Chapter 2 #2
We’re back in town after pulling my car to Lane’s big shop.
It was my first time seeing one of the homes of the guys involved in the distillery.
I still haven’t seen Cruz’s house, or any of the others, except for the youngest Hennessy brother’s.
He lives in the house he and his brothers grew up in.
The others have built their own homes since I’ve moved back here, but I’m too involved in my job to sightsee around town.
Cruz navigates through Huckleberry Springs. A variety of music pours through the speakers—nineties country, early aughts pop and rock, and every so often, I catch an older hair metal song. He’s different than I assumed.
The energy he brings everywhere is subdued when he’s driving and he seems like he’s at peace. When he was hooking up the car and explaining to me what I needed to do to steer behind him, he was locked in. Serious. I liked that side of him. Competent and focused. It was hot.
I don’t like the part of him that’s been closed off to me since I rebuffed him in the tasting room. A small part of my heart hurts. I miss that lopsided smile getting aimed my way.
We pass the small gas station on the edge of town, and the Chinese restaurant, Wok and Rolls. I stare at the mechanic shop and the insurance agency. He’s approaching the bakery.
I should say something, but a thank-you doesn’t seem like enough. All I have to offer are baked goods. Would that be adequate? It’s what I would’ve given my dad or uncle, but it’d be mostly to distract them from being too concerned that I can’t afford to fix my car.
Cruz saved my ass. I would’ve paid a tow truck a lot more than a dozen cupcakes. “Did you try the samples for the Billings street fair?”
He clicks the side of his mouth. “One of each of those has my name on it for breakfast tomorrow.”
A warm glow spreads through me. Lots of people eat my food, and I’m proud of it, but knowing Cruz is planning on it flips my belly in all directions.
When he parks in front of the bakery, I don’t want to get out. “Do you mind going to the back door?”
“Not at all.” He backs out of the parking spot.
The stairs to my apartment are right by the door. It’s not like I couldn’t walk through the bakery, but it’s clean and I’m dustier than Lane’s new shop. The guy has his own maintenance bay in that place.
I always thought the Foster brothers sprouted from a ranch, two fully grown cowboys who can make excellent spirits.
Cruz has to be about my age and I’m thirty-two.
Plenty of time to have a whole life between the childhood years and now.
Lane’s a few years older than him, but Cruz didn’t mention doing anything other than what he’s doing now. Did he go to school for something else?
Too soon, we’re at the back door. My day of socializing is done. I need to get out more, but I also need to bake even more goodies and come up with tons of gimmicks to increase sales.
Yet I’m not ready to retire to my apartment alone. I’m not ready to let Cruz drive off while I wonder if I’ll get more than a polite smile the next time he comes in.
An idea pops into my head, and I go with it before logic interferes. “Want to try them now?” When he turns a perplexed gaze toward me, my heart stutters. “I made a dozen of each, so I have a lot left. They’re going to be my breakfast too. I owe you.”
“You don’t have to,” he says carefully.
“You’ve gone out of your way. It’s the least I can do.”
“Elodie—”
“Let me pay you back in this small way. It’s all I can manage.”
I must’ve said the right thing to persuade him. He kills the engine. “If you insist.”
Pleased more than I care to admit, I hop out and unlock the building. I wave to a small table where I have most of my meals, away from the baking area. It’s on the other side of the room from where he caught me grinding to one of my favorite wake-up songs. “Have a seat and I’ll grab them.”
“Mind if I use the bathroom first to wash up?”
“Go ahead.” He cleaned the worst of the grit and grease off his hands at Lane’s. So did I, but I give mine a rinse before retrieving a serving platter, plates, several forks for sampling, and two of each batch I made.
By the time the table is set, he returns. “Looks good.” He presses a hand to his stomach. “I’m hungry enough to eat a bear, but I hope you don’t take offense if I only have a taste of each. I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
He missed dinner because he was helping me. “You can have it all.”
He winces, but the corner of his mouth kicks up regretfully. “I hate to pass on the offer, but I need some protein to go with my sweets or I get sick.”
“Are you diabetic?” Then I cut my hand through the air. “None of my business.”
“No.” He chuckles. “Not diabetic, just a hazard of how I used to eat. Lots of heat and serve—if we were lucky. When I went to live with the Baileys, I got quality meat morning, noon, and night, and I just don’t feel right if I don’t keep that up.”
Heat and serve if he was lucky? We? Is he talking about him and Lane?
What did he mean when I went to live with the Baileys?
People talk in the bakery and I’ve heard about the Foster brothers.
I’ve heard that their oldest brother was an actual foster kid for a time.
My curiosity about Cruz is becoming boundless.
He has more dimensions in his story than I assumed, but then I have a whole-ass story I don’t want to talk about too. “I can make some eggs.”
“I’ll rustle up something when I get home. It’s not a problem. I don’t want to take more of your time.”
Irritation at myself scrapes raw against the back of my throat. I don’t know Cruz, but I miss the lopsided smile now more than ever. “It’ll take ten minutes. Again, it’s literally the least I can do.” I rush to the fridge before he can argue. “I also have some veggies— An omelet?”
“Really, Elodie, you don’t have to.”
“I know. Please let me do this.” I set a boundary earlier. He respected it. Now I’m regretting what I said. What if he’s really a nice guy?
I can’t take the chance, but I can show him appreciation for helping me out instead of ditching me. A lot of guys would’ve passed without the promise of sexual favors.
“All right,” he concedes. “An omelet would hit the spot.”
He sits quietly while I work. I look over my shoulder, hoping he’s got his attention on me, like when he meets the guys at the bakery.
They’d all be talking, and out of the corner of my eye, I’d see him studying me, but not in a creepy way.
It’s made me hyperaware. But my heart drops like a rock. He’s scrolling through his phone.
Isn’t that what I want?
I whip the eggs extra hard. The omelet’s done in no time, and I slide a plate in front of Cruz and set one by my chair. He tucks his phone away, and I search his face as he inspects his food.
“I think you’re going to put the café out of business.”
“I don’t tell anyone I can cook.” I twist my hands together. When he looks at me, I shrug. “I went to culinary school.” It’s not a secret, but it’s not something I advertise. Most people toss chefs and bakers into different categories, and I’m happier being classified as a baker only.
“A chef? No kidding?” He digs into his food and shoves a forkful in his mouth. The groan that rips from him is primal and starts a beat right between my thighs.
I shift in my chair. “Is it good?”
He swallows and loads his fork a second time. “It’s criminal the public doesn’t know how well you can cook.” He fills his mouth again.
I beam inside. “Not many people remember what I went to college for, and they assume it was pastry school or something. I only cook for my family. Do you mind keeping it to yourself?”
“Only if you tell me why.” He flashes me a closed-mouth grin but immediately turns serious. “Sorry. Of course I’ll keep it to myself.”
I stab my fork into my food. I’ve been hard on him and he still made sure I didn’t stay stranded.
He deserves some form of explanation. “I don’t like cooking for others.
” That’s not quite right, and I don’t want him to think that I resent making an omelet when I practically tackled him before he walked out the door.
“I don’t like feeling like I have to cook for others. ”
“ ‘Damn him,’ huh?”
I swallow hard, my mouth going dry. Of course he heard that. Damn me for not keeping my mouth shut. But Cruz isn’t probing for more. He’s gobbling down my food like he hasn’t eaten for days. “Yeah, damn him. Anyway, I like baking. I like making pretty things, and I like being my own boss.”
“There’s nothing like it. I can’t beat my coworkers either.”
“You seem like a good group.”
“Are you including me in that?”
I can’t tell if he’s being playful, but I’ll be honest. “Yes.”
His steady look is unreadable. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.
We finish our omelets in silence, and I try not to heave my food back up.
The nerves are going to kill me. He’s either too busy eating to talk or he doesn’t want to chat with me.
Another thing I didn’t think I’d miss. His chatter wasn’t generic.
He always asked about me or about something to do with my job.
It was personal, and at the time, I questioned its validity, but now I’m more certain he was genuine.
When we’re done eating, Cruz looks over the samples.
I push my empty plate away, grateful he’s not trying to leave as soon as possible. “I don’t have names for them yet. Except I think I’ll call the cupcake a Huckleberry Sunrise.”
“You name them like we name our cocktails.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
He carefully cuts portions off the cupcakes and the cake and serves me first on a clean plate. He breaks a cookie in half and divides it up.
All the recipes I created are simple and should stand up in the heat of the street fair in a display cooler. Billings isn’t far away, but they’ll travel well. I’ve tasted them all, yet I try a bite of each while studying his reaction.