I grit my teeth, fight to keep it together. My hands are on the counter, knuckles white, reminding myself that I need this bakery to stay standing, that I can’t wreck my chances to live my dream before I even start. My instincts are screaming to grab the nearest guy by the throat, drag him across the counter, and teach him how I handle business. But I don't. Instead, I swallow the urge, deep and burning, and pay them back with a smirk, my voice a sharp-edged tease. “You want your coffee black or with cream and sugar?”
“With cream, doll.”
A few chuckles ripple through the crowd. I make the coffee without comment.
“You going to buy anything, or you going to spend the entire morning staring at my bread?” I say as I hand over the coffee.
“We’ll buy something. Hell, we’ll buy a lot of something, because we’re all really fucking hungry, but just give us a second, OK, darlin’?”
I wait. And wait. Arms crossed, blood boiling, I fucking wait.
Finally, one of them speaks.
“Look, calm down, don’t get your panties in a fucking knot, OK? Gimme a dozen of those, huh?” one of them finally says, nodding toward the cinnamon rolls, with the kind of macho reluctance in his voice that’s typical when a guy like that gives in. “Make it two dozen. I’m hungry.”
“Throw in some of those fucking croissants, too,” the skinny guy says, digging into his pocket, pulling out a wad of bills. “Might as well, right?”
I nod, fill another box, and plant my hands on the counter. “Anything else?”
“How about a kiss?”
“Yeah, you want payment, you better pucker up,” says another.
The bell on the door tinkles again. I don’t see her at first, I’m so focused on dealing with these safety-vest wearing assholes, but I feel her. The damn air shifts and something more tantalizing than anything I’ve ever baked tickles my nose.
And when I glance up —fuck.
She’s stunning. Dark hair, deep brown eyes, curves that make my brain go static for a second. But it’s not just that — there’s something in the way she holds herself. Confident, sharp, like she’s used to walking into a room and owning it, but also like she’s tired of the weight on her shoulders. She steps forward until she’s standing between the construction workers, right in the middle of the mess, and I don’t know why, but I already feel something coil tight in my gut.
And then one asshole looks at her sideways.
“Hey, sweetheart, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a bakery like this? You look like you’re more the ‘pilates and salad’ type.”
She doesn’t even hesitate. Just tilts her head, eyes sharp as knives, and fires back.
“I’m hungry and I want some food, which means I’m going to buy some food. But, apparently, I’m starting my day surrounded by the ‘small and overcompensating’ types.”
“Relax, we’re just breaking this guy’s balls.”
“Why the fuck do you care about his balls?” She says.
“It’s metaphorical. A saying.”
“Metaphorical? No, look. See his boots?” She says and points. “See the way he’s just looking at you? Yeah, his are not metaphorical. They’re real. And they probably make yours look like marbles you’d find in a fucking dollhouse.”
She faces down all of them as they stare at her, loom over her, and she doesn’t even flinch.
But they do.
“Whatever. We got a job to do,” says one, and he throws a wad of cash on the counter. “Keep the change, doll.”
They leave.
I should be grateful. Instead, I’m staring at her, wondering how the hell I never saw a woman like this before.
She turns to me, eyes bright with amusement. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
I smirk. “I had it handled.”
