But Jesus Christ, does it have to be him?
“Let’s give you the nickel tour,” Audrey says. “Our Italian espresso machine isn’t fully automatic. Have you used one of these before?”
“Absolutely. I put myself through cooking school while working at a Starbucks.”
“Not the evil empire!” Audrey yelps.
“Sorry. That’s who was hiring.”
All three of them laugh, as if Roderick’s worked here for years. It’s obvious that Audrey loves him, and Zara is getting there. He’s really working hard out there.
I wish he weren’t so charming. This is bad. Bad, bad, bad.
I peer out the kitchen door again, getting another glimpse of Roderick’s dark hair and bright blue eyes. At eighteen, he was attractive, so it’s not exactly a surprise to note that eight years later he’s devastating. The men must fall at his feet. Or women. I guess I really have no idea. Sometimes the company we keep at eighteen doesn’t reflect who we really are.
Ask me how I know.
“And there’s just the one grinder?” he asks, gesturing with a muscular arm.
“Yep,” Zara agrees. “We don’t serve flavored coffees, so we don’t have to clean it out all day long.”
“Gotcha.”
And then the inevitable happens. Roderick turns his chin a notch and glances in my direction. And I handle it all wrong. Instead of stepping out to greet him, I duck back into the kitchen and out of sight. Eavesdropping was a stupid thing to do.
Fuck.
“Hey—who’s the Peeping Tom?” I hear Roderick ask.
All my blood stops circulating.
“What?” Zara asks, and I can hear her walking this way.
“The spy in the kitchen,” Roderick says with a chuckle.
I have all of about two seconds to panic before they file into the kitchen. I throw the cookie dough mixing bowl into the sink and blast the water as Zara introduces Roderick to my back. “This is Kieran Shipley, who’s only with us in the mornings. Kieran—this is Roderick, who might be working with us.”
“Nice to meet you, Kieran,” Roderick says.
“Same,” I grumble over the water’s spray. I turn my chin a fraction to nod at him.
But somehow it’s enough. The smile falls right off Roderick’s face as his eyes widen. “Oh,” he says stupidly, recognition settling into his expression.
And now I know that Roderick has a killer memory to go along with his killer body. It’s just my luck that the dude remembers my face. I didn’t think he would. The high school gym thing happened seven or eight years ago, in some seriously bad lighting.
But he’s blinking at me with curiosity in his eyes.
And he called me a Peeping Tom just now. Which, I guess, I am.
Jesus Christ. There is no end to the humiliations that life doles out. I turn back to the dishes in the sink and get to work, Roderick’s gaze burning a hole in my back.
Roderick
Kieran Shipley. All these years later, I finally know his name. We weren’t in the same class at school. We never spoke. But of course I remember him. Who could forget?
At eighteen, I thought of myself as a wild man and a party animal. I wasn’t afraid of anything. My plan was to become a famous guitar player and screw the world’s most attractive men after each concert.
Sexual encounters beneath the bleachers were my idea of a raucous good time. And if a younger guy wanted to watch, the more the merrier.
From the look on his face, though, Kieran Shipley doesn’t share my fond memories. He has daggers in his eyes as he turns back to his work.
So this is a setback. Twenty-six-year-old me needs a job. Badly. I wonder if Kieran is going to screw this up for me. He’s a Shipley, too, like Audrey.
“Can we call you after we get a chance to sort ourselves out?” Zara asks. “Audrey and I need to huddle up and figure out if we’re ready to hire a full-timer.”
“Of course!” I say, snapping out of my funk. “You have my résumé, with the references on the back. Just holler if you have any questions.”
I shake everyone’s hand, except for Kieran’s. He’s too busy scrubbing a pan like he’s trying to teach it a lesson.
Then I get back into my car and continue my job search.
At seven o’clock that evening, my unemployed butt is running a quick three miles on the treadmill at the gym. I’ve had no calls from Zara, or from anyone else.
I spent the afternoon trying to put in applications at bakeries and restaurants around the area. I visited Price Chopper and also the Colebury Diner. Nobody needs a baker.
That’s the curse of a small town—a tiny labor market.
I suppose I could go back to Nashville. My boss would take me back. But Nashville isn’t really my home. It was Brian Aimsley’s. And since I never want to see him again, I can’t make myself go back.
The treadmill keeps me at a steady pace, and my feet slap against the belt as I try to burn off another wave of fear and anger. For the last three years I gave my whole soul to Brian. The more I think about it, the worse I feel.
Our Nashville friends were really his friends. Our social life happened on his schedule. He’s a musician who frequently tours, so I’d stack up my work hours for the times when he was gone, making myself available when he was home.
I was so accommodating. And he gave so little back.
There’s sweat dripping off my body now, so I hit the stop button and slow my paces. When I step off the treadmill, the floor does that thing where it feels like I’m still in motion. Teetering, I grab my phone and peek at the messages, because hope springs eternal. And—boom! There’s a text from an unknown 802 number.
Roderick—can you come to the Busy Bean tomorrow morning at seven? We discussed it and we want to do a trial period. If tomorrow is bad, let us know when you can come. —Zara.
Hot damn. I didn’t think I’d get this chance. But I sure am happy about it. Tomorrow at seven I’ll bring out my A-game in the kitchen. I will bake perfect bagels. I will dazzle with pizzas and pastries. I will scrub the floor if they ask me to. And I will charm the heck out of them while I’m doing it.
And somehow I’ll make friends with Kieran Shipley. Not that it will be easy. If only I hadn’t said, “Who’s the Peeping Tom?” I hadn’t been referring to high school—my word choice was just a shitty coincidence. He must know that, right?
The only things I know about him are that he’s smoking hot and he used to enjoy watching me blow another guy under the bleachers. I spotted him that first time, and then he kept coming back.
Maybe he’s in the closet and thinks I’m going to out him. But Kieran has nothing to fear from me. Unless he’s afraid of excellent bagels.
That night—after another shower at the gym, and a takeout sandwich—I park my car behind a yarn shop that’s on a curve in the road. The parking spot isn’t visible from neighboring properties, and the sign in the window says they open tomorrow at ten a.m.
I still don’t feel safe. Once again I spend the night squirming around in the passenger seat, waiting for a psycho to bash in my windshield with an ax and murder me. Anxious thoughts chase through my brain at dizzying speed.