I check my watch and look at the boxes of baked goods lined up and stacked on the counter against the far wall. If this is ‘barely started,’ I fear what she’s got left.
“Technically, notmyfood. That bag is Evie’s.”
Emmy gives me a warning glare for defending Evie that makes my cheeks heat.
Evie smiles at me. “Thank you.” She slides her phone into her pocket. “Anyway, I happen to have a life outside of Dockside Cafe.” She wiggles her brows. “I’m meeting up with Gideon to see the historical home tour tonight.”
“Gideon from the bait shop?” Emmy asks, her eyes wide in shock.
“Don’t look so surprised. He has a dog,” Evie says defensively. “Avery gooddog. And he asked nicely.” She grabs her scarf. “Plus, someone needs to keep you from drowning indough, and Hayes looks like he’s vibrating with the urge to do exactly that.”
I blink then scrunch my brows. “I’m not vibrating.”
Evie pats my chest on her way out. “Sweetheart, you’re a human whisk.”
Emmy groans. I bite back a laugh.
“Text me if you need me,” Evie says, halfway out the door. “Actually, no. Only text if something ison fire.” She points dramatically at me. “And you—don’t let her stress bake herself into a coma.”
Then she’s gone, the door swinging shut behind her, leaving both of us stunned quiet in her wake.
After a beat, Emmy exhales shakily. “Sorry about her.”
“I like her,” I say. “She’s protective.”
“She’s exhausting,” Emmy corrects—but she’s smiling, soft and fond.
I step closer. She’s surrounded by baking sheets, half-prepped pastries, bowls of dough in different stages of life.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes. Just…behind. And overwhelmed. And trying not to think about the fact that Dockside smells like burnt toast and broken dreams.”
My chest tightens. “Hey. You’re gonna catch up. You always do.”
She bites her lip, looking at all the orders stacked on the sheet tray. “Not alone.”
“You’re not alone,” I say quietly. “You’ve never been.”
Her eyes flick up to mine for a second—so quick I almost miss it—but the look of appreciation and admiration knocks the wind out of me all the same.
I clear my throat, roll up my sleeves, and survey the kitchen. “All right. Put me to work.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Em,” I interrupt gently. “You need help. And I know how to help.”
She hesitates and stares at me suspiciously. “When’s the last time you baked something?”
Ignoring her, I thumb through the stack of orders she has sitting on the metal workspace and pull out one that I know I can handle. “Ha. Here’s one I can handle. Six dozen chocolate chip cookies for Mistletoe Bay Elementary School’s entire kindergarten class.”
“Hayes,” she gasps and not going to lie, the sound goes straight to my dick. I could blame it on Rhett for all the bullshit he was spewing earlier but the truth is, it’s not the first time Emmy has had that effect on me.
“You can’t bake a dozen, let alone six. You don’t even know the recipe!”
“Emmy, you’ve been using the same recipe since we were kids. Passed down from your Pappy, who taught us both. I’ve been baking his cookies for the guys at the firehouse since I graduated from the fire academy.”
“But…” she pauses and her voice drops to a whisper, “you always order a few dozen of mine. I thought…”
