7. Jillian
SEVEN
Jillian
He’s back. And this time, he’s in a suit—charcoal gray, tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders and lean but muscular frame. A flutter low in my stomach makes itself known and I immediately try to tamp it down, but it’s no use. My eyes keep darting his way, tracing the sharp lines of his jacket, the way the fabric hugs his chest. He was handsome enough last time, all disheveled and sweaty in a T-shirt and running shorts, but this? This is downright unfair.
I swallow and turn back to my customer, forcing myself to focus. But my heart betrays me, skipping at the sight of his cautious smile. Warmth crawls up my neck, my pulse quickening despite my best efforts to keep my cool.
Get a grip, Jillian. He’s nothing more than a customer. I straighten my spine and focus on processing the credit card for Mrs. Smith, pretending not to notice the way he fills out that suit—like it was made for him and him alone. But the small thrill in my chest tells me my resolve is already crumbling.
“You are all set, Mrs. Smith.” I slide the arrangement toward her. “Do you need help carrying the flowers to your car?”
“Oh, yes, please. I don’t think I can see over the top of this vase.”
She’s right. She’s barely five feet tall. Mrs. Smith turns when Elliott approaches us. Her hand immediately goes to her head, and she fixes her silver-white hair. Not that she has a strand out of place. I bet Mrs. Smith single-handedly keeps the Aqua Net factory alive.
She looks back at me and winks, a broad smile on her red-painted lips.
I look for my assistant and find her staring at Elliott as well. Annoyance swells inside me. “Angela?”
Nothing. She’s transfixed like one of those snakes and that guy with the flute.
“Angela?” I call her name louder this time.
Still nothing.
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Smith glances down at her wrist and a non-existing watch. “Look at the time. Angela, dear, help me to my car, please.” She takes Angela’s arm, and that finally snaps Angela out of her trance.
I give Angela the oversized flower arrangement. She takes it, but her eyes flit back to Elliott as he steps back and opens the door for them.
Mrs. Smith stops in front of him and taps his arm. “Oh, thank you. What a good lad you are.” She pats his arm again, but this time it’s more intentional. She squeezes his bicep, feeling him up.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my, you’re so strong.”
I press my lips together to hold back a laugh.
With one last look at me and a wink, she leaves with Angela on her heels.
Elliott lets go of the door, and it closes with a chime of the bells above it.
And then it’s just the two of us. Heat climbs up my chest and into my cheeks. My face burns. Why is he back? It’s been a few days since he sent the cupcakes. I didn’t expect to see him again.
He approaches me with slow and deliberate movements as if afraid of my reaction. I push down the sudden surge of nervous energy churning my insides and force my mouth to smile and hope I don’t look as awkward as I feel.
“Hi.” His voice is soft, soothing.
“Hi.” My voice comes out husky as if from disuse.
For a long moment, we look at each other.
“I’m sorry?—”
“Thank you?—”
We speak at the same time. An awkward laugh follows our failed attempt at communication. It’s like I’m fourteen again and a cute boy is talking to me. As soon as the thought enters my head, guilt rears its ugly little head. I want to fold under its weight. But I heed Sheila’s words and my promise to her earlier this week. I shove guilt off my shoulders, standing tall and straight. I stomp on it for good measure. Push the guilt far down into the recesses of my mind and then close the door on it. Stay , I order.
I gesture to him. “You first.”
He gestures back. “No, ladies first.”
I take a deep breath, fill my lungs, quiet the scattered thoughts in my head. “I want to thank you. For the cupcakes. It was thoughtful of you to send them. ”
“I hope they were good.”
“They were delicious. Jamie loved them. He inhaled more than half and then asked for more.” I smile as an image of Jamie’s face covered in icing pops into my mind.
“Tell Jamie there’s plenty more where they came from.”
“Oh, no.” My hand comes up. “I didn’t mean it like that. Thank you. I told Jamie we could bake some cupcakes together.”
“That sounds fun. Is he excited about it?”
I grimace. “Not at all. He outright rejected the idea. I’m not a very good baker. My skills lie elsewhere.” I gesture at the flowers all around us. “Thank you for sending them, though. You didn’t have to.”
“I did. I was insensitive, and I hurt your feelings. And I’m sorry for that.”
I shake my head. “You had no way of knowing.”
“Still. I’m sorry. And I want to make it up to you and Jamie.” His lips twitch as if he’s trying to hold back a smile.
I scrunch my eyes. Immediately, my mother’s voice pops into my head, telling me my face would stick like that, and I force myself to smooth my frown. “I don’t understand. Make it up to me how?”
“I know how you can improve your baking skills and save Jamie from ever having to endure another bad cupcake.” He smiles freely now.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Do you have magical powers, then? Because everything I bake could double as a door stopper.”
He laughs. “I don’t have any magical powers, at least not baking ones, but I do know someone who does. ”
“Who?” He seems different today, more...I don’t know, real, I guess.
“My sister. The cupcakes I sent you are from her bakery.” He tugs at his tie, loosening it a bit. Why is that so sexy?
“Witchery Bakery? I get Jamie’s birthday cake from there every year. I love that place. Your sister works there?”
“She owns it. And I can arrange for some private baking lessons.”
Wow. Excitement bubbles inside me. That would be so cool. But it quickly fizzles out. He doesn’t mean it. No way he can be serious about it.
The bell above the door chimes and Angela is back. I check the time on my phone. Ten after five. “Thank you, Angela.”
“Sure thing. I’ll get going. See you tomorrow.” She answers me, but she’s watching Elliott.
Jamie comes from the back room where he was watching TV, his small hands tucked into his shorts’ pockets. I bend to pick him up. Give him a kiss. “Are you hungry? Do you want a snack?” His arms tighten around my neck, but his gaze narrows at Elliott—my overprotective son.
“This is Elliott. He’s the one who sent us the cupcakes.”
Jamie’s eyes widen and then narrow again.
“Hi, Jamie. Good to see you again. I was just telling your mom that my sister made those cupcakes, and she can teach you and your mom how to bake them, too. Would you like that?”
Jamie’s little shoulders move up and down, but I can tell Elliott has gotten his attention. I set him down. “Go upstairs and wash your hands. Get a snack for yourself and give Daisy one of her biscuits, too. But only one, okay? ”
Jamie nods and walks to the back and through the door that leads up the stairs to our apartment above the store.
Elliott’s gaze follows him. “He’s a quiet boy.”
I wring my hands and swallow the rapidly forming knot in my throat. “He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t said a word since the accident that killed my husband.”
Elliott’s mouth drops, and he glances at the empty corridor and back at me. “I’m so sorry. I keep saying the wrong things.”
I shrug. “You had no way of knowing. Jamie was a little motor mouth before the accident. But not one word since.”
“What happened?” His voice is soft, kind.
“Car accident. Jamie was in the car with my husband, CJ. I was here, but I was FaceTiming with Jamie, and he was showing me where they were. The camera was pointed at CJ and the window. Another car ran a red light and hit them. CJ died on impact. Jamie watched his father die. We both did.” The words come out fast, in a single breath. I haven’t said this to anyone since the accident. Since the phone calls to Sheila, my family and CJ’s. After that, it was always someone else talking about it on my behalf. Always in hushed tones as if it somehow made it better. Easier. It didn’t. But speaking the words out loud again feels like a release somehow. Like I can finally accept it.