Chapter 2
Two
Saturday mornings in my house are always the best because that’s when my dad tries out new recipes. My house smells like freshly baked goods, and today, mouthwatering sugared strawberry lingers in the air.
“What are you making and why don’t I have a slice yet?” I ask Dad as I sit at the kitchen island.
He’s stirring something over the stove as he sends me an amused glance. Dad has hazel eyes, like me, but his are a smidge greener, and his hair is a deep brown. I get my lighter brown hair and height from Mom.
“It’s not ready yet,” he reprimands with a smile as he stirs. “Strawberries will be in season soon, so I’m trying to perfect our strawberry pie recipe before offering it at the bakery.”
My parents own one of the largest fresh bakery chains in the Greater Toronto Area.
They started with a small store about ten minutes from where we live now, and the business has been expanding ever since.
Dad is the genius behind the recipes, and Mom takes care of the corporate side of things.
She’s the reason why they’re thriving and keep expanding; Dad’s content with simply hiding in the kitchen.
They make a great team, and their hard work pays off.
The bakeries are always busy, and the customers are going to multiply tenfold now that it’s spring and summer’s just around the corner.
“I’m sure it’s delicious,” I reassure him, trying to peek into the pot to see if it’s something I can sample.
“Don’t you have to get ready for work? Shoo!” He doesn’t like being bothered before the final product, throwing random stuff into the pot without measuring. I have no idea how the result is always so good when he makes it up as he goes along.
“Yes,” I say begrudgingly, crossing into the family room. “But there better be a slice with my name on it when I get back!”
He laughs, but I know he’ll save me a slice even if he decides he doesn’t like the recipe. In the family room, Mom sits on the couch, her laptop on the coffee table in front of her. Kevin is curled up beside her, sleeping the morning away.
“Hey, honey. How was last night? I didn’t hear you get in,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose.
I plop down beside her on the leather couch, and Kevin ambles onto my lap. She’s only fifteen pounds, so her fluffy weight is comforting. The windows are open, letting in the fresh early morning breeze and making the couch slightly cooler than normal.
“All right, I guess.” I pet Kevin’s brown-and-white coat to avoid Mom’s gaze. It was not all right. It was terrible: I embarrassed myself in front of everyone, and I met a jerk whose name I don’t even know.
Mom lowers her laptop screen to focus on me. “What happened?”
I am not admitting to my mother that a hot jerk almost threw me off a cliff. “Nothing. It was a usual night out.”
She presses her lips together. “Just you, Emi, and Kalani?”
“And Emmett and Daphne.”
“Hmm.” She studies me. “They’ve been bringing their partners out an awful lot.”
Squirming under her glare, I study the ends of my hair. I hate when she goes all analytical on me. One comment makes me spill my guts even though there are some things you just shouldn’t tell your mother. “I’m just happy they’re still inviting me out on their couples’ nights.”
She grabs my hand to stop me from pulling on a split end, forcing me to look at her. “They’re your best friends. It’s not a chore for them to hang out with you.”
“I know. But ever since Daphne and Emmett started hanging out with us, I never get any quality time with Emi and Kalani. Kalani always brings up how I fifth wheel them, and I don’t want them to stop inviting me out . . .”
Mom frowns, so I add, “And it’s hard to hang around them all the time because of how in love I am with Emmett.”
Mom is the only person who knows how I still feel about Emmett.
I was very vocal about it to her, Emi, and Kalani in grades nine, ten, and eleven.
After Kalani and Emmett became official, I stopped talking about him to everyone, but Mom got it out of me with her weird, forced confessional glare superpowers.
“Have you told them how you feel? You’ve been best friends with Kalani for years, you should talk to her,” Mom says, and she’s not wrong. Maybe I should talk to her, but how can I realistically go about doing that?
“And say what, Mom? ‘Hey, stop bringing your partners around because I’m in love with your boyfriend and seeing him all the time is making it really hard to get over him. And I miss girl-time?’ That would make me sound dumb and petty.
” Am I dumb and petty? Maybe. It would be worse if I actually said those words out loud to them.
She shakes her head, an amused smile pulling on her lips. “You don’t sound dumb and petty. You sound like you miss your friends.”
I do miss my friends, but it’s not like I don’t see them or anything. They’re just occupied with love, and I’m not. Well, technically I am, but it’s unrequited, and I’m trying to get over it before it ruins my friendship. “Yeah, yeah.” I dismiss her. “I gotta get to work.”
Mom opens her laptop screen again. “Yes, you do.”
Even though I work at my parents’ bakery, I don’t get any special treatment. “I’m going, I’m going.”
“Knock knock!” calls a voice. Kalani’s standing on the front porch, visible from where we’re sitting through the open windows. “Let me in!”
Kevin jumps off the couch and growls at Kalani when I open the door. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
Kalani eyes Kevin warily as she steps in. “Hi, Kevin, you grumpy girl.”
I lean down and pet Kevin, and she calmly sits beside me. Though she stops growling, she doesn’t stop glaring at Kalani.
“She’s not grumpy, she just doesn’t like people.”
“But I’ve known her since she was a puppy. She should like me.” She pouts, then she notices Mom on the couch. “Hey, Paola.” Kalani waves to Mom, and Mom greets her back. Kalani holds out a jacket. “You left this last night.”
My face heats up as I remember my haste to get out of there. “Oh, thanks.”
“No problem!” She smiles cheerily. She’s in an awfully good mood this morning. “I know you’re going to work, so I’ll get out of your hair. But don’t forget we’re doing trivia at Murphey’s tonight.”
Couples’ night? My grip on the jacket tightens. “But you didn’t want me to come? Remember? Fifth wheel?”
She waves me off, stepping back onto the porch. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have to drive Maleah to soccer practice this afternoon since my parents are . . . you know. Maybe I’ll stop by the bakery. Text you later. Bye, Paola!”
“Bye, Kalani!” Mom calls from the couch.
Clutching my jacket in my hands, I watch as she hops in her car and honks as she drives away.
I was worried she was getting annoyed with me, but apparently that was unwarranted.
Here I am wondering how to tell her I want a partner-free night, and she’s inviting me to a partner-specific date night.
I can’t say something to her like Mom suggested or I’ll really look like a selfish jerk.
—
Ottavio’s Bakery was my dad’s dream. Named after him, the building I’m standing in opened twenty years ago, before I was even born.
It’s been through renovations since then to keep the inside looking modern, but it’s his favorite bakery of all the Ottavio’s they’ve opened, purely for sentimental reasons.
It’s not a large building, but it does the job with its high ceilings and light wood everywhere.
There’s a counter for espressos and other kinds of coffees, a large baked goods section offering desserts that my dad created and perfected himself, and an ice cream counter with tubs of gelato made fresh in-house.
I’ve always been more interested in art than baking, so Dad’s given up trying to get me to work as a baker in the back.
My job is at the front counter, taking and packing orders, cashing people out, clearing the tables, and whatever else needs to be done.
There aren’t a lot of tables inside, only a dozen small ones, but outside there are eight large picnic tables, and those fill up really quickly in the warmer seasons.
Now that it’s spring, we’ll always be busy, especially since soccer season is starting and we’re right across the street from the large park that hosts multiple teams’ practices and games.
As I munch on a cannoli and wipe the counter down, a voice says, “Stealing from your place of work? Wow, Princess, that doesn’t surprise me.”
Everything in my body freezes as dread inches up my spine.
It’s Pink Shorts. Standing right in front of me with a righteous smirk.
But he’s not in pink shorts today; he’s in jeans and a white T-shirt that does nothing to hide how hot his body is.
I was so busy trying to stuff my face that I didn’t even notice him come in.
He’s just as handsome and tall and broad-shouldered and annoying as he was last night.
I dust the powdered sugar from my mouth. “Are you stalking me?”
His eyebrows draw together. “No.”
“Are you sure? Because it seems like you’re stalking me.”
He leans on the counter, forcing me to take a step back. “Not everything is about you. I didn’t know you worked here. If I did, I would’ve saved myself the trip.”
His jawline really is sharp, too sharp. How old is he? He can’t be any older than I am since he goes to school with Daphne. The memory of his large hands on my waist floods my mind, as does the feeling of him lifting me in his arms. I can’t decide if I’m attracted to him or repulsed by him.
I glance away. “Well, you’re here now. What do you want?”
He straightens up. “That’s a great way to talk to a paying customer.”
I wish I could tell him off, but my manager, Wilma, is within earshot, so all I can do is grit my teeth and force a tight smile on my face. “Fine. How can I help you?”
His face lights up with amusement. “That’s more like it. I’ll have two scoops of chocolate ice cream in a cone.”
“That’s not very original,” I mutter to myself even though nothing is wrong with the choice of flavor other than the fact he chose it.
“So,” he says, leaning casually against the glass as I begin to fill his order. “Is red your favorite color?”
I pause scooping and tilt my head at him. “No, why? Because of my dress last night?”
“That. And your nail polish was red. And you had one of those little red decorative scarfs tied to your purse.” His smirk tells me I’m not going to like the rest of his answer even before he continues. “Also the matching panties.”
My mouth drops. “What?”
He looks like he’s trying to maintain a casual demeanor but is failing miserably; he’s way too smug. “When you were kneeling over the cliff last night in that tiny dress, we all got a show.”
My mind reels. Is he lying? I couldn’t have flashed my ass at everyone last night, but then again, how can he be so confident that my underwear was red?
“You’re lying,” I accuse, scooping the ice cream faster and walking over to the cash register. He follows me from the other side of the counter.
“Oh, don’t worry, I blocked everyone’s view before they noticed too much.” He bites back a laugh. He’s enjoying this. He enjoys getting under my skin. It may be his new favorite hobby. He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “But I liked the lace and the cut.”
“I—you—that’s not—” I sputter. He’s not lying. He really got a show last night, since my panties were red and lacy, and they didn’t cover much. I hate panty lines, and I like matching my underwear to my outfit.
“Are you sure red isn’t your favorite color? Because even your face is red now,” he teases, this time not bothering to hide how much he’s enjoying my embarrassment.
The indignation burns my face even hotter. The nerve of him!
Before I can think about it, I smash the ice-cream cone in my hand against his chest. He stares at me, unmoving, eyes wide. Holding on to the cone, I smush the chocolate ice cream around a bit, painting most of his white shirt an unflattering shade of brown.
My hands are a sticky mess, and it isn’t until I step back and view the scene that my actions truly hit me.
Holy shit. Holy shit! I cannot believe I just did that! Why did I do that?
The ice-cream cone slips from my hand and splats onto the counter in a crumbly, goopy mess.
He glances down at the mush on his shirt then back up at me, the shock on his face matching my own.
“Carina!” Wilma booms, running over with a speed she shouldn’t possess for a woman in her seventies. “I’m sorry,” she says to Pink Shorts, handing him a bunch of napkins. “Carina has never done that before. Please choose whatever you want to replace the ice cream, on the house.”
Pink Shorts takes the napkins but doesn’t bother wiping the mess off. He’s too busy studying me. I’m too busy staring at his shirt in horror.
I’ve encountered many horrible and rude customers during my time here, as most people who work in customer service have.
I’ve been called names, yelled at, publicly humiliated, and talked down to, and one kid even puked on me.
But never, never, have I done anything other than smile tightly and get through the shift without any type of confrontation on my end, even if the opportunity to mash an ice-cream cone on a rude customer’s head presented itself.
I would never put myself out there like that or risk my job.
So why, after a mere five-minute interaction with Pink Shorts, did I completely lose my cool?
“I just want the chocolate ice cream,” he says, still watching me. He doesn’t look mad. Instead, he looks intrigued, and maybe even a little amused.
“Of course,” Wilma says, directing her stare at me. “Carina, get him another ice cream.”
She doesn’t leave any room for argument, not that I offer any. I scurry away, my face flaming hot, keeping my head down so the front pieces of my hair that are too short for my ponytail help block my face.
Pink Shorts doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the force of his gaze on me.
I wash the mess off my hands before scooping the ice cream silently as Wilma continues to apologize and promise that I don’t make it a habit to throw food on customers.
I really don’t, but apparently there’s something about Pink Shorts that can easily rile me up, and I still don’t even know his name.
“Here you go.” I hand it to him, refusing to let my eyes dip to the mess I created. When he takes it, I make sure our hands have minimal contact. The thought of his skin on mine sends shivers down my spine. I tell myself it’s because I’m repulsed by him.
“Thanks,” he says, still eyeing me like I’m a puzzle he can’t wait to solve. “See you around, Princess.”
“God, I hope not,” I say before I can stop myself as he leaves.
He pauses at the door just as Kalani walks in, sends me a wink, then disappears outside, hopefully out of my life for good.