Chapter 10 Jordan
JORDAN
When I walk into Laugh A Latte, I’m expecting a quiet, empty shop, but I find the opposite. Willow and Nina are here, and there’s a large open box of Christmas-themed paraphernalia on the floor.
“How’s it going?” I call out, three pairs of startled eyes swinging my way.
Ginger hurries over with a chagrined expression. “The girls dropped in unexpectedly to help me decorate, and I lost track of time.” She turns the Open sign to Closed and locks the door.
“Do you want to skip the baking? We can do it another time,” I ask.
“Don’t be silly. I’m great at multitasking.” Her small hand curls around my bicep as she leads me across the floor. I’m surprised by the act of familiarity. It’s so out of character for Ginger, but I’m taking it as a good sign. Maybe she can’t keep her hands off me. If only that were true.
As we approach, Willow’s gaze darts to Ginger’s hand on my arm, and her lips press together. “Look what the cat dragged in,” she says, and Ginger releases my arm.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“It was going great,” she drolls.
“Hi, Jordan,” Nina says, offering a soft smile.
“Hey, Nina.”
“Jordan and I are going to get to work for a few minutes and then we can help you two,” Ginger says.
“We don’t need your help. We’re here to take care of this for you,” Nina says.
“That’s okay. We’re helping anyway,” she tosses the comment over her shoulder as she walks toward the kitchen.
I follow behind her, admiring how amazing her ass looks in the black pants she’s wearing.
“I already sifted the dry ingredients together. And everything else we need is ready to go.”
“Someone’s organized,” I say.
“I try to be, but I don’t always succeed.”
“Oh, I think you probably do.” I hand her the syringe of full-spectrum cannabis oil.
“Thanks.” She points to the ingredients on the counter next to an empty bowl. “You know what to do. Get to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute her, wash my hands, then pick up the two eggs, cracking them into the bowl. I continue until everything’s been added.
Ginger hands me a large spoon. “Put those big muscles to work.”
Big muscles. A zing of satisfaction hits me. Every hour I’ve spent in the gym has paid off.
She moves over to the stove to heat the oil while I hand-mix all the wet ingredients.
After a few minutes, she returns, a small pan in her hand. She slowly pours the hot oil, giving me time to gently stir it around, until she signals for me to stop. She picks up the other bowl with the dry ingredients and slowly adds them in.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m doing this part,” she says. “It can get messy.”
“I’m glad you are. If I were, we'd have a cloud of flour around us right now.”
She laughs. “At one point or another, it’s happened to the best of us. People learn more from making mistakes, and bakers are no different.” She snaps the beaters onto the electric mixer.
“You make it look deceptively easy,” I say.
“Thanks. That wasn’t always the case. I remember being a walking disaster at the first bakery I worked at.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think I need to hear some details.”
She laughs, setting the beaters in the bowl. “Not happening.” The whir of the mixer fills the space between us.
My gaze trails over Ginger’s profile. With her hair pulled into a knot on the back of her head, I have an unobstructed view of the soft curve of her forehead, the straight line of her nose, and the plush bow of her lips.
Her features are delicate and petite, like she is.
She’s one of the kindest people I know. Always willing to lend a hand when needed, and yet never asks for anything in return.
Why does it feel like it’s only been in the past couple of weeks that I’m seeing her clearly? It’s like she’s standing in a spotlight and I’m powerless against the pull drawing me toward her.
Ginger shuts off the mixer and scrapes the beaters clean with a spatula. “Want to do the honors?” she asks, nodding toward the parchment-lined pan.
“Sure.” I take the bowl from her and pour the thick batter. The scent of pumpkin fills the air, making my stomach growl. She smooths the top before she slides the pan into the oven.
She wipes her hands on a towel before she sets the timer. “We’ve got thirty-five minutes.”
“Should we stay in here and see how long it takes before they notice?” I tease. All I can hear from the front of the shop is muffled music and an occasional laugh.
Ginger looks at the ceiling, contemplating my suggestion. “Sounds tempting, but there’s no way Willow wouldn’t drag us out there at some point.”
I glance toward the door, then back at her. “I’ll go help them.”
“You don’t have to,” she says, but there’s a flicker of relief in her eyes. “I’m sure they’d appreciate it, though.”
“Does Willow really appreciate anything?” I joke. She’s known to be a ballbuster.
Ginger smiles. “She’s not as tough as she likes everyone to think.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I move to the door and pause before going through it. I’d rather stay back here with her. “Give me a shout if you need help with anything.”
Out front, the shop looks like there’s been an explosion of Christmas spirit all over the floor, and there’s a stepladder in the middle of it all. “What happened here?” I ask.
Nina makes a choked sound. “Willow.”
“Hey, let’s not be so quick to play the blame game. There’s a method to my madness,” Willow defends.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Now that everything is out of the box, I can see what we have to work with.”
Nina rolls her eyes. “Too bad we can’t walk on the floor.”
“How about we group the decorations by kind?” I suggest. “Then we can see how much we have of each item and then decide where they should go.”
Nina nods eagerly. “Great idea.”
Willow seems less impressed, but she grudgingly nods her agreement.
We spend the next five minutes getting everything organized into neat piles. “What’s the plan?” I ask.
Willow defers to Nina. “You’re the expert.”
“Yeah, at marketing, not Christmas decorating,” she says.
“They might not be the same, but they both need a keen eye. You know what’s aesthetically pleasing for buyers,” I point out.
Nina nods. “That’s true.” She gets to her feet and studies the open space. “Let’s hang a garland around the front windows.”
“I’ll get started on that.” I move the stepladder over.
“I found these,” Willow says, holding a pack of clear sticky hooks. “Figures Ginger wouldn’t want holes in the wall.”
“Thanks.” They’re the same kind we used when we hung lights on her front porch, and they’re surprisingly sturdy.
I place them around the window where needed, then climb the stool and begin threading the garland through.
The back of my neck tingles, and when I glance over my shoulder, Nina’s watching with a closed-lip smile.
“What? Is something crooked?”
“No, it looks great. I’m impressed by your investment in spreading holiday cheer.”
Willow snorts. “That’s not what he’s invested in.”
I don’t bother correcting Willow because she’s not wrong. I may not care about decorating, but I care about Ginger and helping her.
“Nina, don’t tell anyone about my skills. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
She laughs and goes back to sorting ornaments. I finish the final touches, making sure the garland is pressed into each hook and that it hangs evenly on both sides. White lights are woven into the greenery, so I climb down and plug it in.
Nina squeals. “Yay! That looks nice.”
I step back to take a look, and nod. “It does. Too bad they’re not colored lights.”
Nina gasps, as if that’s an outrageous statement. “Colored lights?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“White lights are classier.”
I laugh. “Who said we were classy?”
“No one’s ever accused you of that,” Willow jests.
“Or you,” I fire back.
Willow shrugs. “Guilty.”
“Well, I know white lights look better in a business setting because they complement their surroundings and don’t compete with them,” Nina says.
“I’ll take your word for it. What’s next?” I ask.
Nina hands me a shoebox with snowflake ornaments of varying sizes. “Hang those from the top of the garland, please.”
“Gotcha.” I climb back on the ladder.
“Make sure they’re evenly spaced,” Nina instructs.
“I’ll do my best.” I start at one side and work my way across, trying to place them at equal distances. “How’s that look?”
“Great,” Willow says.
“Not so fast.” Nina halts me from climbing down. “The second from the right needs to shift to the left a half inch or so.”
I move it over and wait for further instructions.
“All set,” Nina says. “It looks very professional.”
“Thanks.” I brush glitter from my hands and glance toward the kitchen, waiting for Ginger to appear, but she doesn’t.
“How are you at untangling lights?” Willow asks, sighing dramatically.
“Better than you, apparently. Why don’t you give me those before you strangle yourself?”
She laughs and hands them over. I make quick work of untangling the mess. “What do you think about hanging these around the front counter?”
Nina wrinkles her nose. “Probably not a good idea. Customers lean against it, and the lights will be falling off.”
“Huh. I didn’t think of that,” I say.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Nina replies, looking pleased.
“Damn, for someone who supposedly doesn’t like holiday decorating, Ginger owns a suspicious amount of stuff,” Willow points out.
“Maybe she’s a secret holiday lover,” Nina says. “Ooh, I bet she watches all the Hallmark holiday movies too.”
“Actually, her grandmother used to hit the after-Christmas sales,” I explain, putting an end to their speculating.
“She did?” Willow asks, her forehead creasing. “How do you know that?”
“She told me.”
Willow studies me, the creases deepening, but before she can speak, there’s a knock at the door. I expect to see a customer who missed the closed sign, but it’s Reed.
Nina unlocks the door and lets him inside.
“Hey! Did I get here late enough to miss the decorating?” he asks, looking hopeful.
Willow snorts. “Not even close.”