7. Chapter 7
Ava
By Wednesday afternoon, Sweet Treats looks less like a bakery and more like a cinnamon-scented command center.
My event proposal is approved, the deposit is paid, and two hundred and twenty pastries now exist as columns, ingredient calculations, baking schedules, and color-coded notes spread across the counter.
Every available shelf holds flour, brown sugar, muffin liners, or boxes waiting to be assembled.
I should feel completely in control, but my left eye twitches. Loralee notices.
I point at her before she can speak. “Not one word.”
She lifts both hands and continues labeling bags of streusel. The front door opens, bringing in a gust of cool air and Jake Dalton. He wipes his boots without being reminded. There’s something very attractive about seeing this big brute of a man take extra care not to bring in dirt with him.
I can’t deny that even the sound of his truck before he parks excites me. And I’m quick to notice that I spend time hunting for the largest caramel apple muffin for him each morning.
His gaze settles on the counter behind me. “How’s production?”
“Excellent.”
Loralee coughs. Jake glances at her.
“Her eye is twitching,” she says.
“Traitor,” she calls out to Loralee.
“I’m concerned about your nervous system,” Loralee says in exasperation.
“My nervous system is busy.”
Jake studies the ingredient bags stacked beside the hallway. “What still needs moving?”
“Nothing.”
A fifty-pound bag of flour chooses that moment to slide sideways and strike the floor with a heavy thud. Jake looks at it. I look at it.
Loralee walks toward the front register. “I’m going to give you two privacy.”
“We don’t need privacy,” I call after her.
“We also don’t need fifty pounds of flour in the doorway,” Jake says, bending and lifting the bag against one shoulder as if it weighs less than a throw pillow.
“Where does this go?”
I could tell him I can manage it. Instead, I hear his voice from the overlook. Problems are easier when they have solutions. Maybe accepting one does not mean I am surrendering my bakery, my independence, or my entire future.
“In the walk-in,” I say. “Below the lower shelf.”
His eyebrows lift. “Do not make me regret asking.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking loudly again,” he says with a smirk.
He carries the flour down the hallway. I follow with two containers of cream cheese that need to be moved to make room for tomorrow’s strawberry batches.
The walk-in cooler is crowded but orderly. Every shelf is labeled, every container dated, and every ingredient positioned according to when I will need it.
Jake lowers the flour and scans the arrangement.
“You alphabetized the extracts.”
“I categorized them by use.”
“Vanilla is under V.”
“That is a coincidence.”
I step inside and place the cream cheese beside the butter. Jake moves deeper into the cooler to shift a crate of apples.
The heavy door swings behind us. It closes with a metallic click. I freeze. Jake turns.
“No.”
He reaches for the interior release and pushes. Nothing happens. He tries again, harder. The latch gives a dull rattle but does not release.
“You never mentioned this needed repairing,” he says.
“I figured it just needed a little grease on it. I’ve been meaning to …”
“Wish you would have told me.”
“Jake, I have not adopted you as a business partner.”
“No, you haven’t. Guess that’s why we’re now cellmates in this walk-in cooler.”
Jake grips the handle and presses his shoulder against the metal. The door refuses to move.
“My tools are outside,” he says.
“This is my fault. I should have taken care of that latch.”
“Loralee will hopefully notice.”
“I doubt it. She’s probably activated her earbuds again. She listens to podcasts about moon phases and all kinds of things.”
He looks toward the ceiling. “The cooler is ventilated, and we’re not in danger.”
“I know, but it’s cold.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m angry.”
“You can be both cold and angry.”
Jake takes off his work shirt, leaving a fitted black T-shirt beneath it, and holds the heavier layer toward me.
“I’m fine.”
“Ava.”
I take it before he can turn my name into an argument. The shirt is warm from his body and smells faintly of wood, and Jake. I slip my arms into the sleeves and refuse to examine why that feels more intimate than it should.
He leans against the shelving across from me. The cooler is not small, but Jake occupies space in a way that makes every room feel narrower.
I fold my arms beneath the borrowed shirt. “The door. The electrical outlets. The shelves. Every time you see a problem, you step in as though I’m incapable of handling it.”
“I don’t think you’re incapable.”
“It feels like you do.”
Jake looks down for a moment before meeting my eyes again. “That isn’t what I mean when I help.”
“I know. But my ex didn’t believe he was controlling me, either. He believed he was saving me from bad decisions.”
“I’m not your ex-husband.”
“No. You’re not.”
The answer comes easily because it is true. Jake listens. He does not defend himself or begin listing all the ways he is different. He simply waits.
“I don’t always know how to tell the difference anymore,” I admit. “Between someone supporting me and someone slowly taking over.”
His jaw tightens, but his voice remains gentle. “Then I’ll make sure you never have to guess with me.”
The cooler suddenly feels like a very private space. I look at him standing a few feet away, broad shoulders filling the black T-shirt, hazel eyes steady on mine.
“You’ve been listening for more than six minutes,” I say.
“I’m distracted.”
“By what?”
“You.”
The single word travels through me like heat, impossible in a room this cold. Jake steps closer, slowly enough that I could move away, but I don’t. His hand rises to my face, thumb brushing the edge of my cheek. “You have flour here.”
“Are you surprised?”
“I’m starting to think it’s permanent.”
“Maybe I like it.”
“I might, too.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. My pulse stumbles. This is not the overlook. There is no ringing phone, no passing customer, and no bakery counter between us. Only cold air, the hum of the refrigeration unit, and Jake waiting for me to decide what happens next.
I close the distance. His mouth meets mine, warm and careful at first. The kiss lasts only a breath before everything restrained between us disappears.
Jake cups the back of my neck and pulls me closer. I grip the front of his shirt, feeling the heat and hard muscle beneath my hands. He kisses me deeper, and suddenly I do not care about the broken latch, the event order, or anything beyond the way his body presses mine against the shelving.
A container rattles beside my shoulder.
Jake breaks the kiss just enough to look behind me. “Did we damage something?”
“If you inspect the shelf right now, I will hurt you.”
His laugh warms my lips. Then he kisses me again. The door swings open. Cold white light spills into the cooler. Loralee stands on the other side holding the emergency key and a tarot card.
Jake and I separate, although not quickly enough to pretend she has interrupted an innocent conversation. Loralee looks at the card, then at us.
“Interesting.”
I pull Jake’s shirt tighter around me. “What?”
“I thought this meant a warm encounter.”
I look around the refrigerated room. “You need better cards.”
Jake steps into the hallway, clearly trying not to smile.
Loralee holds the door open while I follow. “The cards were accurate. They’re metaphorical.”
“Please return to the register.”
She walks away, entirely too pleased with herself. Jake turns toward me. His hair is slightly mussed, and his mouth is still damp from mine. I hand him his shirt.
“Thank you for helping with the flour.”
“Anytime.”
“And the cooler situation changes nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“You still have to ask before repairing the latch.”
His slow smile appears.
“What if I ask now?”
I look back at the open cooler door, then at the man who just kissed every reasonable thought out of my head.
“Yes,” I say. “You may fix the latch.”
Jake takes his tool bag from the counter. I watch him return to the cooler and kneel beside the mechanism. This time, his help does not feel like a man taking over. It feels like I chose it. The kiss, too.