasn't completely dead, but it was quiet for a Sunday morning. Most of my club brothers were back home with their women, though a few were definitely upstairs in the clubhouse rooms, hooking up with the club girls. Even the guys with old ladies still mess around at the clubhouse sometimes. I guess their women know exactly what they signed up for when they chose the biker life. But me? I could never imagine cheating on Ella. Once we are together, that's it. She's my only one.

He raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair and tried to think of something to say to make Leila feel better. He glanced over the tray of food that was barely touched. Cutting a slice of strawberry cake and stabbing a small chunk with the tip of a golden fork, Thorn said lightly, “The baker in the kitchen is a chubby old man with a huge beard. He’s done a marvelous job keeping it perfect, as he did with this cake.”

I chuckled under my breath; it reminds me of my Nanna whenever I sneak to steal cookies. I’ve loved baking since childhood, learning from my grandmother after my mom died when I was thirteen. My Nanna’s (grandmother) cinnamon-scented kitchen shaped me, and even after she passed two years ago, my love for baking pushed me forward. I trained at the Culinary Institute of America and now run my bakery, Butter & Bloom, in Los Angeles, dreaming of expanding one day. Mrs Whitfield’s son extends his right hand towards me, drawing me back to the present.

A stench of desperation lingered under the scents of stale spices and rotting produce. Andrea stopped. Before her stood a small bread stall, manned by an elderly baker with flour-stained sleeves and calloused hands. Despite the bleakness around him, he wore a warm smile. Andrea approached, brushing aside a cobweb clinging to a wooden support beam. “How much for this bread?” she asked, gesturing to a wrapped loaf of hard, dark brown bread. “One silver, ma’am,” the baker replied politely, his voice raspy but kind. Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit high?”

My stomach growled again, betraying my prolonged hunger. Inside, the sun-kissed bricks and rustic wooden beams of the bakery interior created a feeling of home. Little golden loaves sat neatly behind glass counters while pastries of all shapes and colors tempted patrons. Mrs. Abernathy, the rotund and rosy-cheeked bakery owner, stood behind the counter, kneading dough and humming a tune. The moment she caught sight of me, her eyes lit up. “Olivia! Come, come. It’s been a while.”