“You have a pastry addiction,” I call out, knowing he can hear me. “They have helplines for people like you.”
The letterbox flaps. “Croissants. Make it two in case the birds steal one. Three if you want to eat one.”
“You’re going to end up having a heart attack.”
“Yes. From uppity workers who wear dirty leggings to work and take bad photos for my marketing.”
Low blow.
Sucking in a breath, I lean down and shout through the gap. “No croissants for you. You can have a nice salad bowl. No dressing.”
Spinning around, I nearly choke on my tongue.
Jared is standing a few feet away, his guitar case slung over his back. He looks confused, glancing between me and the letterbox. “Is this another Emilia quirk I should know about? You like to talk to letterboxes too?”
My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “Hi. What are you doing here?”
Before he can answer, an audible groan comes from the letterbox. “Another one? You have too many men, Emmy. Pick one.”
Forget fire. The burning flames of hell couldn’t save me from the embarrassment. “Angelo!”
“It has a name.” Jared mutters. “And it talks.”
“No poking on company time.” A pause, as Jared and I stare at each other. “Three croissants. And a muffin.”
The letterbox slams shut.
“Poking?” Jared mouths. His lips twitch.
My head drops into my hands. “Just ignore that. My boss has an unhealthy obsession with baked goods and embarrassing me as much as possible.”
“Right.” He’s definitely laughing at me. “I was actually coming to see you. I wanted to ask your opinion.”
A little flip in my chest. “You did?”
He falls into step next to me as we walk toward the bakery, handing me a leaflet. “What do you think?”
It’s an advertising leaflet, for guitar lessons. Jared’s name and number is printed along the bottom.
“Is it okay?” he asks hesitantly. “I’m useless at this kind of stuff. I didn’t know whether to add a photo, or if it would put people off. Like adding a photo to a résumé.”
“I really like it. It looks professional.”
Although a photo wouldn’t put people off. I can imagine him having an influx of enquiries.
No photo.
I bite my lip at the unexpected surge of jealousy that rises up at the thought.
Jared tucks his hands in the pocket of his khaki jacket. “Yeah?”
He looks so uncertain.
And he came to me for advice.
My heart lifts.
“I think it’s great, Jared.” I grin at him. “The leaflet, and the lessons.”
