Tabitha takes off her light fleece jacket and throws it over the coat rack I keep in the back corner. Even in the middle of summer it gets chilly so early in the morning.
“I don’t know if I should find it cute or throttle him when he is sleeping.”
“I know.”
She stops walking halfway to the prep table, her eyes narrowed. “Who are you talking about?”
“Bennett, obviously. Wait, who are you talking about?” Picking back up my bowl I start mixing again.
She jerks her hands up in the air. “Ridge! Do you know he has cameras in The Loft?”
I stir harder. “Yeah, I figured it out.”
“The man needs help. I’m going to go flip the sign to Open.” She walks through the swinging kitchen door so hard it flies into the wall making me cringe. I can’t blame her, though, I’m upset too. It’s like whatever they put in the water made the men taller and hotter… and overbearing. There’s always a tradeoff.
I worked damn hard to get where I am. I picked up and left my hometown and moved literally all the way across the country to run my own bakery. To follow my dreams. And now, he thinks because we’ve had sex once or twice I’m supposed to be like all, “Oh Bennett, save me please.” I don’t think so.
I frost the last of the cream-filled chocolate éclairs and walk the tray out to Tabitha. She can’t cook for anything, but the woman has a knack for making them look pretty in the case.
I hand her individual éclairs while she stacks them up in the display. Sunday mornings are always a little slow at the bakery. Most of Pelican Bay spends their morning either in bed or at church. There isn’t anyone walking to work or security guys headed out to do whatever they do with the criminals. Even the bikers who have taken to stopping in once a day are sleeping it off at seven o’clock Sunday morning. It leaves us with a lot of quiet time, but enough random sales here and there to make it worthwhile to stay open.
Since we don’t sell as much, it makes getting ready for the day easier. I leave Tabitha up front and prep a few sandwiches for the lunch rush. Which again isn’t much. The two of us have set into a little routine of her working the front and me in the back cooking unless someone needs a special item or she gets backed up.
Except this morning she doesn’t follow the routine. Instead Tabitha walks with me right back into the kitchen. It’s not like she left anyone out there so it’s not important. Plus, we have men to complain about. They take precedence.
“Why are the cute ones always so frustrating?” she asks leaning on the prep table.
“I don’t know. I think the least they could do is put on their uniforms and walk around for us.” An annoying hot guy in a military uniform would be better than an annoying man in a T-shirt.
Tabitha sighs. “That would be nice.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask matching her stance.
“Of course. I only want to hear secrets.”
I lean in a little closer.
“I’ve always had a thing for marines. The dark jackets. Those snazzy bright buttons.”
“Did you describe a military uniform as snazzy?” she laughs around asking.
“You don’t think so? Those nice neat lines and colors that pop.”
She laughs outright. “Well don’t tell Bennett or Ridge you have an attachment to shiny buttons. They’re all sensitive about which is the best branch of the military.”
The security alarm on the back door beeps alive. I jump away from the table as the door swings open.
“I’m sorry!” Tabitha yells over the sound. She runs at the alarm and taps in the code. When it’s quiet again she says, “Ridge made a fuss about making sure the alarm is set all the time and the sound up just in case.”
Katy steps away from the door. “What the hell?”
She unloads all the packages in her arms, setting each item on the prep table I finished sanitizing only minutes ago. There’s an oversized bottle of white wine and a twelve-count box of the white sugar cookies with the super cute frosting that are sold in pretty much every grocery store in America.
“It’s a little early for wine, isn’t it?” I asked lifting each item, sanitizing under it, and then moving them to the corner.
“Pierce stopped by last night!” she answers and breaks the seal on the cookies, struggling with the plastic label.
I stop wiping off the table and watch her movements. “Did you bring store-bought sugar cookies into my bakery?”
