Back in the familiar sanctuary of The Daily Crumb, Chloe found little peace. The aroma of baking bread, usually comforting, now seemed to mock her. Every customer who smiled at her felt like another potential "client" Mrs. Henderson might have lined up. The thought made her stomach churn. She wasn't a relationship consultant. She was a baker. A very good baker, at that.
Muffin, sensing her distress, rubbed against her ankles, a rare show of affection. Chloe scooped him up, burying her face in his soft fur. "What am I going to do, Muffin? I can't just tell Arthur to go find love on a dating app. He'd probably try to woo a bot."
Muffin purred, offering no solutions.
The afternoon passed in a blur of flour and existential dread. Just as Chloe was wiping down the counters, preparing to close, the bell chimed again. It was Liam. He stood framed in the doorway, a casual smile on his face, holding a small notepad.
"Just in time for some research," he said, stepping inside. The bakery, usually quiet at this hour, felt suddenly charged with his presence.
Chloe forced a smile. "We're just closing up, Mr. Miller."
"Liam, please," he corrected, his eyes crinkling. "And I wasn't just here for pastries, though a stale scone would be a brave sacrifice for the sake of journalism." He gestured to his notepad. "I heard a fascinating rumor on the street. Something about an accidental matchmaker?"
Chloe's face flushed. "It's a misunderstanding. A terrible, horrible misunderstanding."
Liam leaned against the counter, a picture of relaxed curiosity. "Oh? Do tell. My editor loves a good small-town quirk piece. Especially one involving love, mistaken identity, and baked goods."
Chloe felt a surge of irritation. He was clearly enjoying this. "There's nothing to tell. Mrs. Henderson got the wrong idea about a note I wrote, and now Arthur thinks I'm some sort of love guru."
"And are you?" Liam's gaze was direct, assessing.
"Absolutely not!" Chloe practically shouted, then winced. "I mean, no. I'm not. My own love life is a disaster. I specialize in gluten, not Cupid."
Liam chuckled. "A disaster, you say? That's even better. A cynical matchmaker. The irony is delicious." He paused. "So, what's your plan for Arthur? A blind date with a bread enthusiast?"
Chloe glared at him. "I haven't got a plan. I'm trying to figure out how to un-matchmake him."
"Ah, the un-matchmaker," Liam mused, scribbling something in his notepad. "A novel concept. Perhaps a new trend in the relationship industry."
His teasing was getting under her skin. "Look, Mr. Miller – Liam. I appreciate your… journalistic interest, but this is a private matter. And frankly, it's a bit stressful."
"Stressful?" He raised an eyebrow. "Helping people find happiness? Sounds like a noble pursuit."
"It's not noble when you're coerced into it by a deceptively sweet old lady who might be a secret puppet master," Chloe muttered, then clapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant to say that last part out loud.
Liam's smile didn't waver, but his eyes sharpened. "Secret puppet master, you say? Now that sounds like a story. Tell me more about Mrs. Henderson."
Chloe shook her head vehemently. "No. No more. Just… please don't write about this."
"My lips are sealed," Liam said, though his expression suggested otherwise. "For now. But I'm a writer, Chloe. I observe. And I've noticed Mrs. Henderson has a way of… encouraging things to happen in this town. Things that always seem to benefit her, one way or another."
Chloe's blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"
"Just an observation," Liam said, shrugging. "She's very good at getting people to do what she wants. Sometimes, they don't even realize it until it's too late." He pushed off the counter. "Well, I should let you close. But I'll be around. And I'm always happy to 'research' any new developments." He gave her a final, knowing look and departed.
Chloe locked the door behind him, her heart pounding. Liam's words echoed in her mind. "Secret puppet master." "Getting people to do what she wants." It wasn't just her imagination. Mrs. Henderson was up to something. But what? And why involve Chloe?
The next morning, Chloe found a small, neatly folded note tucked under her bakery door. It was from Mrs. Henderson.
Dearest Chloe, the elegant script read. I know you're busy, but Mildred from the antique shop is feeling quite lonely. She mentioned a fondness for unique, vintage items. Perhaps you could arrange a little 'discovery session' for her? I'm sure you'll find her the perfect match. She's a bit particular, but so worth the effort. Warmly, Mrs. Henderson.
Chloe crumpled the note. Mildred. The woman who ran "Curio Corner," a shop so crammed with dusty relics it felt like stepping into another century. Mildred herself was a formidable woman, with a severe bun and an uncanny ability to sniff out a chipped teacup from across the room. "A bit particular" was an understatement. Mildred once returned a perfectly good croissant because it "lacked historical integrity."
This wasn't just matchmaking; this was a mission. A dangerous, potentially embarrassing mission. And the mention of "unique, vintage items" for Mildred's match? What did that even mean? Was she supposed to find Mildred a human antique?
Chloe felt a shiver run down her spine. The playful absurdity of her situation was quickly giving way to a darker current. Mrs. Henderson's requests were becoming more specific, more demanding. It felt like a trap, slowly tightening around her. She had to find out what Mrs. Henderson's real game was. Before Chloe became just another pawn in whatever strange, intricate plot was unfolding on Maple Street. Her quiet life was not just gone; it was being actively dismantled, one "match" at a time. And Mildred was next.