Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
TINSLEY
Y et again, I wake up disoriented. For the length of a yawn, I’m not quite sure where I am or how I got here. But then I glimpse fresh-out-of-the-shower-Aiden Fuller.
Forget small town. This is the big leagues.
Aiden Fuller first thing in the morning is a sight to behold. Meanwhile, I look like I asked the raccoon or whatever it was that paid me a midnight visit for a makeover.
Morning-Aiden comes through the bathroom-ette door on a billow of steam at the same time he pulls a black T-shirt over his head. But first, I get a peek at his chiseled abs. There are dips and lines and crown molding.
Slightly damp, his skin glistens like a real-life aftershave ad. Considering he’s a finance guy and probably spends a lot of time in an office, he also sports a slight tan. Could be from working outdoors on his property? Maybe he works remotely...here in this trailer? He did mention an office in town. Perhaps part of his run for mayor?
My future plans are about as mushy as my brain at the moment. All I can think is Boys, take a number. There is a man in town.
There is nothing mushy about this man. Firm muscles, strong hands, and a just shaved jawline that has authority all its own. His blue eyes land on me, staring like the ultimate fangirl. I can’t even hide it or pretend otherwise because my eyes are so big they probably fill the trailer. My mouth hangs slack like the stereotypical movie depiction of a half-witted Hillbilly. If there were flies to catch, I wouldn’t need breakfast.
This must be the new me...and cut! Just call it a wrap. I’ve become a country bumpkin in less than twenty-four hours. The transformation is complete because if this is how they build men in the country, I’m hooked. Addicted, and I’ll never go back.
Aiden smooths his palm through his wet hair, leaving it tousled.
Have mercy. I’m new at this! A girl can only take so much at once.
Yes, of course, I’ve seen many outrageously attractive men in my life. Name an actor or musician on the “Top 50 Most Desirable Men Alive” list and chances are we’ve “Canoodled.” Not sure what that means in this context, but the gossip bloggers who post images of me and these “Examples of Man Candy” can give you the official definition. Take Taylor Whitmer for instance. He was rated “Cutest Country Musician” for three years running. I sure know how to pick ‘em. However, not one of them made me feel like this.
I don’t know what this is, but it comes with a blush that goes beyond my cheeks. It also includes butterflies that are likely from the Jurassic period with the way their wings flap-flap-flap in my belly, and a center of gravity that leans more north than south.
My entire body swoops in his just-out-of-the-shower presence.
“Good morning.” Aiden’s voice has a hint of early-hour sleepiness that curls around his subtle and smooth southern drawl.
“Howdy,” I reply only it sounds more like “Help!” because I slide off the edge of the narrow bed and somehow end up twisted like a pretzel around the table legs. Have I mentioned the trailer is an incredibly compact space?
Aiden rushes over, intoxicating me with his soapy, aftershave scent. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Not struck, er stuck.” Not struck by your impossibly hunky first-thing-in-the-morning look or your dripping tousled brown hair. Not the lazy smile that suggests you know why I’m staring and falling all over myself. I’m not gawking either. Nope. Not at all.
I clear my throat. “Just thought I dropped something.”
My dignity? Yep. It’s right here under this table.
Aiden extends his hand to help me up. Doing so requires a few grunts and the twisting of my limbs. Good thing I own loads of fashionable yoga apparel yet have never taken a class.
I straighten, brush off, and then blow a loose piece of hair out of my face. “Oh, and that was a new, exotic fitness program called Goga —it’s an exclusive variation of yoga and is meant to be done on the go, in hotels, on vacation, on a man-cation,” I add just to remind myself.
Aiden silent-chuckles like he knows I’m full of beans...and butterflies. His expression has the look of amused laughter but without the sound. “I have a few calls to make. You can find me outside when you’re ready.” He glances at the chunky, masculine platinum watch around his wrist. “You have a little less than an hour.”
“Less than an hour?”
“Yeah. Figured that was more than enough time to get ready. Remember? It’s your first day at Sweethearts.”
That’s pennies when it comes to time. “You’ve never had a woman living in your trailer, have you?”
“No, but I grew up with two sisters. I made an approximation. Mae takes twenty minutes. If we’d let her, Bess wouldn’t come downstairs for an hour and twenty.”
“Try three hours, Aiden. That’s how long my routine takes, at least.”
“Rhondy is expecting you at six sharp so get your hustle on. Oh, and skip the sequins today. Health codes.” Aiden opens the door to exit.
I holler after him, “I planned to run that dress over, leave it to stew in the sewer, and then burn the thing.”
He goes still. “Don’t you dare.”
I frown at the finality in his tone. “What? Why not?”
“It was what you were wearing when we officially met.”
“And…?” I ask, baffled by his sudden seriousness.
“And I expect you to wear it on our honeymoon. I’m looking forward to a little before and after. That’s the before...”
A squawk a laugh so loud that if there were neighbors, I’d have woken them up.
“And the after is you, barefoot on the beach with your hair windblown and your face sun-kissed.”
“I don’t apply anything less than SPF75.”
“People change. Although I like you the way you are, as I said, before and after. I have a feeling you’re on your way to experiencing a classic Butterbury transformation.”
“And how about you?”
“Mine is inside out.”
“There’s nothing you need to change about the out ,” I blurt while running my hand through the air from Aiden’s head to his toes.
His lips pooch with amusement. “Glad you appreciate what you see. The feeling is mutual.”
He leaves Toby without another word while I’m just standing here gaping and gawking and I don’t know what-ing other than not getting ready.
And the clock is ticking. This is day one of thirty. I take the fastest shower of my life, whip through my skincare routine, and am on a collision course with my suitcase when I realize I don’t know what to wear to Sweethearts. Ordinarily, I’d consult Sienna or one of my stylist “friends.” At the very least, if this were an event, I’d ask the internet.
But with half my time gone, I start to perspire as I rifle through my limited clothing selection, tossing skirts and blouses over my shoulder.
“Come on, Tinsley. Figure this out.”
Okay, if I were cast as a worker at a bakery, what would the costume designer select for my wardrobe? Something low-key but cute. I opt for a flirty, flowy, floral skirt with hidden shorts that hit mid-thigh and a fitted light pink shirt.
Now, for hair and makeup. I half my typical products and opt for a bright, dewy look before blowing out my hair and then adding a few playful curls.
Standing all the way on the other side of the trailer so I can see most of myself in the bathroom-ette mirror. From a distance, I pass for a cute, twenty-something star in a made-for-TV movie about a spunky girl whose meet-cute will happen at the bakery involving a bit of frosting on her lip and the bad boy biker who returned after years of absence to visit his sick mother. Naturally, he stops to pick up her favorite cupcakes and meets the future love of his life.
Classic love story. But what will mine be?
When I exit the trailer, Aiden casually leans against the Maybach, phone to his ear, voice indistinguishable.
While Toby is as good as it gets for tiny trailers, the door squeaks. Aiden turns slowly in my direction.
No, it’s more like slow motion. If he were the bad boy in the movie, returning home to the small town in hopes of redemption, he’d lower his sunglasses, his eyebrows would lift, and he’d let out a low whistle.
Then with a manly grunt of frustration, he hangs up on whoever he was talking to.
Suddenly nervous that I did something wrong, I gulp. “Is, did, I, uh—?”
He cocks his head. “Butterbury better buckle up. And so should we so you’re not late.”
I try to make sense of his comment as he reviews our meeting time for my second shift of my new workday at Bubba’s.
I’ve always had a “Fake it ‘til you make it” approach as I climb to the top. I just pretend I followed everything he said.
Aiden glances at the sky. My gaze follows to a high ceiling of clouds with sunlight peeking through. He gives a short nod as if making a silent agreement with an invisible weatherman and saunters over to the motorcycle.
“Ready?” he calls.
“Hmm. Not ready.”
“It’s a nice day, perfect for a ride on the bike.”
“What about the car?”
“I ought to get gas and we don’t have time. Come on. It’ll be fun.”
“The last time I was on a motorcycle was with Sylvester Bulheimer aka ‘The Bull,’ a Hollywood bad boy who, it turns out, did not do his own motorcycle stunts because he didn’t know how to ride the thing. Found that out on Sunset Boulevard.”
Aiden’s voice is deep confidence when he says, “I promise I’m licensed and know how to ride.”
I shift from foot to foot. It’s not like I have much of a choice.
“Ready?” he asks again.
“As ready as I’ll never be,” I mutter as I sling my leg over the saddle and settle in behind him.
As if I’ve done this a thousand times, I wrap my arms around Aiden’s chest. I can feel my pulse pressing against his as he accelerates and slides smoothly onto the street. But I’ve never felt this way before—the way my belly swoops each time we make contact. Like I don’t know how to breathe or speak or think straight.
His body seems to hum under mine like he feels it too. We’re quiet because of the roar of the motorcycle, but it’s like our bodies communicate soundlessly. The way I lean into him when he goes faster down a long straight road. The way he supports me as he turns onto another street.
Aiden Fuller has me twisted around him in the best of ways. I wish I minded more. Too bad I’m on a man-cation.
When we pull up in front of Sweethearts, I try to get off the motorcycle as gracefully as possible, wishing Goga was a thing so I was a bit more flexible. I stand there for a long moment as if waiting for the tension between us to snap or... Do I take it with me? Leave it behind? Was I imagining it?
“Good luck on your first day.” Aiden leaves me another one of his dangerous winks.
I give a weak wave as the sign hanging in the door to Sweetheart’s flips to Open .Rhondy, formidable and intimidating at any hour, but especially before coffee, greets me with the kind of smile teachers give on the first day of school.
“Welcome to Sweethearts Bakery and Café. You sometimes hear people ask if they have a favorite child. I only have one so the answer is easy. But between you and me, the Starlight Diner and Sweethearts are my bonus babies.” Her smile is warm, affectionate. When she turns her gaze on me, I see a mama bear word of caution.
Reading between the lines, she’s telling me I’m the babysitter and she’d better not get a call that her kid is in the hospital with a broken limb. Or that I burned the house down.
Message received.
Still standing under the white light-up sign with hearts and black script that says Sweetheart Bakery & Café, Rhondy points out the patio area adjacent to the sidewalk. Pink and white umbrellas provide shade over white wrought iron tables.
“Customers are welcome to sit out here, especially with their dogs. We have a few metal bowls you can bring out with water. Otherwise, it’s counter service only. Please make sure you periodically check to make sure trash is disposed of, crumbs are wiped up, and sweep the cement so we don’t attract pests.”
I blurt, “Just so you know, this is my first job. I appreciate you telling me everything there is to know.”
“This is your first job at a bakery?”
“No, it’s my first job,” I correct, regretting sharing that tidbit.
“Your first job at a café?”
“No, I mean my first job ever.” I wring my hands. “I was actually surprised you hired me. Don’t potential employees usually have to fill out an application or submit a resume?”
Rhondy’s expression falters, but her voice is bright when she says, “We do things differently here in Butterbury. It’s worth noting that we all start somewhere. I was a beginner once too. Though my first day was when I was twelve. You’ll catch on.”
“I’m sorry that I don’t have more experience.”
Rhondy gives me a long look. She has the kinds of eyes that see everything—mom eyes. Well, not my mother, but maternal eyes. Warm, friendly, generous, but also full of knowing.
“I believe in chances. First, second, and sometimes even third chances. Do you?”
I nod. “Most of the time.”
“If you mess up, will you give yourself a second chance?”
“I’ve never thought of it that way. Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Will you learn from your mistakes?”
“Definitely. Yeah. The last few days have been one long lesson.”
She pats me on the arm. “Good. I think you’ll do fine.”
Rhondy didn’t give me a long lecture, proffer a threat if I do something wrong, or make me feel like one of the ants trailing along the sidewalk. But I want to prove to her that I can do this. Maybe to myself too and that I’m not an adult lady child.
I follow her inside. A bar with stools lines one bank of windows and several tables dot the other side. Facing the rear wall are two display cases. One contains chocolate candies and baked goods fill the other. The register sits in the middle. On one wall is a beverage station and on the other, a mural with two hearts painted to look like wings with the Sweethearts logo on top.
“Mae designed that.” Visitors and fans of the Designed to Last show, of which Rhondy explains there are many, like to take their photos in front of the mural.
My rough start with Aiden’s sister aside, every detail of this place was considered with love and care. From the coordinating pink, gold, and white polka-dotted cups to the pink straws, to the wax bags. The string and ribbon for tying pastry boxes, the fabric on the chairs, to the menu for a girly girl like me—who appreciates a good eye for design and attention to detail—is in heaven.
Rhondy waits on a few customers—all of whom order a coffee to go plus a pastry or muffin. I watch her easy and friendly manner with people. The way she makes them feel at home. Their smiles in return.
I’ve never been on this side of the counter before, but know very well what makes me have a pleasant experience at an establishment. A little bubble of excited confidence rises in me. I think I can do this.
Next, Rhondy shows me behind the counter where drawers below the display cases hold supplies. She goes over the register and then opens a binder with all the opening and closing procedures.
“Christina made this, including an FAQ in the back.”
“Looks like I have some reading to do.”
Rhondy’s laugh is like bells. Like music. I imagine the first time her husband heard it, he fell in love. The first time her son heard it, he knew he was loved.
After a couple more customers come in, one for an assortment of baked goods for a Bible study and the other for a gift for his sweetheart, we head through the double swinging doors containing a pair of heart-shaped windows that lead to the kitchen.
I have to take a deep breath because now I’m out of my depth. There are stainless steel shelves, tables, and lots of buckets and bowls. Tubs of things labeled with ingredients, tools that I’ve never before seen, and another binder filled with recipes have me lingering by the door while Rhondy gives me a crash course in running a bakery café.
“You’ll be here with us first thing so I can open up at the Starlight. One of the ladybosses will take over in the late morning. The only times we’ll have you bake is if we have a big order or if we’re low on something and for some reason one of the others can’t get to it. I’m the master chocolatier, so don’t worry about making that.” She winks. “But do worry about eating it. One of the job perks is you will get plenty of samples.”
We return to the front.
I swallow but not because I’m concerned about my chocolate habit. No, this room is an all-things baked goods paradise. A wonderland. There should be bars around the display cases...not that I’d steal. I’ve already been behind bars, but the only thing I really know how to do when it comes to bakery-cafes is to be a customer. How to serve? Not in my wheelhouse. My feet remain glued to the floor by the door, but I want to be able to do this.
“Any questions?”
I shake my head but a little squeak escapes.
Rhondy claps me on the back and says, “You’ll do fine.”
Thing is, I want to do better than fine. My entire adult life, I’ve been “Faking it ‘til I make it.” The truth is, I never made it. Not in Tinseltown, Nashville, or New York City. I was always the extra. The friend of convenience. The body in the room.
For once, I want to succeed. To be good at something. If that something is working at a bakery, fine. But I don’t want to settle for anything less than being the best bakery girl this town has ever seen.
Rhondy squints at me like she knows what I’m thinking. With a smile and nod, she greets a customer. I follow suit and do my best to shadow her.
However, all too soon, she passes me an apron with pink, gold, and black polka dots against white fabric.
“Welcome, to the family, Tinsley. We’re glad you’re here.” She walks toward the door.
Doubts and fears burn in my mind while the rest of me breaks out in a glacial sweat. I can’t do this. Can I do this? I go back and forth rapid fire.
Before Rhondy exits, I sweep in front of her, blocking the door. She meets my gaze but instead of questions, I see confidence. I feel it too.
Without thinking, I wrap my arms around her in a hug. A hug that I feel like I’ve needed to give for a few days now. I settle into it with this veritable stranger, but she hugs me back like this is perfectly normal. Welcome and wanted. Like we’re old friends. Relatives even.
“Thank you,” I say when we part. I want to thank her for trusting me.
With a smile, she glances at the chrome clock on the wall and says, “I’d better get back to the Starlight. You’re a lifesaver.”
Now, all alone, I’m afraid Rhondy took the confidence she had on loan with her instead of leaving it with me.
And boy do I need it along with an instruction manual. Yes, there are the expertly organized binders, but I’ve never had to operate a point-of-sale system never mind refill receipt paper, sugar shakers, or napkin holders.
Usually, I’m on the other side of the counter, placing orders and not taking them.
It doesn’t help that my life has suddenly gone wrong or that I hardly slept last night because I was thinking about Aiden. Then the critter that woke me up, scratching on...something. For a minute—okay, twenty—I thought it was Murder Doll trying to escape from the trunk of the Maybach. After that, I jumped to a Sasquatch trying to break in—I was an extra in Hunt & Seek Sasquatch II and everyone on set claimed it was real.
Never mind that, now is not the time to have a crush on anyone, least of all Aiden Fuller. His sisters hate me. Taylor is married to one of them. They’re best friends. It’s bad timing. Bad everything. I can’t afford the chocolates in here nor can I afford to fall in love.
And how could I fall in love if I’m not interested?
Wait. Am I interested?
Pfft. No way.
It’s as if Aiden smells better than chocolate, and that says a lot since I’m practically bathing in it right now. His eyes are the kind that see beyond the exterior and superficial—it was like he could see me, the version of me beyond the sequins.
I need a distraction.
Chocolate. I could go for some. I don’t want to take a piece from the display case, so while I’m in the back getting more cream for the coffee station, I spot some in a container on the shelf. I open it and inhale. It’s not quite as sweet as I expect. Perhaps it’s one of those fancy dark chocolate kinds that boasts high percentages of cocoa.
This is just what I need to satisfy the hunger inside—not the breakfast kind. More like the man-cation breakfast buffet kind.
I take a little bite of the chocolate and then spit it out like a cat with a hairball before scraping my tongue with a napkin. It’s the most bitter thing I’ve ever tasted. “Ew, ew, ew.”
I read the label on the top of the container. Baking Chocolate.
How can baking chocolate taste so disgusting when it comes out so delicious? Must have something to do with the oven, of which there are several in here.
Thank goodness no one saw that and thank goodness I don’t have to bake. I do not know my way around the kitchen. For instance, once I was helping my friend put together a recipe because the caterers were late. She said to add cheese so I just tossed the brick of cheddar in with the rest of the ingredients. Turns out I was supposed to shred it. I thought shredded cheese was its own thing. Don’t blame me, I grew up with a chef.
Also, just yesterday I learned that pickles come from cucumbers. The more you know, am I right? The Fuller Sisters seemed to think that was funny, but not their brother.
The door to the front jingles and I bring up fresh cream since the container was getting low. While I get the customer their coffee, I think about how Aiden seems like an open book. But that’s a result of judging him by his cover. He has a big personality, is generous, and gorgeous. But those eyes tell another story. Not only does he see me, but I also sense he’s seen a lot. More than he lets on. Maybe he’s not so much a book but a diary with a padlock. Does he contain secrets inside?
Whatever. I can’t let myself read a chapter never mind the first page. It’s been a while since I’ve read a book at all. Seems like something people do in Butterbury or while on a man-cation.
“Miss, I think that’s plenty of cream,” the woman with thick glasses says from the other side of the counter.
I look down to see the cup overflowing. Apologizing, I get her another coffee. “Must’ve been distracted.”
“Mmm. I know that look.” She winks. “You were thinking about a special someone.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Just chocolate. I have chocolate on my mind. And books. And my man-cation.”
She laughs like she knows I’m full of beans.
“Do you know where I can get a book?”
“That’s broad. Do you mean a Bible or fiction? A cookbook? A how-to guide? Fantasy? Romance?”
I bounce on my toes and point. “Yes, that. Definitely romance.” Perhaps that’ll help clear up whatever it is that suddenly seems to be afflicting me. Or perhaps it’s a byproduct of working at a place called Sweethearts because I cannot stop thinking about Aiden.
I’m afraid he’s got me good.