Do you know the muffin man?
Molly
“AND THERE’S THIS one girl, named Fiona, and she has this really fancy leotard—like with sequins on the trim—and she says her big brother plays rugby at the school you go to, isn’t that cool? And Mrs. Fitzpatrick said my technique was really good. I think she likes me.”
I nod along as Lorraine skips down the cobblestone square, her hand swinging in mine.
She had her first ballet class today, and I promised to walk her home after.
It’s a trade-off; I get to clear my head after the adrenaline spike of the trials, and she gets to provide a high-speed monologue about the hierarchy of primary school dance attire.
It’s more complicated than it sounds. Or maybe it’s just because I’m not really paying much attention to her.
If I end up on the team, Mom has to pick up Lorraine every day and I won’t get to walk with her. Claire told me practice goes till seven, and on days Lorraine has dance, her class only goes till half-past five.
I was wary about Mom being close with Lorraine. I knew what it was like to be disappointed by her first hand. I promised myself when we got here that I would protect Lorraine from whatever pain I could.
I hope I can continue to keep that promise.
Jamie used to promise me the same thing, and for a long time she did. Before she left, that is. But I wouldn’t ever leave my sister.
“Very cool,” I say in response to her. Most of my engagements with her conversation have been properly timed “uh-huhs” and “rights” and “cools.”
Her attention span snaps towards one of the storefronts in the square, yanking on my arm like she’s trying to dislocate my shoulder, pointing: “Molly! Molly, look! Look at the cakes! Can we go in there? PLEASE?”
She is pointing at the bakery. Tucked between what looks like a pharmacy and a darkened pub is a storefront painted a soft, buttery yellow. Above the door, a sign in curling elegant script reads: BLUEBIRD BAKERY.
“Please, please, please!” Lorraine continues to beg, before I can even form a word.
“Okay, sure, twist my arm.”
I figure she deserves a treat for being such a good sport about this whole move, and maybe I deserve one too.
I feel like I’d done good in the try-outs, but that still doesn’t mean I’ll get on the team.
I mean, no one but Niall and JJ would pass to me during the scrimmage.
What if O’Shea notices that and figures that no matter how good I am, it just won’t work?
Still. I am trying to do the dangerous thing and have hope.
The bell above the door jingles cheerfully as we step inside, the two of us encased right away in the warm air and smell of baked goods.
The glass display cases are an altar to carbohydrates.
There are scones the size of grapefruits dusted in powdered sugar, and cupcakes with gorgeous frosting swirls that look too pretty to be edible.
But the real shock isn’t the baked goods. It’s the baker.
Leaning on the counter, forearms resting on the polished wood, is Niall.
Niall Blue. Bluebird bakery. Yeah, okay, makes sense.
I just can’t shake this guy.
He’s handing a paper bag to an elderly woman, flashing her a wide grin that reaches his eyes and reveals a single dimple on the left side of his face. As the woman leaves, the bell chimes again, and his gaze flicks to us. His eyebrows shoot up, clearly as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“Hey.” He clears his throat, pushing off the counter to stand up straighter. He’s wearing a flour-dusted apron over a plain t-shirt that draws my gaze to his arms.
Do not zone out looking at him again, Molly.
“Hi,” I manage, giving a little wave that feels stupid the second my hand leaves my side. Why am I waving? What the fuck is wrong with me?
Lorraine, lacking any social filter, rushes the counter. “Hello! Can I have—oh! I know you!”
“Do ya?” He raises a brow, looking down at my little sister with genuine amusement.
“Yeah! You’re the boy from the shop. You were with your bad friend who crashed his cart into ours.”
“Ah,” he nods. His eyes keep flicking from Lorraine to me, as she browses the cases in front of the counter. It is lined with all sorts of cookies. “I remember. Sorry about that.”
“It’s alright, I already forgave you in my head,” she says magnanimously. “Which cookie is the best?”
Niall follows her gaze, tapping a finger against his chin as if considering a complex chemical equation. His sweetness towards her paints a small smile on my face.
“Well now, that depends on your mood. If yer feelin’ like an adventurous soul, we have the oats and raisin.
If you’re feelin’ simple and classic, there’s the shortbread.
But, to be honest...” He leans over the counter, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“My favorite is the double chocolate chip. I consider myself a bit of an indulgent man.”
“I’d like to be indulgent, too, please,” Lorraine says, peering up at him with stars in her eyes.
Niall gives a hearty, warm laugh and slides the case open. He uses a pair of silver tongs to pull out two cookies the size of dinner plates. He slides one into a wax paper sleeve for Lorraine, then holds the second one out to me.
“Uh, thanks,” I say, taking it. I keep my other hand firmly shoved in my pocket to hide the fact that I am suddenly, inexplicably, fidgeting. And I don’t want to risk another rogue wave. “What do I owe yo—”
“Don’t bother,” he says, waving me off with his hand. “We’re closing up shop in twenty minutes. Consider it a welcome-to-the-parish gift. Or a formal apology for my mate’s lack of trolley-driving skills... among other things.”
“Uh... alright. Thanks,” I nod, feeling a creeping heat crawl up my neck. Lorraine pipes up with a loud, “Thank you, Cookie Man!”
Is he flirting with me?
Probably not.
He just gave you a cookie that is literally leftover inventory.
He barely knows you.
Get a grip.
“Do you get to eat all the stuff here?” Lorraine asks, her mouth already rimmed with chocolate.
Niall smiles, running a hand through his hair. A few bottle blonde strands fall into his eyes, and he brushes them back with an absentminded grace that makes my stomach do a weird, fluttering somersault.
“I probably shouldn’t, if I want to keep my pace up for the Saints. But between you and me,” he winks at her, “I have my weaknesses. I’m only human, after all.”
“So you do eat them?”
“The éclairs are my favorite,” he confesses, his gaze drifting back to mine. “And I have my fair share of cakes and cookies, too.”
My eyes get lost trailing over his face again, drinking him in like a warm cup of cocoa on a rainy day. And he notices—I know he does, because our eyes lock. My eyes snap away instantly, and I take a massive, overly-aggressive bite of my cookie to cover the awkwardness.
“Uh, well—thank you,” I say, glancing at the door. The golden light in the bakery is making me feel a little too soft, and a little too seen.
“We should probably get going. Mom’s probably wondering where we are.”
Niall nods, waving a hand. “Safe home, then.”
“Bye, Cookie Man!” Lorraine calls out.
I push the door open, the bell jingling a goodbye.
As the cool, damp air of the evening hits my face, I risk one last glance back.
Niall is still standing there, leaning against the counter, watching us leave.
He isn't smiling anymore; he just has this odd, pensive expression on his face, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he hasn't seen in years.
I duck my head and keep walking, the taste of chocolate and sea-water-blue eyes lingering on my tongue.
“He was nice!” Lorraine chirps, skipping again. “And he’s very tall. Do you think he’s a prince?”
“He’s a baker, Lo. And a soccer player.”
“A football player,” she corrects me, using her best attempt at an Irish lilt.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “That too.”
In truth, I don't know how to feel about Niall Blue. He’d been the one to help me get the tryout. He seems kind. He’s a good player—I could tell just from the try-out.
And he makes my heart race and my tongue numb for no good reason.
As we turn the corner and the buttery yellow glow of the bakery fades into the gray, I find myself hoping—just a little bit—that Coach O’Shea has decided to put me on the roster.
Not because I’d get more time with Mr. Ocean Eyes, of course. That would just be an added bonus.