Chapter 1 #2
Old shame wells inside me, and Want to go out sometime? dies on my tongue. “I’m not dirty.”
She hits me with a plaintive look, but there’s a thread of understanding. “I didn’t say you were,” she says softly, “but I serve food to the public.”
Right. I was too defensive. This is her place of work, and I’m not an unwashed kid anymore. I peel my palms off the table and hold them out in surrender. “Yes. I’ve washed them.”
“You don’t have a hairnet.” She shoos me back, but there’s a brusqueness behind that keeps it from feeling personal. “Thank you for the delivery. Sorry for hollering at you.” She says the last part with equal efficiency, but there’s a hint of real remorse there.
Elodie keeps a lot of herself from showing. That elusive part of her calls to me. She doesn’t foist her overwhelmed emotions on anyone else. Usually. Except for this morning.
If I’m the exception, I’ll take it. It’s something to show for this one-sided obsession. “No problem.”
Her attention swings to the bottles, and she frowns. “Wait. I only ordered one bottle each of whiskey, gin, and vodka.”
She did, and she told us to surprise her with any flavor.
We gifted her three bottles. We’re not going to charge her, but I have the feeling that news will be as appreciated right now as asking her out.
“I tossed in a Butter Barrel. It’s made like a bourbon, but we didn’t follow the aging or proofing guidelines.
What we were after is a buttery flavor with a bourbon richness.
Thought it would make a good flavoring for something. ”
“Like what?” she asks, slightly interested.
I have no idea beyond wanting to surprise her with something. “An icing?”
She nods and works her teeth against her lower lip. Then she gives her head a shake. “I have plenty of ideas for the other bottles, so this isn’t necessary.”
Maybe it’s the early morning or that I got caught ogling her or the flashbacks to being a loser kid, but my attitude roars to the forefront, tired of being repressed for so many years. I don’t like to be dismissed. “How about a thank-you?”
She winces and nods once. “Thank you. You can leave it on the invoice.”
Great. I’m treading too close to being a jackass. “It’s a gift. We appreciate local businesses and want to help out. Keep it and enjoy a glass.”
She slides the box closer to her and studies the bottle. “I don’t have time to enjoy a drink. It would get old and go to waste.”
“It might get a little rusty tasting after a couple of decades from oxidation, but it’ll still taste good. You keep it in case you come up with something. Bourbon’s meant for sharing.”
“You said it was whiskey.”
Ah, I’m starting to track this woman now. She either doesn’t like to be messed with or she’s very literal. “Sure is. Want a sip?”
“I’m working.”
“It’s part of my job, so it’s normal.” I give her a reassuring smile. A private tasting is the least I can do for disrupting her.
“It’s five a.m. somewhere?”
“Ha! Yes.” Damn, she’s got a hidden sense of humor.
I can see her mind working behind those cunning eyes.
The baker’s got me thoroughly fascinated now.
She’s shy but bold, like a young whiskey, clear and strong like a quality vodka, and prickly like a potent gin.
“How ’bout we have a taste and I’ll go?”
That came out flirtier than I meant, but I do like showing off our products.
She chews the inside of her cheek, assessing me. Her creamy skin has returned to its normal color, but her lips are a ruby red.
Her guards are firmly in place. Dammit, she’s going to kick me out, but I give it another attempt. “It’ll only take a minute. Two sips for a tasting is all I’m asking. Promise.”
As soon as promise leaves my mouth, the shine in her eyes dulls. “I have to get back to work.”
Dang, that went south. I would’ve kept my promise, but someone in her life must not have, for her to shut down that fast. If I keep pressing, she’ll trust me even less. I’ve waited this long, and today I got to know her just a little better. I’ve got time.
I back toward the door. “If you want a taste tester for any of the new recipes, hit me up.”
Her lips form a troubled line. “Do you need to approve my food before the fair?”
I’m caught on what to say. I want to tease her and say absolutely I do, but she’s wound tight and I don’t know which way she’ll spin. “Not at all. Everything you make is perfection. You could’ve named your store that. Confection Perfection.”
“That’s actually not bad.” She purses her lips. “But Dee’s has meaning.”
“I’d like to hear about it sometime.”
Her expression shutters. “It’s, um . . . it’s private.”
Mercurial. That’s not a word that would normally pop into my head, but it does now. “An inside story?”
She moves the bottles from the box to another counter and pushes them close to the wall. “I’ll bring some samples by during the next crochet group so you all can approve them before the Billings craft fair.”
Okay, the reason for the name behind the bakery is off-limits.
Her privacy is intriguing. My business was splashed all over the neighborhood as a kid. But Elodie’s is locked. She’s got her shit together, and damn, that’s a turn-on.
She’s also locked me out, and until she opens that door, I’ll have to stay outside.
“I’ll let the guys know.” She could make vodka-flavored mud and we’d hope our spirit lifted out the best flavors of the dirt.
Besides, it’s Elodie. She’s got the whole town nursing a sweet tooth.
But she offered, and while I have to back off of the pretty baker, I’m not missing an opportunity to see her again. “Have a nice day, Elodie.”
Elodie
Saturdays and Sundays are my busiest days.
I’m closed Mondays when I do a lot of admin and baking for the upcoming week, along with any special orders.
I often spend the whole day working, but today, I have somewhere else to be.
The crochet club is a small reprieve from constantly toiling away on my dream business.
A little bit of hope that I might see a flirty cowboy I should stay far away from.
A flirty cowboy who saw me pop nearly every joint out of socket during my morning wake-up jam session.
A flirty cowboy who acted like a gentleman instead of his usual incorrigible self when I was dying of embarrassment.
Before I leave for the Foster House Distillery, my uncle Karl is here to pick up his order for the church.
I step outside and soak up the warm July sun.
He’s got the door open to his car, and he grins when he sees me.
He has on a short-sleeved blue shirt and his white pastor’s collar with black slacks.
The sun gleams off the dark skin of his head.
He’s been bald as long as I’ve known him, only now he no longer has to shave his scalp each day.
“There she is.” He rushes to take my load of flat boxes filled with cinnamon rolls from me. I have another tote bag full of samples, but those aren’t for him, and a second one filled with my crochet supplies.
“And there’s my favorite customer.” It’s not polite to lie to a pastor, and as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I have to bat away the image of Cruz Foster aiming that lazy grin at me across the bakery counter.
He’s perplexing and frustrating, and after he saw me shaking my ass like I was in front of a crowd willing to pay all my bills, he’s all that times a thousand.
My uncle balances the goodies in his hold. “If these weren’t for a funeral, I would sneak a few myself.”
I wipe my hands off. “You know I’ve got you covered. There’s an extra half dozen for you and whoever else is around.”
“I knew there was a reason you and Clem are my favorites.”
My sister, Clementine, and I are his only nieces. He has no nephews and no kids of his own. It’s why my dad’s sister left him, but Uncle Karl couldn’t leave his congregation. “You’re my favorite uncle.” I have more uncles, but he really is my favorite.
He gives me a quick once-over. “No apron. You headin’ somewhere or do you want to stop by and enjoy a roll with me?”
“I’m leaving right after you. Thank you, though.”
“Something’s actually getting you out of that bakery?”
“I work almost as much as you,” I joke. The church would have to hire two pastors for all the work Uncle Karl does, but he can’t sit still and he loves his job. Retirement is a curse word for him.
I get a quick hug before he climbs into his car. I smile and wave at him as he drives away.
My stomach sinks. I would love to have lunch with him or just stop in at his house for coffee. I’d be overjoyed if I could meet my sister for dinner. As it is, I only see her when she comes to help me.
My sigh comes out on a long exhale. There’s work to do and I have bills to pay. Some more unexpected—and larger—than others.
The lick of icing I had earlier curdles in my stomach.
The next payment is due at the end of the month.
The local food fair Campbell Hawthorne thought up to boost tourism, Taste of Springs, isn’t until the second weekend in August. I’ll need that influx of money for whatever bullshit amount I have to pay at the end of that month too.
I lock up the bakery and trudge to my beater of a car. The damn thing needs new tires; there’s a grinding noise when I turn, and the engine knocks. The shape it’s in is karma biting me in the ass.
It was my money too.
Repeating the mantra doesn’t help.
I get behind the wheel and gaze at the bakery. Dirty money. My money. I clench my teeth together. If it was purely my money, I wouldn’t be trying to do right by it, to even the balance before my precious business pays for my misdeeds.
Driving off, I roll the windows down until I hit the highway. Knock, knock, knock.