5. Chapter 5
Ava
Iarrive at Sweet Treats the next morning and immediately turn on the lights above the new display. Yes, I skip the ovens and the coffee station. I simply want a moment alone to admire the display again.
Warm light spills across the reclaimed oak, illuminating the darker marks in the grain. The black metal supports look as if they belong beside the exposed brick, and the carved apple beside the bakery’s name is somehow playful without being cute.
It is perfect. No, not perfect. Jake would probably point out that the wood is scarred, the coloring uneven, and one edge carries a shallow groove that sanding could not erase. It is better than perfect.
I run my fingers over the burned lettering again and tell myself I am admiring the workmanship. That is all.
I am not thinking about the way Jake watched my face while I examined it.
I am certainly not thinking about throwing my arms around him, pressing myself against a chest that feels as solid as one of his restored buildings, and then calling the embrace professional gratitude as though either of us believed me.
My cheeks warm even though I am alone. I switch on the ovens.
By six, the bakery smells like caramelized apples, cinnamon, coffee, and warm butter. I fill the display with the morning’s muffins, arranging caramel apple on the middle tier and apple crisp cheesecake across the top. The lower shelf holds cinnamon rolls, their icing still glossy from the heat.
Everything looks elevated and intentional, expensive, even.
I take three photographs for social media, then a fourth from a slightly lower angle. The display transforms the front corner of Sweet Treats from an empty patch of floor into something that belongs in a magazine feature about small-town businesses.
Jake did that. He listened to what I wanted and built something better. The thought of it warms me inside.
The bell over the door rings at six-oh-two. Jake steps inside wearing worn jeans, a black company T-shirt, and the cautious expression of a man entering a room where his boots have already committed an offense.
He stops on the mat and wipes them thoroughly, twice.
I look down. A faint trace of mud remains along one heel.
Yesterday, I might have reached for the mop before taking his order.
Today, I look at the display he built and think, What’s a little mud to clean up?
This is either emotional growth or the first sign that I am losing control of my bakery.
“Morning,” he says.
“Good morning.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You sound cheerful.”
“I am occasionally cheerful.”
“Not with me.”
“I thanked you last night.”
“You called the hug professional gratitude.”
“It was.”
“Then I’m waiting for the personal version.”
My hand tightens around the coffee cup I am preparing.
Jake’s mouth curves. He is teasing me. Quiet, observant, slightly bossy Jake Dalton has apparently decided flirting is now permitted before sunrise.
I place his cup on the counter. “Maple cinnamon.”
“I didn’t order yet.”
“You were going to.”
“I might have wanted regular.”
“No, you weren’t.”
He accepts the coffee without arguing, which proves my point. His attention moves toward the display. I try not to watch him study the filled shelves, but his reaction matters more than I want it to.
“It works,” he says.
“It does more than work.”
Jake walks closer. His gaze moves across the rows of muffins and cinnamon rolls, then to the handwritten flavor cards I placed in small black holders.
“You already photographed it?”
“Four times.”
“Only four?”
“I may take more when the light changes.”
He nods as though this confirms something he already suspects about me.
I point to the upper shelf. “The apple crisp cheesecake muffins look especially good up there.”
“They taste good up there, too.”
“You ate yours standing beside the counter.”
“Location doesn’t affect flavor.”
“Presentation affects the entire experience.”
“I thought eating was the experience.”
“That is why I own the bakery and you build things.”
Jake reaches toward a caramel apple muffin. I tap the back of his hand with the tongs.
He withdraws it slowly. “I was looking.”
“You were touching.”
“I built the shelf.”
“That does not grant you unrestricted muffin access.”
“What does?”
The words are simple, but the look accompanying them is not. Before I can decide how to answer, the bell rings again.
Three men wearing Dalton Restoration shirts enter together. Unlike Jake, they bring enough mud with them to plant a small garden.
My newly softened attitude toward work boots faces its first serious test.
Jake looks over his shoulder. “Wipe your feet.”
The men stop. All three back up and drag their boots across the mat. I smile before I can stop myself. One of them, Cole, the man who helped bring in the display, looks from Jake to me.
“We heard there were muffins.”
“There are,” I say.
The men spread out along the display, debating flavors with the seriousness of investors considering an acquisition. Two select caramel apple. Cole chooses apple crisp cheesecake and adds an orange-cinnamon coffee.
By the time I finish ringing up their orders, four more construction workers have entered behind them. Then two women from the insurance office next door. The small morning rush swells into a line stretching to the door.
Loralee arrives ten minutes late, takes one look at the crowd, and ties on her apron without offering a planetary explanation. She moves to the coffee station while I handle the register and pastries.
Jake remains near the display, directing customers toward the flavor cards and answering questions as though he works here.
“Caramel apple is the muffin of the week,” he tells an older man.
“You recommend it?” the man asks.
“I’ve conducted extensive research.”
I bite back a laugh. A customer asks whether the display is original to the bakery. Jake explains the history of the reclaimed oak without taking credit for the design until I interrupt him.
“He built it.”
Several heads turn toward him. Jake looks almost uncomfortable with the attention.
“It was a small job.”
“It was not a small improvement,” I say.
Our eyes meet across the crowded bakery. The moment lasts only a second, but something shifts inside me. Jake is not smiling, yet warmth fills his expression.
Then one of his workers bumps the coffee condiment station, sending a container of wooden stirrers across the floor. Jake immediately grabs the broom from beside the utility-room door.
“Where are your aprons?” he asks.
“You are not wearing one of my aprons.”
I look at the line of customers waiting for me.
“Hooks behind the kitchen door.”
He disappears into the back and returns wearing the only clean spare Loralee did not claim. It is pink. Not pale pink. Bright raspberry pink, with SWEET TREATS—A LITTLE JOY IN EVERY BITE printed in white script across the chest.
The apron is too small for him. The straps pull tight across his shoulders, and the lower half stops several inches above his knees.
The bakery goes momentarily silent. Cole takes out his phone.
“Don’t,” Jake warns.
The photograph is taken anyway. Jake sweeps the stirrers into a neat pile while several customers laugh and someone near the door announces that the picture is going on the Forge Creek community page.
I should rescue him. Instead, I lean one hip against the counter and enjoy the sight of six-foot-two Jake Dalton calmly sweeping my bakery in a pink apron.
“It suits you,” I say.
He gives me a long look. “I’m adding this to the labor invoice.”
“You refused payment.”
“I’m reconsidering.”
“I can offer another muffin.”
“Two.”
Jake has an easy acceptance of anything imperfect. Old wood, uneven coloring, muffins that lean slightly to one side. Maybe even women who make lists for their lists and panic when life refuses to follow them.
The rush finally eases twenty minutes later. Jake removes the apron, folds it with surprising care, and leaves it on the counter.
“I need to get to work.”
“You’ve already worked.”
“I mean the job that pays me.”
I glance at the mostly empty display. “This paid me.”
His gaze follows mine, and satisfaction crosses his face. Before he leaves, I place the most uneven apple crisp cheesecake muffin in a bag and hand it to him.
“This one didn’t meet Sweet Treats standards.”
Jake looks inside the bag. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It rose unevenly.”
He studies the crooked top, then takes a bite.
“Still good.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
He pauses near the door. “You don’t have to throw something away just because it didn’t turn out exactly the way you planned.”
The words strike closer than he could possibly know. Jake wipes his boots before stepping onto the sidewalk, even though he is leaving rather than entering.
I watch through the window as he walks toward his truck with the muffin in one hand. Loralee comes to stand beside me.
“You’re smiling, Ava.”
“I had an excellent morning.”
“Because of the display?”
“Yes.”
“The customers?”
“Obviously.”
“The man in the pink apron?”
I turn toward the register. “We need more caramel apple muffins.”
She follows me behind the counter. “Avoidance is still an answer.”
I retrieve the mixing bowl and begin measuring flour. She is wrong, or at least mostly wrong. Still, when I notice a muddy print near the front door, I do not reach for the mop immediately. I let it stay there a little longer.