Chapter 18
PIPER
The sweet smell of baked Danish fills my nose when I pull the tray out of the oven.
The dough is buttery and flaky, and the cheese filling has a perfect golden glaze. I won’t be able to resist sneaking one for myself when they cool down.
It’s hard to work at a bakery all day without stuffing yourself.
Paradoxically, I think the extra calories I pack away here keep me motivated to not skip any sessions of the fitness classes I’m signed up for.
Looking at it that way, sneaking a pastry or two (or three) over the course of a workday is probably good for my health.
Hey, mental gymnastics have always been one of my talents.
Probably why I was able to convince myself to stay with Crew for as long as I did.
A sad feeling hits me, tugging down the edges of my mouth. Now I really need that sugary pick-me-up. Sure enough, when I bite into the Danish, I feel better.
I’m always happy when we happen to get a rush of customers right after a batch of pastry leaves the oven, so they get eaten at their best. That’s exactly what happens, and the next hour is a whirlwind of helping Kate deal with the steady stream of customers.
I’ve been in a good mood all day. Now that I know I’m getting my inheritance, pretty soon I’ll own this place. It’ll be mine. It won’t get sold and risk being bought by some investment group that wants to gut it and turn it into who knows what.
The beautiful tiled floors, the old wooden order counter, the ornately carved display case, the plants living on the windowsills, all the things about this place that I’ve grown to love, they’re not going anywhere. This bakery will be my own, for good.
Just six months of being married on paper to Nash, and I’ll have the business I’ve always dreamed of.
We get less busy as the afternoon gets late.
Kate’s shift ends, and I’m holding down the bakery alone until closing time.
After about ten minutes with no customers, I decide to step outside and get some air.
The AC is starting to make me chilly, and it looks like the heat outside isn’t quite as bad as it was at the height of the afternoon.
I breathe a sigh of pleasure when the balmy sunshine hits my chilled, AC-prickled skin.
We’ve got a great location on South Lamar Boulevard in Austin. There’s a small parking lot in front of the store to pull in commuters driving by, and it’s also easy for the residents in the houses and new apartments spread out behind the highway to walk to us.
If there’s one thing I’d change about this place, maybe I’d like to build an addition onto the building and make it a seating area. Maybe then expand our hours so that people have a place to get a coffee and a snack and relax outside of their homes later in the evening.
A truck pulls in from the road, and my heart climbs into my throat when I notice the paint job.
I really don’t know why the sight of Nash stepping out of his truck is so hot. I’ve seen literally thousands of people exit vehicles in my life and never once thought it was something erotic. But something about seeing Nash’s denim-clad legs swing out of a pickup truck …
“Out for your smoke break?” Nash quips.
I bark a laugh, taken aback by Nash making a joke. “I do not smoke, Nash Miller,” I chide, folding my arms over my apron.
“Not anymore, maybe. I remember you used to indulge.”
“Only when I was drunk at a college party, which doesn’t count.”
“Still open?” Nash steps onto the sidewalk in front of the store. A crisp, woodsy scent hits my nose, and my blood pumps a little harder.
“Yep, for the next two hours.”
Nash glances to make sure there’s no one else in earshot. “Good. If this bakery is worth marrying me for, I need to see how good these pastries are.”
“Nash Miller eating anything other than baked chicken and brown rice when the hockey season is about to start? I’m shocked. Scandalized, even.”
He winks—the bastard winks, and it’s enough to melt my panties—while he grabs the door and holds it open for me. “For my wife’s baking, I’ll make an exception.”
“That’s not exactly the only reason I came,” he says while I step behind the counter to fill his order.
Maybe he came to fill me up in another way, the less restrained part of my brain whispers.
But the more restrained part of my brain keeps me from imagining getting bent over one of the surfaces in here.
Unfortunately, this is one marriage that’s better left unconsummated. It’ll be a lot simpler that way.
“Oh?” I ask.
“Can you come to an event with me? It’s a charity banquet thing the team owner is throwing. He invited us, and I kind of think it would look weird if I declined. It’s not going to be a regular thing or anything.”
The thought of spending a fancy evening with my fake husband makes me a little too excited. “Sure, that’s fine. I mean, we should probably be seen in public together a little bit, right?”
“Exactly,” Nash agrees. “Maybe next week we should do a regular night out, too. Just dinner at a popular restaurant where a lot of people will see us. Two high-profile public sightings should give us cover to lay low for a while after that.”
Nash nods as he looks into the display case. A thoughtful expression settles over him, but something tells me it’s not from pondering over what to order.
“Has he tried to see you?” Nash asks.
“Crew, you mean?”
His brow darkens, and his nostrils flare. Just hearing my ex-fiancé’s name is enough to make my husband bristle. He grunts, which I take for a yes.
“No. He’s tried to contact me, but I’m ignoring him.”
“Good.”
The vehemence of his tone makes my lips twitch. “Decided what you want, yet?”
“Which ones did you bake?”
“All of them.”
“One of everything.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Nash, there’s no way you’re eating that many pastries.”
He looks up, eyes locking with mine. “Don’t underestimate me, wifey.”
Warmth rolls through me. I lean against the counter, drawn into his space like a magnetic pull. “Is wifey what you’re settling on instead of snookums or sweet pea?”
He rolls his eyes, but his cheeks color when he smiles.
I need two bags to bag his order. “Are you really going to eat all these?”
He reaches into one of the bags and shoves a scone in his mouth. “Yes,” he answers, the word muffled by his chewing.
I shake my head, chuckling. How did I see no trace of this side of Nash for two whole years living next to him? Did he show this side to the woman he was engaged to? What happened between them?
There’s a sudden itch in my brain to know more. But the subject is probably a downer for him, so I don’t bring it up.
When I tell Nash his total, he gives me a hundred-dollar bill, tells me to keep the change, and then drops another hundred into the tip jar.
“You’ve already married me, Nash, you don’t have to show off to impress me.”
He rolls his eyes again, and this time stuffs a brownie in his mouth. “You’re ruining my diet.”
“You’re ruining your diet! Don’t blame this on me!”
“The dinner’s on Saturday. I’ll text you the details.”
As Nash leaves, he takes a bite of a muffin, and right before the door closes behind him, I hear him groan to himself, “Fuck, that’s good.”
It gets my brain racing with other scenarios where he’d groan those words, his voice a desperate rasp and his breath hot against the side of my face, or my neck, or into my hair.
I push the thoughts away and distract myself by getting ready to close as Nash’s truck pulls out of its parking space.
There’s one feeling I can’t distract myself from, though.
I’m looking forward to my date with my husband.