Chapter 17
The bakery door chimes when I walk in the next morning, the horizon limned with shadowed mountains, dark and hulking in the lingering night.
Sunrise is still an hour away. I inhale the familiar scents of cinnamon, cardamom, and butter deeply.
The peace of this place washes over me, settling in my bones, grounding me.
I lock the door behind me and switch on the lights. The counters are clean, the register closed, the shelves almost barren. It’s at once familiar and foreign. Mom opened it yesterday while I kept a vigil at Farmor’s side, but we sold out of nearly everything she’d been able to bake.
Every time I enter the kitchen, I have to stop and close my eyes for a minute to gather myself.
This place is my home away from home—where Farmor’s tutelage and love helped me find my footing in a world rocked by death.
She pain-stakingly taught me recipe after recipe, working with me until I could make all the Swedish cookies, rolls, and sweets almost as well as she can.
And as we worked hour after hour, day after day, she told me stories of growing up in Sweden, falling in love with her Anders, and leaving everything they knew to move to Arizona to start this bakery with his -uncle and make it a success with the inheritance his uncle left them—her dream made into reality because Anders loved her so much.
And my dad . . . She told me story after story about my dad, helping me feel close to him even though he is so far beyond my reach.
The legacy of love that weaves together the very fabric of our family gently cocoons me in this bakery, spun into a soft place for me to fall by Farmor’s -stories.
I can’t bear the thought of her never walking in here again.
But there is little time to stand around, fearing the future. I have to get baking as quickly and as much as possible.
Hours later, the knot in my back is worse, but the time has flown by as I sink into the reassuring rhythm of baking.
The satisfaction of getting the dough just right and timing it exactly so the confections are perfectly golden yet soft on the inside stills my mind like few things can.
The joy of putting the final touches on the kanelbullar or piping the flowers onto a prinsesst?rta and the gratification of my skill in Konditori’s kitchen brings a calm into my soul that I desperately need.
Around eight forty-five I hear a knock at the front doors.
I quickly finish packaging the last of the semlor buns, tying a yellow-and-blue bow around the box.
I exhale and brush back a piece of hair that has fallen loose from my messy bun with the top of my wrist and push out of the kitchen to see Rebecca standing at the door, waving at me.
I hurry over to unlock it and let her in. “Thank you so much for coming,” I say as she quickly embraces me.
“Of course! I’m glad it worked out. I don’t have any classes until my lab this afternoon, so I’m good to be here until two.”
“That’s great. Thank you,” I repeat.
“How’s Siv?” she asks as she walks toward the cash register.
“Still in a coma.” I try to keep my voice steady, to not let myself feel the fear. I don’t have time to go to that place—not right now. “But I’m sure she’ll wake up soon,” I add.
Rebecca nods, but I can see the skepticism in her eyes.
“Right, well, if you’re okay up here, I’m going to keep going—I have to finish up some pepparkakor.”
“Yep, I’ve got it covered.”
I escape back to the kitchen before I break down in front of her.
There are no answers as to why Farmor hasn’t woken up, only that her vitals are steady, and the pressure in her brain has normalized.
In fact, they have her scheduled to replace the skull piece tomorrow morning.
There’s nothing we can do except wait—and pray.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when Rebecca peeks her head into the kitchen and says, “I’m so sorry to bother you, but do you mind helping me for a minute?”
I glance at my watch and am startled to realize it’s after eleven.
I wipe my hands on my apron and use my shoulder to push through the doors, carrying the box with the Deitlen -order—a regular customer who often puts in private orders—to put in the smaller display fridge out front to await their pickup.
There’s a line at the cash register. I almost stumble when I recognize Hunter three people back. He catches me looking at him and lifts his chin slightly.
I give him a half nod and hurry to put the order away and step up to our rarely ever used second register.
“I can help whoever is next in line,” I say, summoning a smile for a woman I recognize. She’s been in a few times before.
I force myself to focus, looking only at her, the kladdaka she’s buying, or the register. But trying to ignore Hunter is akin to turning my back to a fire and pretending I can’t feel the heat scorching my spine.
“Come again!” Rebecca finishes with her customer when mine is signing her receipt. We each help two more customers, but Rebecca finishes first. I notice Hunter in my peripheral vision; even though Rebecca’s register is free, he doesn’t move toward her.
“I can help you,” she says.
I make myself stay focused on my customer, even as Hunter replies, “I’m still deciding whether I want one more.”
Rebecca hmms and then turns to me. “Is it okay if I run to the bathroom and take a quick break?”
I nod to her as I take the signed receipt and smile at my customer. “Have a good morning!”
She thanks me and leaves as Rebecca pushes through the swinging doors and disappears into the kitchen.
Hunter and I are alone in the shop, only the counter between us.
I busy myself with putting the receipt in the cash register, setting the pen back in the mug that says Living with a Swede Builds Character, and then have nothing else to do except look up at the man who stands on the other side of the counter, watching me silently.
The sun shines through the windows behind him, emphasizing his height, the thick wave of his hair. He’s tall, dark, and imposing—and there’s pain in his eyes that makes my heart hurt.
“Did you decide if you want anything else?” My voice is too loud and embarrassingly strained.
“Are you glad to be back at work?” He’s as stiff as I am.
You looked like you wanted to kiss me senseless last night, and you’re asking if I’m happy to be back at work? But I merely say, “Yeah.”
The AC kicks on with a whine, blowing cool air through the bakery, stirring up the scents of cardamom and cinnamon.
Hunter hasn’t moved, and neither have I.
We’re in some strange standoff; whoever moves first loses.
Or wins. I’m not sure. I don’t know what I’m thinking.
I don’t know what he’s thinking. A memory of the heat in his gaze last night flashes through my mind, of the way he looked at my scar, then my mouth—
“Do you have any of those Swedish cinnamon rolls? I think I want one of them.”
I’m yanked back to the present with a flash of heat to my face. “Of course.”
I use the excuse to turn away and walk to the shelf where the kanelbullar are stacked in their little blue-and-yellow boxes. I take one off the top and turn, stiffening when I realize Hunter moved, too, and is standing a mere seven or eight feet away—the protection of the counter gone.
He’s close enough that I can smell him again, this time a combination of his cologne and the body wash that I know the name of since he still has to use our shower.
I actually try to beat him to our bathroom every morning because I hate going after him and having to be enveloped in the tantalizing scents of his shampoo and the lingering hint of his deodorant and cologne.
I silently hold out the box; he takes it with a brush of his fingers over mine, sending a shiver across my skin.
The immediate reaction to his slightest touch exasperates me.
He turned away from me last night, shut the door in my face—and now he’s brushing his fingers over mine?
It makes me want to chuck the box of kanelbullar into his chest instead of letting him make my body react like this.
But it would be only slightly more effective than hitting him with a tea bag.
“Lou told me you’re going out with Austin again.” Hunter’s words are clipped. His eyes are on mine, disconcerting in their intensity.
My stomach clenches. That’s what she got out of our conversation last night? “She did?” I hedge.
“I have to say I’m a little surprised.”
“Well, he’s my friend’s boss and—”
“That’s a terrible reason to go out with somebody.
” Hunter’s shoulders tense beneath his button-down shirt.
It’s rolled up to his elbows and open at the throat today, exposing those strong, tanned forearms. It’s incredibly unfair that he looks so freaking good while I’m covered in flour and cinnamon, wearing a T-shirt that says Our Buns Bring All the Swedes to the Yard with our logo above it, an apron, and jeans.
“And what would be a good reason?” I jab back. “I don’t think you have any right to lecture me on who I should or shouldn’t go out with.”
“Is this a lecture? I thought I was merely making conversation.”
“That look on your face says it all.”
“Oh, now I have a look?”
Somehow, we’ve both taken a step closer, our gazes locked. “You know you do.”
His cologne is intoxicating—as are the green flecks in his eyes. His long fingers tighten around the box he holds. The traitorous part of my brain wants to have those hands hold me.
He has too many unjust advantages. It makes me want to punch something.
“Why do you care if I go out with Austin again?” I seethe.
“Why would you want to go out with him again?” he shoots right back.
My chest is rising and falling hard; we’re close enough that I can see the brushing of freckles across his nose. I’m flushed and breathless but in a way entirely different from when I was sick a few days ago—when Hunter dropped every-thing to take care of me.