Chapter 2
LEE
Isat in my truck in the parking lot of Goose Run Gas, staring at the doors and wondering if maybe just this once I could skip the bad espresso and worse service that were a regular part of my mornings.
But who was I kidding? When you started work as early as I did, even bad coffee was better than no coffee. And to be clear, the guy who worked nights here made the worst coffee I’d ever tasted.
The thing I liked least about my job was the brutal start time, but it was also part and parcel of being a baker. People wanted their buns and French loaves and sourdough fresh out of the oven, and that meant some poor sucker had to get up and make it for them.
The poor sucker was me, in case it wasn’t clear.
I was in charge of the small production team at South Hill Bakery, and that meant starting an hour before the two other guys, checking the schedule for the day’s orders, preheating the ovens, and starting the bowls so the first batches of dough were ready by the time everyone arrived.
And I liked what I did, but I hated early starts, so I stayed in bed as long as I could.
And I tried to keep the noise down when I got up so I didn’t wake my mom and my little sister.
So I inevitably ended up stopping at Goose Run Gas for a shitty espresso and whatever passed for breakfast—usually stale premade pastries.
The only thing worse than the drinks and the food was the service. The guy behind the counter always looked like he was a minute away from stabbing someone, and he argued with me every single morning over some dumb thing. Yesterday it had been tipping and Doritos. Who knew what it might be today?
And was it wrong that I kind of looked forward to it?
Because for all his murderous glares and shitty espressos, it was kind of entertaining to stir up the guy—Chase, his name badge had said the one night he’d bothered to wear it—and see how he’d react.
And I had the feeling he got a kick out of it too, because he was always quick to fire right back.
I’d caught him almost smiling once, although maybe I’d imagined it.
I watched through the doors of the gas station for another minute before dragging my ass out of the car and strolling inside. As the doors rolled open, Chase’s head snapped up. He glared at me and made no move to get out of the chair he was slouched in.
I walked over to the refrigerator first to check if they had any Monster, but the space was empty. So was the Red Bull. I went over to the counter. “You’re out of energy drinks.”
He shrugged, then reached under the counter and pulled out a single can of Monster and waggled it in my direction.
Score! But when I reached for the can, he pulled it back, cracked the tab, and tilted his head back and drained it, holding my gaze the whole time.
Then he belched and said, “Yep. Looks like we’re out. ”
“Hey, I needed that!” Bakers ran on energy drinks and exhaustion, and it was important to keep them balanced.
“Cry me a fucking river,” he said.
“Can you go check in the back?” I asked.
He belched again. “Nope.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine,” I said, “I’d like an Americano.”
Chase stared at me.
“That’s espresso and hot water,” I said, and then, feeling brave, I added, “Double shot.”
He sighed loudly and finally got out of his chair.
“Do you even know how to make a double shot?” I was pretty sure the answer was no. Every night he stabbed at the buttons on the coffee machine until something happened, but the result was always terrible and it really seemed like he had no idea what the hell he was doing.
He glared at me and pushed some buttons. Then he punched a few more, and the coffee machine whirred to life. A thin brown stream trickled out. It spread in a puddle as it splashed on the spot where the cup was supposed to be.
“Fuck!” He narrowed his eyes and hastily hit a flashing green light. The machine shuddered to a stop.
Then he shot me a look that dared me to say something. And on any other day I might have taken pity on him, but I was still kinda pissed over the energy drink. That, and I’d never been able to resist a challenge.
“Forget something?” I asked, grinning. This was great. It was waking me up more effectively than an espresso ever could.
“Forgot you’re an asshole,” he muttered, grabbing a cup and setting it in place.
“You really are the worst barista I’ve ever met,” I said. “No wonder they make you work nights.”
His expression tightened and he jabbed viciously at the machine. I felt bad for about half a second, but then he said, “I guess that means you suck as well then. Otherwise why are you working at ass o’clock?”
“None of your business, dickhead,” I said before I realized the little shit was smirking at me. Dammit. Points scored for Chase. It didn’t help that the smirk somehow made him attractive.
“Bet you make minimum wage at a shit job,” he said, “or else why are you living on stale pastries?”
Which was pretty fucking rich coming from the night clerk at Goose Run Gas. “So you admit your pastries are stale!”
Chase raised one eyebrow. “I tell you that literally every day. But you keep coming back and being a pain in my ass instead of buying yourself good pastries from somewhere else.”
Fuck that guy, seriously.
“Nowhere else is open,” I reminded him. “And you wouldn’t know a good pastry if it bit you on the ass.”
“Dude, I know that if the pastries are biting me on the ass, they’ve definitely been in that case too long,” he said, looking far too pleased with himself.
That was pretty fucking funny, actually—not that I was going to admit it. Instead I said, “That drink ready? And I’ll take a donut.”
He slapped a lid on the cup and shoved it at me, then found the tongs and bagged the donut. He waited until I’d picked them both up to say, “Seven fifty.”
“What? How is an Americano and a donut seven fifty?” I wondered if he was adding a tip again.
“Two coffees,” he said, his expression bland.
“You’re not seriously charging me for the drink that you forgot a cup for? You’re unbelievable.” I put the donut bag down, pulled a five out of my pocket, and dropped it on the counter.
He held my gaze for a minute, and I wondered how far he was willing to push this, but then he shrugged. “I guess I can cut you a break, since you suck at your job so bad that you have to work the graveyard.”
Fucker.
Still, part of me had to admire the sheer size of the balls on the guy.
“That’s it. I’m buying a coffee machine and I won’t be back,” I said and stalked out the door.
But we both knew it was a lie.
The week dragged, and the end couldn’t come soon enough.
In the familiar heat of the South Hill Bakery kitchen, I pressed my hands into the small of my back and leaned back. My spine cracked. I needed this day to be over.
Tyler, the baker who usually worked shifts with me, had been out all week with the flu, so we’d been scrambling to keep up with orders, and I’d had even less sleep than usual.
I’d been coming in early and staying late, and now I was tired and cranky and my back hurt, and I hadn’t even had my espresso this morning.
Somehow Chase had managed to make the machine come to a grinding halt before it had even started to spit out my usual cup of caffeine and despair.
And for once I didn’t think he’d done it to be a dick.
In fact, his brow had creased and he’d mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Sorry.” And now I thought about it, he’d been uncharacteristically quiet all week, shoving my order at me and glaring instead of actively insulting me.
Or maybe he’d just picked up on the no-bullshit vibes I was giving off and was smart enough not to piss me off further—which made sense.
Chase was a pain in my ass, but I didn’t think he was stupid.
The only thing keeping me going right now was the knowledge that this was my last shift for a while.
I’d booked an entire week off, and Mom was taking my little sister Samantha and me to spend a couple of nights in Hampton Roads at our grandparents’ place to celebrate the end of Sam’s chemo.
I couldn’t wait. Except since we were short-staffed, I was staying back for a couple of hours to refill the range of cookies, cupcakes, and brownies that the bakery sold to smaller stores around the area.
I didn’t mind making desserts. It made a nice change from hauling giant bowls of bread dough around, and I’d always preferred this side of baking.
I’d already baked and cooled three batches of Danishes, the chocolate chip cookies were done, and someone else was responsible for packaging everything.
I only needed to finish up this batch of brownies.
I poured the batter into several large pans and slid them into the industrial oven with a sigh of relief.
As I set the timer, I found myself thinking about the sad pastries at Goose Run Gas.
And that got me thinking about Chase again and how confident he’d been that my job was shit and I sucked at it.
Well, maybe he wasn’t entirely wrong about the first part. I was getting pretty tired of starting work in the middle of the night. But I happened to be an excellent baker.
It was dumb, since Chase didn’t even know what I did for a job—and why bad pastries offended me so much—but I was still annoyed about his comments, even though it was days later. I was damn good at my job, that was why.
I’d taken the job at South Hill Bakery because last year when Sam had gotten sick, it had made sense for me to work nights so I could be home for most of the day.
I could keep her company and give my mom a break.
Sure, sometimes keeping Samantha company looked a lot like both of us passed out on the couch in front of a movie, but it gave Mom some breathing space.