Chapter Nine #2
“Not yet,” I tell him. “That was the timer telling me to check on the cinnamon rolls. We’ll put the cookies in next.”
Before I can say anything else, Giovanni lifts the bowl triumphantly. “Mindy! Look! I made a tornado!”
Amber rushes over just as he tilts the bowl too far and flour whooshes up in a white explosion, coating his face, shirt, the counter, and part of her apron.
He freezes, eyes huge like if he stays perfectly still, we won’t notice the snowstorm of cookie mix currently drifting down to the floor.
Amber pinches the bridge of her nose. “Gio…”
He beams, completely unconcerned. “It’s okay, Mommy. Now we can see the germs when they run through the flour and slip!”
I lose it. I laugh so hard my sides hurt. Amber tries to look stern, but she’s giggling too. “That’s not… that’s not even close to how anything works.”
Giovanni shrugs, completely at peace with his words.
“I haven’t learned much science stuff yet.
But I do watch a lot of cartoons, and you can always see their feet prints in the flour.
I’m sure germs are just the same. We may need a big glass thingy to look for them. Do you have a big glass thingy, Mindy?”
“I’m sorry, Giovanni, I don’t have a magnifying glass.”
He frowns.
“That’s okay.” His gaze drops to the floor. “You win the war today, germs. Tomorrow, I’ll catch you in the act!” He holds up a spoon like a weapon, jabbing it at the floor like the germs are sitting there listening.
Amber sighs but pulls him into a floury hug. And for a second, there’s no fear in her eyes. Just love.
It makes me wonder if I’d be a good mother? I want kids someday, ones that I can teach how to bake, and make silly, chaotic memories such as this one with.
The oven dings again. This time they’re ready, so I pull them out as warm cinnamon drifts through the room like comfort itself. I glance at Amber, then at Giovanni, and something in my chest settles.
I never really considered having kids and building a family with someone after my last boyfriend dumped me.
Most of my relationships after him were short-lived, most of them jumping ship when they realized I wouldn’t sleep with them.
So, thinking about the future really isn’t something I do very often.
But ever since I met Rich and his friends, I’ve been bitten by the baby fever bug, the one that won’t stop gnawing on my heart that’s been empty and broken, or my ovaries that have been incubating dormant style for the last five years.
“You okay?” Amber asks, eyebrows etched with concern.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I promise.”
She smiles, the mess Giovanni made already a distant memory.
Man, she cleans fast.
We dive back into baking. There’s flour everywhere, but it doesn’t bother me.
Not when I finally feel welcome after being here for months.
I arrived here back in June, and now that the shop’s open, I can’t wait for the holidays to begin.
Thanksgiving and Christmas have always been my favorite holidays to celebrate, and maybe now I won’t have to celebrate them alone.
A part of me shifts, a frown slightly forming.
“You sure you’re okay, Mindy?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I’m okay. I guess I just get lonely around the holidays. All of my family is gone, and as the years go by, things get harder. I grew up with my grandma, and she passed away a few years ago.”
Amber nods. “I know the feeling. Do you have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving?”
I shake my head.
“Then consider yourself invited to mine. I’m going to make damn sure you’re not alone this holiday season.”
The holidays make me think of love and warmth, and floating underneath it all is the echo of Amber’s whisper: “He likes you, Mindy.”
Though the man hasn’t shown his face here all day.
“Come on, you two. The cookies aren’t going to bake themselves,” Giovanni shouts, making me snap back into bake mode.
The three of us fall into a smooth rhythm…
well, as smooth as you can get with a five-year-old who talks a mile a minute and tries to sneak chocolate chips when he thinks I’m not looking.
The shop stays busy, but with Amber handling the front and Giovanni “supervising” the baking, the hours pass in a kind of sweet chaos I didn’t know I needed.
At one point, I glance into the café area and see a line out the door.
A line.
For me.
For my bakery.
My eyes blur with grateful tears that I pretend are just from the oven heat.
When Amber’s mom arrives to pick up Giovanni, he hugs me around the waist with a chocolate-covered face.
“Bye, Miss Mindy. I hope I can make cookies with you again.”
“Anytime you want, Giovanni,” I tell him, smoothing his hair. “Just no more flour tornadoes next time.”
He giggles. “Mommy says you can’t make promises you know you won’t keep.” And before I can counter his adorable euphemism, he runs off, leaving a trail of crumbs like a tiny Hansel waiting to be followed.
The shop finally empties out around four. My feet hurt, my hair’s frizzy from the ovens, and flour is in places it has no business being. I’ve never felt more victorious.
Amber stretches, rubbing her stomach with a sigh. “Girl. You made so much money today I feel like I should invoice you for emotional support.”
I crack up. “Don’t worry, the tip jar’s got your name on it. I’ll split it with you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she states, leaning against the counter for support.
“Of course I do. You earned it, girl.”
I hand her a hundred dollars from the tip jar and notice her studying me.
“What? Do I have flour in my hair or something?”
She laughs. “More than you probably want to know about, but no, that’s not why I’m staring.”
“What could be worse than flour hair?”
Her shoulders lift slightly. “I could see the hopefulness in your eyes every time that bell chimed. You were hoping it was him, weren’t you?”
Sighing, I turn to her. “Was it that obvious?”
She nods. “Yes, but that’s okay. Just so you know… he’s been here all day.”
My heart stops. “Who? Rich?”
“Mhm.” She smirks. “He was outside watching the customers go in. Acting like he wasn’t, but his head was on a constant swivel like he was guarding the damn President.”
A warm flutter ripples through me. “Why would he—”
“Because,” she says, bumping my shoulder, “he cares. He’s just too emotionally constipated to admit it.”
I roll my eyes, though the thought makes my chest squeeze in dangerous ways. “He barely talks to me.”
“He talks with his actions. You just have to learn Rich-speak. For example: Him standing across the street staring at your bakery all broodingly translates to: ‘Hi Mindy, I missed you.’”
She’s not wrong, and we both know it. But I still laugh awkwardly anyway.
“It does not.”
She grins. “Oh, it sure does.” Then she throws me a wink just as her phone buzzes. She checks it, and her smile only grows bigger. “Eddie’s outside. I’m gonna head out. You need anything before I go?”
“No, today was perfect. A bit chaotic, but perfect.”
She opens the door and pauses. “Hey, Mindy?”
“Yeah?”
“I hope you know that you’re good for him. And once he opens his damn eyes and realizes it, I know he’ll be good for you too.”
Then she’s gone.
The moment the door clicks shut, the silence hits me. The bakery smells of cinnamon sugar and success. My tip jar is full, my heart is soaring, and I can’t shake the phantom image of a tall, stubborn biker lurking across the street, pretending not to care.
I blow out a breath and lock the front door.
Tomorrow will be sweeter, and hopefully even busier.
Heck, tomorrow… I might even get to see him.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to something more than just baking.