And we both feel us.
7
Nick
“We're all set,” I say, slapping the oven in the kitchen.
Lewis throws up both hands and claps them happily next to his face. “Sweet!” He dances on the tips of his toes and shimmies his hips. “It's time to bake some muffins.” His voice is full of excitement. “Things are finally looking up.”
“Yeah, and it only took us a week to get this shit up and running. Luckily it's before the grand opening.”
The bell jingles over the front door, and I here Misty talking to someone. Peeking my head through the kitchen door, there's a woman and a small boy at the front counter.
Misty is showing them one of the signature cake books, and the little boy is excitedly nodding along.
Grabbing a towel, I push my shoulder against the door and head out to see what's going on. “Hey there,” I say, giving a friendly smile.
The woman looks up and smiles back. Misty takes a step back, hooking her arm in mine and yanking me in. “This is one of the owners. His name is Nick.”
“Hello,” the woman says, smiling again. “I was just telling Misty here that my son was so excited to see a new bakery in town. His birthday is coming up and I figured we'd pop in and see what options you have for cakes. I didn't realize you weren't open yet.”
Misty waves a hand and shakes her head. “We aren't technically, but a specialty cake is a little bit different.”
“Is it?” I ask, turning my attention to her.
Her eyes meet mine, and she holds my stare. “It is. We have a baker, we have all the ingredients, and word of mouth is always the best source of advertising.” She arches her brows high, inciting me to listen to her.
The boy is flipping through the book, and excitedly reaches up to tug on his mother's jacket. “Mommy, Mommy, look at this one! Can I get it, can I get this one?” His finger stabs the page over and over.
“How much for a cake like this?” the woman asks.
Misty pulls out the price list and scrolls through till she finds the cake. “Depending on how many tiers, about one hundred and fifty.”
“Oh honey, no, we can't afford that one.” She smiles, her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Is there anything a little cheaper?”
“I'm sorry, our custom cakes—” I start to say, but Misty cuts me off.
“Need some price adjustments.” She gives me an elbow and drops down to look the little boy in the eyes. “What's your favorite color?”
“Blue,” he says.
“How would you like it if I make you a super special blue cake? Do you like the ocean?”
He nods yes, but his mother interrupts. “I'm sorry, I just don't think we can afford a cake here,” she says apologetically.
Misty stands up, taking the book from the boy and setting it on the counter. “No, no, I don't want you to worry about that. This is on me.”
I look at her, she looks at me, my eyes questioning everything she's saying.
“Are you sure?” the woman asks, reaching into her purse and taking out her wallet. “Let me give you something, at least.”
“No, I mean it, I want to do this. Come back Friday, I'll have something awesome for the birthday boy here.”
Misty takes down the boy’s name and age, his mother's number and a few details about some of his favorite things. The woman thanks her repeatedly, taking her son by the hand and leading him out of the store.
“What just happened?” I ask.
“That is what I call a good deed, and at the same time we're going to get good word of mouth.”
Lewis comes out of the kitchen, phone to his ear. “I'm out you two. I'm going to pick up the menus at the post office and call it a night.”
“Wait,” I say, holding out my hand. “Can you bake? Misty just donated a cake to a little boy.”
“Oh, I don't do cakes. I'm the cookie and pastry guy; muffins, scones, all those things. Cakes were Sheila's job, but she quit. We have a few applicants coming for interviews, though. Fingers crossed,” he says, walking backwards out the door.
The door closes slowly, bell jingling as I watch him pass the window and disappear. “Well, that sucks. What are we going to do now?”
The sounds of doors and clanking pans ring in my ear. Looking to my side, Misty is gone, and I'm alone in the front. I didn't even hear her leave.
Pushing the kitchen door lightly, I poke my head inside. She's already put a few pans on the steel table and is putting together the giant mixer.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I lean against the door frame and cross my arms over my chest.
“I'm making a cake, what does it look like?” She glances up at me briefly and gives me a snarky smile.
I love that smile. I love all her smiles.
Walking to the table, I lean down on the top, resting on my forearms. “You bake?”
She pops the metal whisk into the slot, and pulls her hair back into her signature, high, messy bun. “I've dabbled.”
“Dabbled enough to create the cake of that boy’s dreams?”
“Shut up and watch,” she says with a giggle. “How do you think I found marketing?”
“I figured your high school counselor or something.”
“Not even close.” Misty starts to pull out ingredients from the pantry, and lines them up next to the mixer. Flour, vanilla, salt, eggs, sugar, baking powder. She's tapping each one and speaking in a whisper to herself.
“Can you take out the piping bags and couplers for me?”
“The what?” Cocking a single brow, her head snaps up to stare at me.
“You do bake, right?” she asks.
“Um, nope.”
“If you don't bake, then why the hell did you buy a bakery?”
“I know a good thing when I see it.” Thinning my lips, she glances at me and I wink.
“You're bad, you know that?”
“I do, and I won't apologize for it either,” I say, walking to her side, and running my finger up her arm.
Misty swats my hand away and laughs. “Not now, I'm baking.”
Taking a step back, I grab one of the measuring cups and hold it up. “Then give me something to do. Because if you don't, I'm just going to drive you crazy. My hands need to be doing something, and all they want to do is touch you.”
“Fine, I need you to pour two cups of flour into the mixer.”
“Two cups, got it.” Driving the cup into the flour, I pull out an overflowing scoop.
“Not like that,” she says, taking a quick step to my side. “Level it before you pour it in.” Taking a knife, she glides it across the top of the flour so it's flush with the lip. “Now pour it in, but go slow, you don't want clumps.”
We spend the next half hour, mixing three batches of vanilla cake mix, and she dyes two of them different shades of blue. Misty greases the pans she took out with coconut oil. The way her hands slip over the curves, up the walls and across the bottom. . . I don't know, there's something about it that makes me so fucking hard.