Working For Her Sweet Treats (Hard Hat Hotties #2)

1. Chapter 1

Ava

The first man through the door of my bakery tracks mud across the floor I finished mopping twelve minutes ago.

Not a little mud, either. This is Forge Creek construction-site mud—the thick, reddish-brown kind that clings to work boots with the determination of an ex-husband who suddenly remembers your birthday after the divorce papers are signed.

I stare at the footprints, then at the man making them.

He is tall enough that the brass bell over the door almost brushes his dark hair, broad enough to block the pale morning light behind him, and entirely too handsome to be forgiven without a sincere apology and possibly a second pass with the mop.

He pauses just inside Sweet Treats and looks down.

“You’re staring at my boots.”

“I’m staring at what your boots have done.”

His gaze follows the trail leading from the front door to the counter. Four distinct prints. Maybe five. I stop counting before my eye begins to twitch.

The man lifts one heavy work boot and examines the sole as if the mud might belong to someone else.

“I wiped them.”

“On what?”

“The mat outside.”

I glance through the glass door at the brand-new black mat bearing the cheerful words WELCOME TO SWEET TREATS.

It now appears to welcome dirt so he did use it.

“You may want to go back and wipe them again.”

One corner of his mouth shifts, but he does not quite smile. “Good morning to you, too.”

“It was a very good morning until thirty seconds ago.”

He looks around the bakery, taking in the cream-painted walls, restored brick behind the counter, small round tables, glass pastry cases, and the chalkboard menu I spent far too long lettering last night.

His eyes are hazel, I realize. Not plain brown. They catch the light and turn warmer, almost golden, before drifting toward the ceiling.

I keep staring at those eyes as he looks toward the front windows, then the vintage pendant lights.

Most people walk into a bakery and look at the food offerings. This man looks at the building as if he plans to ask it a series of uncomfortable questions.

I move behind the register. “Are you here to buy something, or are you conducting an inspection?”

His eyes snap back to me. For one inconvenient second, I become intensely aware that I twisted my hair into a messy bun before sunrise, my cheeks are hot from the ovens, and there is probably flour somewhere on my face.

There is always flour somewhere on my face.

I could attend a formal dinner in a black evening gown and discover a white handprint on my backside before dessert.

“Coffee,” he says.

“Just coffee?”

His gaze shifts to the pastry case. Nobody walks into Sweet Treats at six-oh-three in the morning and orders only coffee while cinnamon rolls are cooling behind the glass. That would be unnatural.

“I might take one of those.” He points toward the largest roll in the front row.

“Our classic cinnamon roll.”

“Is there an unclassic one?”

“Not yet.”

He studies the pan. “I’ll take two.”

“Two classic cinnamon rolls?”

“One is for somebody else.”

“Of course.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “You don’t believe me.”

“I have no reason not to believe you. You’re a complete stranger who entered my bakery and immediately lied about wiping his boots.”

That almost-smile appears again.

I turn toward the coffee station. “Regular coffee?”

“What else do you have?”

“Today’s flavored coffee is maple cinnamon.”

His eyebrows rise. A man does not order two cinnamon rolls before dawn because he has a restrained relationship with sugar.

“Maple cinnamon,” he says.

“Excellent choice.”

I fill a large paper cup and leave enough room for cream. When I turn back, he is leaning slightly toward the pastry case, studying the top shelf. I recognize opportunity when I see it.

“You should also try the muffin of the week.”

He looks at me instead of the muffins. “You’re trying to sell me more food.”

“I’m trying to enhance your first Sweet Treats experience.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“It’s a caramel apple muffin.”

His attention returns to the case. I lift one with a square of bakery tissue and place it on a small white plate. The muffin is golden brown, domed high above its paper liner, and topped with buttery streusel and a thin drizzle of caramel. Bits of apple peek through the soft crumb along one side.

His expression remains neutral, but his eyes give him away.

“Fresh apple,” I tell him. “Cinnamon, brown sugar, caramel, and a crisp streusel topping. Baked less than an hour ago.”

“You give everyone the full sales pitch?”

“Only the customers who need guidance.”

He folds his arms over his chest. His fitted charcoal T-shirt has DALTON RESTORATION & CONSTRUCTION printed over one side, and the movement stretches the fabric across shoulders that do not appear to have been built by avoiding heavy objects.

“You decided I need guidance?”

“You came in asking for plain coffee.”

“I changed my order.”

“After professional intervention.”

He looks at the muffin again. “Add it.”

I smile as I ring up his order. “You won’t regret it.”

“We’ll see.”

“That sounded like a challenge.”

“It’s a muffin.”

“Not in here, it isn’t.”

Something changes in his expression. The humor remains, but curiosity joins it.

I know I can get carried away when I talk about the bakery.

This building sat empty for almost three years before I bought it.

Before that, it housed a discount furniture store, an insurance office, and, according to one elderly customer who stopped me on the sidewalk yesterday, an establishment where women danced in short skirts sometime during the nineteen seventies.

Long before any of those businesses, it was Forge Creek’s first bakery.

I found one surviving photograph taken shortly after it opened.

The brick had been darker then, the windows narrower and the sign hand-painted.

A family stood outside in white aprons, all of them looking serious except for a little girl holding a loaf of bread larger than her head.

The photograph hangs behind the register now.

I restored what I could, replaced what I couldn’t, and spent too many nights wondering whether using part of my divorce settlement to buy an old bakery in a town where I knew not a single soul was brave or completely unhinged.

Sweet Treats has been open for only a few days. So far, the answer changes hourly.

I slide his cup toward him. “Cream and sugar are at the end of the counter.”

He picks up the coffee but leaves the cinnamon rolls and muffin where they are.

“You’re eating here?”

“I thought I might.”

I glance at the muddy footprints.

He follows my gaze. “Do you charge extra for that?”

“For eating here, no. For the floor … I haven’t decided.”

He takes his plate to the closest table and lowers himself into one of my delicate café chairs. The chair suddenly looks as though it regrets several life choices.

I reach for the mop.

“You’re doing that now?” he asks.

“I’m considering preserving the evidence for a civil case, but yes.”

He picks up the muffin while I dampen the mop head in the utility sink behind the counter. I pretend not to watch him take the first bite. His jaw slows and there is a brief pause. Then he takes another bite before he has fully finished the first. Victory warms me from the inside.

“Well?” I ask.

He chews deliberately, as though withholding judgment might restore some balance of power.

“It’s good.”

“Good?”

“Very good.”

I prop one hand on the mop handle. “You should know that excessive enthusiasm is permitted inside Sweet Treats.”

“It’s six in the morning.”

“Joy doesn’t have business hours.”

His gaze catches mine and holds it. That is when I notice the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes.

He is older than I first guessed. Mid-to-late thirties, perhaps.

There are pale scars across one forearm and a small nick near his wrist. His hair is clipped shorter on the sides but thick on top, and a permanent shadow darkens his jaw as if shaving has become a negotiation he refuses to complete.

He looks capable and competent. Exactly like the type of man who would take charge of a situation before anyone invited him to. I have already married that man once.

Admittedly, my ex did not have hazel eyes, impressive forearms, or the sense to appreciate a good muffin. Still, I have learned not to confuse attractive packaging with emotional safety.

The stranger finishes half the muffin and glances toward the front door.

“Your hinge is loose.”

I stop mopping.

“My what?”

“The top hinge on the door. It’s pulling away from the frame.”

I look at the door. It appears perfectly fine.

“It opens and closes.”

“For now.”

I rest both hands on the mop handle. “Do you always assess buildings while eating breakfast?”

“Pretty much.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It’s worse when something is crooked.”

His gaze drifts to the molding beside the display case.

I shift slightly, blocking his view.

“It isn’t crooked.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked at it.”

“It’s off by about half an inch.”

“It has character.”

“It has a bad installation.”

“It is original to the building.”

“No, it isn’t.”

I blink. “How would you know?”

“The milling profile is wrong for the age of the brick. Somebody added it later and didn’t square the corner.”

I look at the molding, then at him. It has bothered me since the day I moved in, but I have refused to acknowledge the problem because the contractor who renovated the bakery insisted the wall was uneven and nothing could be done without replacing the entire section.

The man takes another bite of muffin.

I tighten my grip on the mop. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

“That explains why I don’t remember it.”

He sets the muffin down and wipes his fingers on a napkin. “Jake Dalton.”

Even after less than two weeks in Forge Creek, I know the name.

Dalton Restoration & Construction has signs in front of three downtown buildings and a large project near the old mill district.

Everyone who stopped by during my renovation had an opinion on which contractor I should have hired, and Jake Dalton’s name came up more than once.

Usually followed by some variation of, He’s busy, but he does things right.

I did not hire him because my renovation budget was already gasping for air by the time I learned the previous contractor had cut corners.

“I’m Ava Bennett.”

“I know.”

My suspicion rises immediately. “How?”

“The sign.”

He points toward the small framed notice beside the register.

SWEET TREATSPROUDLY OWNED AND OPERATED BY AVA BENNETT

“Right.” I clear my throat. “Obviously.”

Jake lifts his coffee to hide another almost-smile. The bell over the door jingles, saving me from myself.

Loralee Tilsby, my part-time employee. Actually, she’s my only employee.

She’s wearing a long rust-colored cardigan.

She sweeps inside with a canvas tote over one shoulder and several silver bracelets chiming around her wrist. Her dark hair is pulled into a loose braid, and a crescent-moon pendant rests against her black shirt.

Loralee is scheduled to begin work at six. It is now six-twelve.

She looks at Jake and then at me. Finally, her eyes land on the muddy footprints I have only half erased.

“Oh,” she says.

“Good morning. You’re late.”

“Mercury.”

“Mercury did not schedule your shift.”

“It affects communication, travel, and timing.” She sets her tote behind the counter. “I texted you.”

“My phone is in the office.”

“That confirms the communication issue.”

Jake makes a quiet sound that may be a laugh.

Loralee turns her attention to him. “You must be Jake.”

He looks genuinely surprised. “Have we met?”

“No, but you look like a Jake.”

“What does a Jake look like?”

“Broad shoulders. Quiet eyes. Unresolved emotional patterns.”

I close my eyes briefly. When I open them, Jake is looking at me.

“Does she do this with everyone?”

“So far.”

Loralee walks closer to his table and studies the remains of his breakfast. “Caramel apple. Interesting.”

“It’s the muffin of the week,” I say.

“I meant his choice.” She taps one finger against her chin. “Apples are associated with temptation, knowledge, and hidden desire.”

Jake looks down at the muffin. “It was either this or a cinnamon roll.”

“You bought those, too.”

“One is for somebody else,” he says.

Loralee and I exchange a glance.

Jake exhales. “There is somebody else.”

“Of course,” Loralee says soothingly.

He stands and gathers the paper bag holding both cinnamon rolls. The café chair appears relieved.

“I should get to work.”

He carries his cup and bag toward the door, stopping before he reaches it. His gaze travels up the frame again.

“Don’t use that door if the hinge gets any looser.”

“It’s the only customer entrance.”

“Then get the hinge fixed.”

“I’ll put it on my list.”

“How long is the list?”

“That is none of your business.”

Jake opens the door. The hinge releases a faint metallic squeak I have never noticed before. His brows lift.

I point toward the sidewalk. “Go restore something.”

He steps outside, pauses on the mat, and deliberately wipes both boots several times. Then he looks back through the glass and smiles. Jake raises the paper bag in a brief salute and walks toward a dark pickup parked at the curb.

Loralee comes to stand beside me.

“His energy likes you.”

“His energy ruined my floor.”

“That can be cleaned.”

“So can most energy, apparently.”

She glances at the pastry case. “Did he like the muffin?”

“He seemed to.“

“It contains cinnamon.”

I turn toward her. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Cinnamon draws success, passion, and prosperity.”

“It also makes apple muffins taste better.”

“That, too.”

I carry the mop back toward the utility sink, determined not to watch Jake through the window again. But I’m completely undisciplined. Even if I never get to know that man, I do like looking at him.

He opens the driver’s door of his truck, places the bakery bag carefully on the passenger seat, and climbs behind the wheel. Before pulling away, he takes one of the cinnamon rolls out of the bag.

Loralee peers over my shoulder. “He’ll be back.”

“He likes sugar.”

“He likes the baker.”

“He does not know the baker.”

She gives me the patient look of a woman explaining something obvious to a small child. “That has never stopped a man before.”

The front door shifts in the breeze. A tiny piece of wood near the upper hinge splinters and drops to the floor. Loralee and I stare at it.

I lift my chin. “I can fix that.”

“Whatever you say.”

Her tone suggests she believes the exact opposite.

I retrieve my phone from the office, open the notes app, and add FRONT-DOOR HINGE beneath the other seventeen items on my maintenance list. Then I add a second note: Buy a larger mat.