Chapter 2
Tank
The scent of freshly baked bread and buttercream frosting wraps around me like a hug the moment I walk through the bakery doors. A second later, so does the heat.
“Whoa,” I say, and the woman behind the counter spins, dropping a metal sheet pan. It clatters down on the counter and a whisk flies over it, landing at my feet.
Rose presses a hand to her chest, right above her flour-dusted apron, which pairs well with the smudge of pink frosting on her cheek. I find myself smiling.
The only time I’ve ever seen Rose Roberts without trace evidence of baking somewhere on her person is when she delivered the cake for James and Winnie’s wedding.
I almost didn’t recognize her that night, dressed in a floral-print dress with her hair in loose reddish-blond waves around her shoulders.
I’m not sure why it threw me, but it did, and she had to say my name twice when she asked where to put the cake.
I’m not usually a sucker for sweets, but I went back for seconds of that one.
A hummingbird cake, Winnie told me later, smirking as she caught me licking frosting off my finger.
Never heard of it, and I don’t know why anyone would want to name a cake after a tiny bird.
But every time I’ve stopped by the bakery since the storefront officially opened last month, I find myself hopefully scanning the pastry case.
Right now, though, the shelves are empty behind the fogged-up glass. Strange. It’s a little early in the day for selling out. Especially since I’m the only one in here.
“Zoinks!” Rose says, a little breathless. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.” My lips twitch, and I try to hold back a smile. “Did you just say … zoinks?”
She smiles and shakes her head. A lock of hair comes loose from her ponytail, and she brushes it back behind her ear. It immediately pops back out.
“I guess I did. It’s a deeply ingrained habit formed from a steady childhood diet of Scooby-Doo.”
I grin. “Ruh roh.”
She laughs. “Guess I’m not the only Scooby fan?”
“Indeed, you are not. It was one of my favorites along with Captain Caveman.”
I refrain from doing his signature yell, though I can hear it playing in my head now, clear as day.
It’s been years since I’ve watched that show, but the memory seems close enough to be tangible.
Sitting cross-legged on the brown shag carpet in front of the television, shoveling Fruity Pebbles into my mouth and then tipping the bowl back to guzzle the pink, sugar-laden milk.
Rose lights up, stepping forward to lean on the counter, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s reaching back through a similar memory bank.
“I forgot all about him!” she says. “I preferred Josie and the Pussycats.”
So did I, actually. Though probably not for the same reason as she did. They were cute girls—for cartoons.
Rocking back on my heels, I run a hand over my jaw. “I might have seen that show a time or two.”
She narrows her eyes playfully as though seeing right through me. “Hm. A time or two? Sounds like you’re downplaying, Mr. Graham. So, which one was your cartoon crush?” Rose asks, smirking.
Surprisingly, I like Rose calling me Mr. Graham.
Under normal circumstances, I shrug off formalities, urging people to call me Tank, the name I’ve been known by for the past thirty-some years.
Being called Mr. Graham makes me feel old—something I normally refuse to accept.
The saying is that kids keep you young, and mine certainly have.
While simultaneously aging me somehow. I’m not sure how that math maths, as those same kids might put it, but that’s how it works.
Sometimes, when I catch sight of myself in a mirror unexpectedly, I’m stunned by the sight of gray hair spreading from my temples back through my brown hair.
Same goes for the lines around my eyes when I smile.
I feel my age the most when I’m in a room with my kids and their significant others, and they start spouting phrases that make no sense.
Or when they tease me for adopting their phrases. They’d have a field day with me talking about the math mathing.
Lately, my age has been thrust in my face by the arrival of Evangeline, Pat and Lindy’s new baby.
Not only because of how impossibly tiny she is with her downy head of blond—yes, blond—hair and the softest, smoothest skin, but because I remember how it was to hold each of my own kids.
Who are now old enough to be having their own babies.
It’s wild and, at times, a little disconcerting to wrap my head around.
How did I get here? How did the long days speed up into short years?
Often I’ve wished to gather all the good and the bad and even the hard moments up, loading them up like film in a projector.
Only, instead of watching them back, I’d live them out all over again.
The joy, the sorrow, the heartache, the triumphs.
But here and now, as I discuss old cartoons and dredge up pleasant childhood memories with a woman I barely know, I feel like I’m exactly the age I’m supposed to be.
“You’re assuming I had a cartoon crush,” I say now, arching an eyebrow at Rose. Stalling is what I’m doing.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to admit it,” she says with a shrug. “But I have no problem saying I was a Fred girl. It was those broad shoulders and the orange ascot that did it for me. Irresistible combination.”
“So, that’s your type, then? A crime fighter with broad shoulders and a goofy tie?”
Rose’s laugh is easy. “Only when it comes to cartoons. The ascot is optional in real life. Actually, it’s probably best to have no ascot.”
“Fine. You got me. I liked Josie,” I confess, and even as I wonder why I’m speaking at all, my mouth just keeps moving. “Something about those cat ears with the red hair.”
My gaze falls to the strand of hair resting on Rose’s cheek. It’s not a bright orange or a dark cherry, but more of a strawberry blond with a little bit of gray woven in. Some might even call it … red.
Well, this is awkward.
Hopefully, Rose doesn’t think I was hitting on her. I wasn’t thinking about that at all. But now that the thought did come to mind … are we flirting?
Or is this just a normal, lighthearted conversation about childish crushes on cartoon characters?
It’s been so long that I’m not sure I even know how to recognize flirting.
I mean, sure—I’m not so unself-aware that I don’t know when women are throwing themselves at me.
And I’ve experienced that kind of behavior far more often than I’d like given my career.
It tends to be an unwritten part of the contract you sign as a pro athlete.
Even after I retired, my various stints on nationally televised sports shows kept me in the public eye enough to garner the wrong kind of attention. I can spot that a mile away.
But good old-fashioned flirting … I don’t know if I remember the experience well enough to recognize when I’m standing right in the middle of it. And now that I’m unsure, I don’t know how to respond. Do I want to continue? Should I roll it back? Am I coming on too strong?
Am I reading too much into this?
What were we talking about, again?
We stand across the counter from each other for a moment, the childhood TV conversation suddenly having run its course as overthinking crowds my brain.
As though needing to cut through the tension, she clears her throat and glances away, picking up a dish towel to mop her face. It reminds me of what I’ve all but forgotten since walking in—the heat.
She’s sweating. As am I. This building is positively sweltering.
I bend to pick up the whisk she dropped when I came in and hand it back. “I think you threw this at me,” I say.
“I didn’t throw it. It flew out of my hands when you snuck in here and scared me half to death.”
“I didn't sneak. I just walked right in.” Suddenly, I’m concerned.
Because anyone could have walked in here and surprised her.
Sheet Cake isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime, but still.
I happen to know that most days, Rose works alone.
Or with one young woman who looks to be about Harper’s age. “Maybe you need a bell on the door.”
“I had a bell, actually. But the slightest breeze would make it jingle. I was constantly running out from the back only to find no one here. Then I tried another and the sound was too jarring. It grated on my nerves.”
“Huh,” I say. “You’re a regular bell snob, huh?”
She laughs. “Hardly. I just don’t want something obnoxious clanging every time I have a customer. This is my happy place.”
These last words are said with a little more softness in her voice. I’ve never given two thoughts to the various kinds of bells one might hang over a door. Now, I’m wondering what might have in stock and what she might describe as jarring.
Do they make peaceful bells?
“Anyway,” Rose says quickly, as though wanting to change the subject from her particularity about bells, “I might not have heard any kind of bell over the fans.”
I glance around, noting a rattling box fan in the corner and a smaller oscillating fan on the back counter.
Neither is doing much other than pushing hot air around the room and creating a lot of background noise.
If Rose takes issue with bells, I bet she hates all this racket.
Not to mention the temperature. I can only imagine how it must be in the back with the ovens.
“What’s going on with the AC?” I ask. Then, “Why didn’t you call me?”
Rose averts her eyes. “I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“It’s not a bother. It’s my job. I’m the landlord; I need to know if something’s wrong so I can fix it.”
“I’m sorry,” she says in almost a whisper. All the joy and teasing has been leached from her voice, and I realize too late that my words and my tone were too harsh.
I’m upset that she’s suffering in this heat, but I made it sound like I’m angry with her for not calling to tell me. Like I care more about the building running smoothly than I do her comfort.
Which is the exact opposite of how I actually feel.