9. Chapter 9
Ava
By Friday evening, every flat surface inside Sweet Treats holds either a pastry, a cooling rack, or one of my increasingly desperate attempts at organization.
The Renewal Celebration is tomorrow. I have baked one hundred and forty-eight muffins, prepared dough for the morning cinnamon rolls, labeled twenty-two boxes, and consumed enough coffee to hear colors.
Loralee left an hour ago after informing me that overworking during a waxing moon attracts chaos. I told her chaos was already here and wearing an apron.
Now I stand alone at the prep table, piping cream cheese into strawberry muffins while trying not to think about the remaining seventy-two pastries on my schedule.
The front door opens.
“We’re closed,” I call without looking up.
“Good. I didn’t come to buy anything.”
I recognize Jake’s voice immediately. My body does, too. I glance toward the doorway and find him carrying two large takeout bags from The Foundry. He has changed out of his work clothes into dark jeans and a charcoal Henley pushed up at the sleeves.
The sight of his forearms should not improve my mood this quickly. I can hardly look away, but don’t want to stare.
“You brought food?”
“You’ve been here since before sunrise.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Yes, I brought food.”
He walks into the kitchen and places the bags on the only clear corner of the counter. He pulls out the containers and opens them revealing a hearty meal. The scent of grilled chicken, rosemary potatoes, and warm bread fills the room. My stomach growls loudly enough to embarrass both of us.
Jake looks pleased. “When did you last eat?”
“I sampled a lemon-blueberry muffin at two.”
“That isn’t a meal.”
“It contained fruit.”
“So does pie.”
“Sit down.”
I point the piping bag at him. “Careful.”
Jake holds up both hands. “Would you please sit down?”
“That was better.”
I finish the row of muffins, place the tray in the cooler, and join him at the small table near the back window.
For ten full minutes, he does not mention the flickering lights, my production schedule, or anything else that might need fixing.
He simply eats with me and listens while I explain why the apple crisp cheesecake muffins required an additional batch.
And, why at that point, I gave up on trying to control my twitching eyelid. Jake says nothing.
“You’re being very quiet,” I say.
“You told me listening was important.”
“It is.”
“You sound suspicious.”
“I don’t trust sudden improvement.”
Jake takes a drink. “I can start offering unsolicited advice if that makes you more comfortable.”
“No, thank you.”
“Then eat your potatoes.”
I should object to his command. Instead, I eat the potatoes.
After dinner, Jake ties on the pink Sweet Treats apron without being asked.
I stare at him.
“I’m here to help.”
“With what?”
“Whatever you tell me.”
The words warm me more than they should. I hand him a tray of cooled muffins and show him how to drizzle the caramel. His first attempt leaves one muffin nearly submerged and the next almost bare.
“You’re strangling the bottle,” I tell him.
“It isn’t cooperating.”
“It’s caramel, not construction adhesive.”
“I have better control with adhesive.”
“That does not reassure me.”
Jake loosens his grip and tries again. The next line is crooked but acceptable.
He looks at me. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
He continues while I begin frosting cinnamon rolls for the next morning’s display. We work side by side, bumping elbows, trading utensils, and arguing over whether “a little more” qualifies as a measurement.
Jake reaches for a level from the tool bag he left near the door.
I catch his wrist. “No.”
“The tray is uneven.”
“The table is uneven.”
“That’s worse.”
“You may not level baked goods.”
“Why do you own a rectangular pan if you don’t care whether it’s straight?”
“Put the level away.”
He obeys, but not before I see the amusement in his eyes. Music plays quietly from the speaker near the sink. An old country song comes on, slow and warm, filling the pauses between us.
Jake holds out one hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask
“Testing whether you can follow directions outside a cooler.”
I place my hand in his. Jake pulls me closer and guides me between the prep tables. There is barely enough room to move, but he turns us slowly, one hand at my waist and the other holding mine.
His chest is warm beneath my cheek. I can feel the steady beat of his heart and suddenly burst into laughing.
“What?” he asks.
“Us, Jake. Here we are dancing in bright pink bakery aprons. I hope no one can see us.”
“I’d wear anything or nothing at all to dance with you, Ava.”
Okay, my heart just officially melted. This big brawny construction guy is not embarrassed. He only wants me in his arms. This should feel too soon. Instead, it feels easy.
When the song ends, neither of us steps away.
Jake looks down at me. “How much work is left?”
“Enough.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Three hours, maybe four.”
“Then you have time for this.”
He kisses me. There is no cold room to blame and no interruption waiting outside the door. His hand slides into my hair as he deepens the kiss, and I forget every item remaining on my production list.
I grip his shoulders and rise onto my toes. Jake lifts me onto the edge of the prep table.
“Is this sanitary?” he asks against my mouth.
“No.”
“Should I stop?”
“Absolutely not.”
His laugh turns into another kiss. My knees part around him as he steps closer, one broad hand settling against my thigh. Heat gathers low inside me, startling in its speed and intensity. Jake pulls back just enough to search my face.
“Tell me what you want.”
I slide my fingers into his hair. “I want you to kiss me again.”
His mouth moves over mine, then along my jaw and down the side of my neck. I tilt my head, holding him closer while his thumb traces the inside of my thigh.
The pounding at the back door nearly sends me off the table. Jake catches me around the waist.
“Ava?” a man calls from outside. “Delivery.”
I close my eyes.
Jake rests his forehead against mine. “Terrible timing.”
“Everyone in this town has terrible timing.”
The driver pounds again. I straighten my sweater while Jake adjusts the pink apron as though that could make the situation less obvious.
The delivery takes five minutes.
By the time I return, the momentum we had is in a steep decline. Jake is stacking trays, his expression calmer than mine.
“We should finish the order,” he says.
I nod, although disappointment fills my tight throat. Still, the rest of the evening is warm and easy. Jake follows my instructions, samples anything I place in front of him, and leaves shortly before midnight after making me promise I will sleep at least four hours.
I lock the front door behind him and return to the counter. My phone lights up with a new email.
CONFIRMATION: ELECTRICAL INSPECTION — SWEET TREATS BAKERY
I stare at the subject line. Then I open it.
The inspection is scheduled for Monday morning.
Requested by Dalton Restoration & Construction.
Every trace of warmth leaves me. Jake asked whether I wanted him to look at the electrical problem. I said after the event. Apparently, he heard something else.