“Food?”
“I’ll bring some things from the kitchen.”
“A peace offering?”
“Don’t push it.”
I grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck like he’s remembering I’m a person and not a problem to solve. “You did good today.”
My chest goes warm. “So did you.”
A beat. The corner of his mouth almost lifts. “I always do.”
Cocky. Infuriating. Competent.
My type, apparently, which is terrible news.
“Seven,” I echo, backing toward the door. “I’ll bring a notebook. And more cronuts.”
“Bring a hammer,” he mutters, eyeing the offending shelf. “And stay out from under things.”
“Yes, Chef.”
I step out into the evening and the whole place glows under string lights. Somewhere out near the trees I can see the first fairy jars lighting one by one, and I can’t wait to walk that path.
I lean against the Snack Shack’s outer wall for a moment and let my heartbeat settle. When I close my eyes, I can still feel his hands—work-hardened yet careful—catching me.
Seven o’clock can’t come fast enough.
THREE
CHASE
By dinner, I have plenty of reasons to be annoyed by Katelyn Baker.
Off the top of my head, these are at the top of the list:
One: She’s good at pretending she doesn’t notice me noticing her.
Two: Customers will forgive almost anything if you hand them fried dough with a smile that belongs on TV.
Three: If she calls my famous corndog “cute” again, I’m going to invent a new level of crispy just to spite her.
I see it all.
How she resets her cutting board without looking.
How she wipes the lip of a caramel tub before snapping the lid.
How she tells a mom with a fussy toddler, “you’re doing great,” and slips the kid a warm donut hole like it’s medicine for both of them.
The line at the window swells and thins and swells again. “Two apple ciders, a fritter, and—what’s a pumpkin cronut?” the dad in a flannel asks.
“It’s fall falling in love with Paris,” she says.
He buys three.
