2. Chapter 2
Jake
Ieat the second cinnamon roll before I make it two blocks.
This does not mean I lied. At the exact moment I bought it, I intended to give it to someone else.
One of the guys at the Jefferson Street project, probably.
I have eight men working there today, and any one of them would appreciate a fresh cinnamon roll before spending the next several hours tearing water-damaged plaster out of an old hardware store. Intentions count for something.
The cinnamon roll is still warm when I pull it from the bag at the first red light. I take one bite, tell myself the crew can split the other one, and finish the whole thing before the signal changes.
The caramel apple muffin is already gone. That one never stood a chance.
I turn onto Jefferson and park beside the construction trailer. The three-story brick building in front of me has been standing since 1908, although parts of it appear ready to surrender before lunch.
Scaffolding covers the east side. Half the original windows are boarded while we wait for custom replacements. A section of roof has been peeled back, exposing beams darkened by age and decades of moisture.
Most people look at a building like this and see a money pit. I see what it can become.
The old hardware store will eventually hold two street-level businesses and four apartments upstairs. We have spent three weeks removing bad additions, uncovering original brick, and arguing with a staircase somebody installed during the eighties using more confidence than skill.
It is the kind of project I like best. Complicated enough to require thought. Old enough to have character. Damaged, but not beyond saving.
One of my crew members spots the white Sweet Treats bag in my hand as I approach.
“Breakfast?”
“No.”
He looks at the bag. I look at the bag.
“Trash,” I clarify.
He gives me a slow nod that says he does not believe me but values his employment.
“East wall is open,” he tells me. “We found more rot under the window framing.”
“Show me.”
The next three hours should be enough to drive a bakery owner with brown eyes and flour on her cheek out of my head. Wrong! They are not.
I inspect the window framing, approve the removal of two more damaged studs, speak with the electrician, and revise the afternoon schedule.
Every few minutes, my mind circles back to Sweet Treats and Ava Bennett glaring at my boots. She talked about her muffins as if she had personally invented apples. I also caught the quick flash of satisfaction she tried to hide after I tasted it.
Ava is attractive when she is irritated. This is unfortunate, because I appear to irritate her without effort.
I have lived in Forge Creek most of my life, and I know nearly every business owner downtown.
I knew someone had purchased the old bakery building, but I had not paid much attention to the renovations.
My company submitted an estimate before the sale closed.
The buyer chose someone cheaper. That happens.
What bothers me is not losing the job. It is seeing the shortcuts now. The loose hinge that should have been repaired. The crooked replacement molding … and more. I only spent fifteen minutes inside the building, and I spotted enough questionable work to keep a crew busy for a week.
Ava either does not know what she bought, or she knows and does not have the money to correct it yet. Neither possibility should be my concern.
At eleven, I tell myself I need coffee. The construction trailer contains a full pot. At eleven-oh-five, I decide the coffee tastes burned and I need something fresh. I drive back to Sweet Treats.
The bakery is busier now. Two tables are occupied, and a line of four customers stretches from the register to the door. I wait a moment to enter and begin wiping my boots on the storefront mat.
The bell rings when I enter. Ava glances up from a box she is filling with muffins. Her gaze drops immediately to my boots.
“I wiped them.”
“Would you like a certificate?”
“I’d settle for coffee.”
Her mouth twitches. That almost-smile feels like winning something.
Ava moves behind the counter swiftly. Her dark hair is still piled on top of her head, but more pieces have escaped around her face. The flour I noticed earlier is gone from her cheek.
While I wait, I look around the bakery again. Not because I am inspecting it. Because there is nowhere else to look.
The space is warm and bright, with the original brick exposed along one wall and old black-and-white photographs of Forge Creek hanging above the tables.
Someone has refinished the wood floor, but darker patches remain where counters or shelves once stood.
The imperfections make it better. Ava understands that much, at least.
The front door creaks behind me as another customer enters. I look up at the hinge. One screw has pulled farther out of the wood since this morning. Ava catches me staring.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t need to. Your face said it.”
“What did my face say?”
“That you’re about to interfere.”
“I’m standing in line.”
“You’re assessing, Mr. Dalton.”
“I have eyes.”
“Try using them on the menu instead.”
I look at the chalkboard.
MUFFIN OF THE WEEK: CARAMEL APPLE
Below that, smaller lettering lists flavored coffees:
MAPLE CINNAMON
CHOCOLATE-HAZELNUT
ORANGE CINNAMON
When I reach the counter, Ava sets both hands beside the register.
“What can I get you?”
“Coffee.”
“Which flavor?”
“Regular.”
Her eyebrows lift.
I hold her gaze for two seconds.
“Maple cinnamon.”
“I thought so.”
“And another muffin.”
“The caramel apple?”
“That’s the muffin you have.”
“It is the muffin of the week.”
“Then why ask?”
“Customers enjoy the illusion of choice.”
She turns to retrieve one.
“Two,” I say.
Ava looks over her shoulder. “Is one for someone else?”
“No.”
The smile arrives fully this time. It changes her entire face. I should leave immediately. Instead, I add a cinnamon roll.
She puts the pastries into a bag and pours my coffee. “Your crew is going to wonder why you keep arriving empty-handed.”
“They don’t know I’ve been here.”
“The secret bakery visits begin.”
“I don’t have secret bakery visits.”
“This is your second visit in five hours.”
“I’m working nearby.”
“There are other places that sell coffee.”
“Not this coffee.”
Her expression softens for half a second. Then the front door opens again, and the top hinge gives a low groan. I look at it.
Ava points a finger at me. “Don’t.”
“That screw is almost out.”
“It is on my list.”
“The door is pulling against the frame every time somebody opens it.”
“I have handled doors before.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Her eyes narrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“It sounded like something.”
The woman from this morning, Loralee, appears from the back carrying a tray of lemon bars. She looks between us.
“Is this foreplay?”
Ava closes her eyes. I take a drink of coffee to hide my reaction.
“No,” Ava says. “This is a customer failing to understand boundaries.”
Loralee sets the tray inside the display case. “Boundaries are important.”
“Thank you.”
“But so are hinges.”
Ava turns slowly toward her.
Loralee raises both hands. Silver bracelets slide down her wrists. “I’m neutral.”
“You are never neutral.”
“That sounds like something a Virgo would say.”
Ava goes still.
I look at Loralee. “Ava is a Virgo?”
“Obviously.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say honestly to Loralee.
“It means she can’t help it.”
“Help what?” Ava demands.
Loralee gestures vaguely toward the bakery. “The lists. The labels. The need to make everything precisely right … and never give up control or have deficiencies pointed out.”
Ava points toward the back room. “Don’t you have something to do?”
“Yes, but this is more interesting.”
A customer behind me clears his throat.
Ava pastes on a pleasant smile. “Jake has his order. Jake is leaving.”
I pick up the coffee and bag. The door groans again when a customer exits. The screw probably moves another fraction. I could leave. I should leave. Instead, I set the bag back on the counter.
Ava’s pleasant smile disappears. “What are you doing?”
“Do you have a screwdriver?”
“No.”
“You own a business in a historic building and don’t have a screwdriver?”
“I own several screwdrivers. You may not use any of them.”
“Fine.”
I pull a compact multi-tool from the holder on my belt.
Her eyes widen. “Absolutely not.”
“It will take thirty seconds.”
“It could take three seconds, and the answer would still be no.”
“It’s a loose screw, Ava.”
“It is my loose screw.”
Loralee makes a small choking sound and turns away. I look at her. She looks determinedly at the lemon bars. Ava comes around the counter as I walk toward the door.
“Jake.”
I open the multi-tool and select the screwdriver.
“Jake Dalton.”
“That sounds more serious,” I tell her.
“I am serious.”
A customer enters before I reach the hinge. The door catches slightly, then jerks open. Another splinter drops from the frame. I hold it up between two fingers. Ava stares at the piece of wood. I wait. Her shoulders lift and fall with one controlled breath.
“You may tighten one screw.”
“Two are loose.”
“One.”
“That won’t solve the problem.”
“It will solve half the problem.”
“That isn’t how hinges work.”
“It is how permission works.”
I look at her. She looks back. There is no uncertainty in her expression. She is not asking me to agree with her reasoning. She is telling me where the line is.
I tighten one screw. Only one. Ava inspects the hinge as though she expects to find evidence of additional unauthorized labor.
“Happy?”
“No.”
“Neither am I.”
That earns me another twitch at the corner of her mouth. Loralee drifts closer and studies us with uncomfortable interest.
“You two have very compatible conflict styles.”
“We do not have anything compatible,” Ava says.
Loralee looks at me. I return to the counter and pick up my coffee and bakery bag.
“Whatever she is,” I say, “I like it.”
Ava’s lips part. Loralee beams as if I have confirmed a prediction involving planetary movement. I walk out before either of them can answer. This time, I wipe my boots on the way out, too.
Halfway to my truck, I realize I have left the multi-tool sitting on the counter.
I stop and look through the bakery window.
Ava is holding it. She glances toward the door and catches me watching.
Then she smiles. It's not her customer-service smile.
Not the small, reluctant one she has been trying to hide.
A real one. I could go back for the tool.
Instead, I get into my truck. I own six more.
And now I have a reason to visit Sweet Treats again tomorrow.