The hood to the Subaru lifted with a groan; sighing, Autumn pried the support strut from its recessed holder and propped the hood up. This thing was seriously on its last legs. As much as she wanted to get a down payment on the store, having a reliable vehicle came first. If she deducted the cost of a new (used) car from her earnings, that would only push the store purchase back another six months.

Would the Lennoxes hold it for her for that long?

That was something she had to worry about later. Wiping a hand across her forehead, Autumn studied the interior. Okay, so what's the problem here?

Well, what didn't she have to worry about? As promised, the butler, Mr Feldman, came back later in the evening to go over the dessert menu. Everything was pretty straightforward, nothing exotic, which surprised Autumn. She expected someone with that much wealth to want desserts that were expensive, strange, and out-of-the-box—all of which were beyond her capabilities.

"Mr Westbrook has very simple tastes," the butler had explained when she tentatively expressed her concerns. "He wants desserts that are elegant and delicious—nothing over the top."

There were things on the list that Autumn knew could not have blood substitutes—basically, anything that was light-colored, such as cannolis, lemon bars, danishes, and sugar cookies. After a brief discussion, Mr Feldman agreed that not everything had to contain blood. They settled on three desserts: chocolate sponge cake, red velvet cake (and its cake-pop variant), and black forest cookies. Everything else Autumn had mentioned earlier was acceptable.

Mr Feldman left several hours later with three pages of ingredients and promised to have most of them delivered the next day. The big event was in two weeks, giving Autumn plenty of time to bake, have Mr Westbrook vet the results, and make corrections as necessary.

That night, as Jordyn stayed up late chatting with her friends, Autumn collapsed in the large master bedroom and tried to sleep. But everything felt off—the bed was deliciously comfortable, covers soft as a dream, pillows just firm enough. But Autumn, instead of reveling in this luxury, only felt anxious. Ever since her parents kicked her out at seventeen and pregnant, she'd been fighting for every dime that came into her hands. None of this felt real.

So she spent the night in a restless half-sleep, waiting for the other shoe to drop, only to get up at dawn to check on the Subaru.

Oil was good, washer fluid full, fan belt still attached ... Autumn leaned forward. Ah, there was the problem. The air filter was loose. She pushed the casing with one finger and felt it wiggle. There was an old, battered toolbox in the trunk that her grandfather had left her when he passed; a few twists of a screwdriver should fix the problem.

"Do you need help?"

Carefully extracting her head from the car's interior, Autumn peered over her right shoulder. A tall man wearing baggy, paint-stained tan overalls and a grey shirt stood behind her. A grey newsboy cap sat low over his eyes and he carried an easel under one arm; the other hand held a medium-sized canvas with some sort of woodland scene painted on it. A battered black backpack hung off one shoulder. Two smudges of green paint marred the bridge of his nose.

Autumn straightened. "No, no thank you."

"Are you certain?" He took a few steps closer, angling his head to get a better look inside the hood.

"Quite certain," she replied firmly, mimicking his verbal style. Walking around to the back of the car, she opened the door and pulled out her grandfather's Craftsman toolbox. The box was heavy, but she managed to lug it around to the front of the Subaru. It hit the brick pavement with a clang and Autumn winced, glancing at the painter. Please, don't let me have broken anything, she prayed, lifting a corner of the toolbox. But the brick appeared to be made of stronger stuff and was unharmed. Phew.

Popping the top, she rummaged around in the box for the correct screwdriver. When she stood up, the painter was gone. How odd, Autumn decided. Well, maybe Mr Westbrook hired this guy to paint some pieces for his party. Nothing strange about that. She was baking with blood, after all.

A few minutes later, the casing to the air filter was sufficiently tightened. After doing a quick sweep of the interior, Autumn packed up the toolbox and put everything away.

"You're up early, Ms Milford."

Autumn flinched, startled. The butler was walking down the driveway, hands in his pockets. "Did you sleep well?"

Do I lie or tell the truth? Autumn wondered. She settled on something in-between. "I had a hard time falling asleep, but the bed is wonderful."

Mr Feldman nodded sagely. "I understand. That can often happen in a new environment." He looked around. "You didn't happen to see Mr Westbrook just now?"

"Mr Westbrook?" she repeated. "No, why?" She didn't even know what her mysterious employer looked like.

The butler reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He likes to sometimes come out before dawn and paint."

Shock straightened Autumn's spine. "P-paint?" she stammered, lifting a hand to her mouth. Oh, God ... that was Mr Westbrook! She had been an ass to Mr Westbrook!

Mr Feldman's eyebrows lifted curiously.

"I did see him—but I didn't know it was him," she told the butler in a rush. "I ... I have to go." Pivoting, Autumn practically sprinted back to the cottage, leaving the butler standing there, perplexed. She had to apologize—but how?

------------

A few hours later, Autumn stood in the foyer of the mansion, hugging a small white takeout box with her logo on the front to her chest. The inside was just as cabin-chic as the cottage with high, vaulted ceilings and dark brown upholstered furniture everywhere. Very ... masculine.

A woman in her early fifties descended the stairs. She wore a slim black dress and her greying blonde hair was pulled back in a bun. On the right side of her head was a silver clip in the shape of a butterfly; two diamond stud earrings sparkled from her lobes.

"Ms Milford? Mr Westbrook will see you now."

Taking a deep breath to quell her thumping heart, Autumn followed the woman up the polished wooden staircase.

And another one.

By the time they reached the third floor, Autumn was a little out of breath. Fortunately, she was able to take time to catch it while the older woman knocked on her employer's door and poked her head inside.

"Come in," the woman said, gesturing with a slim, manicured hand.

Holding the still-warm box tightly, Autumn followed her into the study. Keeping slightly behind the woman, Autumn glanced around. It was a large room but positively cluttered: every wall was lined with shelves that were stuffed to bursting with books and artifacts. There was even one of those rolling ladders that Autumn didn't believe still existed outside of period-piece movies.

It looked more like an academic's office than a study belonging to a rich man.

"Mr Westbrook? Ms Milford is here to see you."

At the far end of the cluttered room, Mr Westbrook lifted his head. He sat at a large oak desk that held a desktop computer, stacks of books and paper, and a statue of a woman holding a spear and an owl. Behind him was a grand bay window that overlooked the courtyard; folded up in one corner was the easel Autumn had seen him carrying earlier.

"Come in, Ms Milford." He stood up and gestured to an overstuffed chair in front of the desk. A white shirt, open grey sports jacket, and dark grey slacks only added to his professor look.

The older woman gestured that Autumn go ahead. Swallowing her nerves, Autumn crossed the floor, boot heels clicking on wood. Behind her, the woman left, closing the door and leaving the two of them alone.

"What can I do for you, Ms Milford?" Mr Westbrook asked as she carefully took a seat in the chair.

Outside of his painter clothes and face unobscured by a hat, her employer was strikingly handsome. He had a strong, square jaw, straight nose, and close-cropped blond hair that had a hint of a wave across his forehead. A pair of dark, ocean-colored eyes watched Autumn curiously.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier," she said, placing the box on his desk.

"Your behavior?" Mr Westbrook repeated, reaching for the box.

"Yes, I was rude when you offered to help me with my car." She shifted in the overstuffed chair. "I've been taking care of myself and my daughter since I was nineteen, you see ..."

"So you don't like asking for help," he concluded, opening the box. "I underst—are these cinnamon rolls?" he asked in surprise.

Autumn flushed. "Yes. They just came out of the oven, so they should still be warm. But they don't have blood in them," she added in a rush as he lifted one to his mouth.

Mr Westbrook paused, then began to laugh. "I don't mind one bit, Ms Milford. These look delicious." He took a big bite, a grin spreading across his face. "Oh, these are delicious! Neville was correct in his assessment of your skills."

Autumn's blush deepened. "Thank you, sir."

He waved the honorific away. "Corbin, please. Anyone who can bake like this can call me by my first name." The cinnamon roll disappeared in two bites and he reached for another.

"Corbin," she repeated, a little breathless with his approval. God, why was he so damned handsome?

He looked up, a strange expression flickering across his face. It was there and gone before Autumn could register what it was. Instead, he smiled and devoured the second cinnamon roll. "Do you have any more of these?" he asked, holding up the box. "I'm afraid that I'll go through these in no time."

Autumn chuckled, shifting in the chair. "I can make more."

"Please do," he said, reaching for a tissue and wiping his mouth. "Well, Ms Milford, I think we can consider the matter over your car closed?"

That was definitely a polite dismissal. Autumn stood up and brushed off her pants. "Yes," she replied. "I'll send some more rolls up today?"

He smiled and reached for another. "Excellent."

Fighting the urge to curtsey, Autumn left the study with a sigh of relief. She'd make him two hundred cinnamon rolls if she had to. Now, all she had to do was impress him more with an entire menu of desserts. No big deal, right?