“Maybe you should,” the woman in the apron says with mock-seriousness. Her snarky tone does something to me — my cock twitches and my pulse speeds up. She’s unapologetic for making people wait. It’s the kind of no-nonsense attitude that works for me as a therapist. I don’t like wasting people’s time.
“By the way,” she announces to everyone in the bakery. “I’m totally okay. Just a mild burn. No biggie.” She holds up her arm, where an angry red mark snakes across her forearm. That must have had something to do with the commotion in the kitchen.
“Ouch,” I say, stepping past the other customers. “You need to put something on that.”
She furrows her brows. “I’m fine.”
I lift my hands, not wanting to insert myself where I’m not wanted. But damn, I want her. She’s a sassy bombshell with emerald green eyes and freckles across the bridge of her upturned nose.
“So who was first?” she asks the customers. None of them have left even though she told them they were welcome to. I have no doubt why: the pastries in this case are drool-worthy and could add ten pounds just by looking at them. And no one on earth would mind the weight.
We’re talking muffins that are fluffy and covered in sugar crumbs, pies that are lattice-topped and coffee cakes that are drizzled with brown sugar glaze. There is no way I can choose just one to take back to my desk.
And even the customers who were complaining a moment ago are now stepping closer and pointing to items they want as the red-headed beauty fills up pastry bags and boxes, pouring cups of drip coffee and helping everyone until I am the only person left in line.
“Quite a mid-morning rush,” I say, wanting her eyes to meet mine. They don’t even look up. Instead she reaches for a box and asks what I’d like. I bite back a laugh. She has literally no customer service skills. “I’ll take one of everything.”
That piques her interest. “What?” She frowns, looking up at me. “Why?”
“I mean it. I want one of everything.” I give her a smile, the most charming one I have. I can’t leave this place without a date. A number. Something. Anything.
“What’s the catch?” she asks, narrowing her eyes and setting a hand on her hip.
“No catch. I just want to taste your muffin.” I lick my lips. I swear I can’t help myself. I chuckle, knowing I just put my foot in my mouth.
“My muffin, huh?” She laughs then, the hard look on her face fading. She rolls her eyes and starts loading up a pastry box with one of everything, just like I asked.
“Yeah, so what flavor is it?”
She sets the heaping box on the counter. “Blueberry.”
“Lucky me,” I say. “My favorite.”
She leans over the counter, looking me up and down. I know she likes what she sees because she bites the corner of her bottom lip. “You always flirt this much?” she asks.
I take her forearm, she lets me this time, and I know this burn needs to be taken care of. “You think this is me flirting?”
She smiles. “What would you call it?”
“Shopping local.”
Jessa
I have no idea who this man is — besides tall, dark and handsome. A cliché in a very nice tailored suit who appears to be the exact opposite of me. He’s put together, for one. Me? I am holding on by a thread. Or actually, a safety pin because that is what I have holding my pants together.
“Shopping local, huh?” I ask, registering my long pause. Suddenly aware of the fact he is holding my hand, my arm. He’s inspecting the burn with concern. “You think the burn is really bad?”
He winces. “Yeah, do you have a first aid kit?”
I twist my lips. “I think so? But I don’t know where anything is.”
“How long have you been open?” he asks.
“Since yesterday.”
His golden specked eyes widen. “Congratulations. I thought this place was new, just didn’t realize it was that new.”
“Yeah, it’s a miracle I opened at all.” My stomach flip-flops. I wish I had been braver and left the loan with the bank officer who treated me so badly. Instead, I took the money and kept my mouth shut.
“Really?” He looks into my eyes, and my pulse quickens. His fingers brush my skin and I feel like he would listen to my problems all day if I asked him to stay. I swallow, not understanding a man like him. A man who doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get in my pants. A man who is happy to be holding my hand.
A man like him seems like he’d know how to hold a heart, too.
I hesitate, feel myself withdraw.
“Gimme a sec, okay?” he says, and before I can even answer, he is out the front door of the shop.
Unsure of what just happened, I head to the kitchen to clean up my muffin mess. I was surprised that so many customers came all at once, and in my hurry to to get the muffins from the oven and dropped them. So instead of getting ahead, I fell behind. And burned myself in the process.
“Hey, you back there?” He’s back.
I step out of the kitchen and see he has a first aid kit in his hand.
The gesture may be small to some people, but not to me.
“Come here,” I say, waving him to follow me into the bathroom.
Chapter Two
Josh
The bathroom is small. And I don’t mind in the least.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I open the antiseptic ointment, then apply it to her burn.
“Jessa James.”
“I’m Josh Jones.”
She smiles. “Look at us, both have parents who loved alliteration.”
I open an alcohol swab. “So Jessa, why is it a miracle you opened the shop?”
She groans. “Just drama with the guy at the bank. He rubbed me the wrong way. Acted like he was doing me a favor.” She shrugs. “And maybe he was. I don’t exactly have experience running a business.”
“But you love to bake?”
She smiles. A real smile. A smile that tells me the ones she flashed earlier weren’t the real deal.
And her real smile? Damn, muffin compares to it.
“What?” she asks, shaking her head self-consciously.
“You make me happy, that’s all.”
“Okay, dork,” she says with a laugh. “Are we done yet?”
I shake my head, not wanting to let her go just yet. “No, I need to put a Band-Aid on this.”
“I could be losing business right now,” she says teasingly.
“Which I’m sure you’re totally concerned with.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.
I laugh. “You didn’t seem worried about making those other customers wait.”
She shrugs. “I’m not going to apologize for making someone wait what, three minutes? I am so over the idea that I have to say sorry for being myself.”
“That’s refreshing.” I place the bandage on the burn. “Most people say sorry as their first reaction.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I can tell,” I say honestly. Wanting to know everything about her. “What do you do for fun, Jessa?” I close the first aid kit and stow it under the bathroom sink.