“She shoots. She scores,” my dad says, settling the argument the same way he’s done since I was a child. Mom is always right.
“Fair enough. But I just want to go out there, do some work on it, and chill.”
I grab the dessert plates and the pie I was saving for later.
“Oh, what is this marvelous-looking pie? I know you didn’t do this yourself, and this is most definitely not from a store,” mom says.
“Someone from work made it for me. It’s pumpkin pie.”
“Whoever she is, she’s going to an awful lot of trouble for you, dear.”
“He.”
“What’s that?”
“He. The pie was made by the cheerleading coach.” They keep staring at me, and I realize I was no clearer than before. “He’s a guy.”
“Oh.”
They share a look I don’t understand.
“What’s wrong? Loads of men can bake. I think Bubble works in a coffee shop owned by a guy who’s also a baker.” I don’t know why I feel the need to defend him, especially considering how much he gets on my nerves with his inspirational quotes and strawberry scent.
“Nothing wrong, sweetie. We just wondered why your friend isn’t here having his pie with you.”
I shrug. “He just left the pie on my desk. I think he’s on a mission to fatten me up or something because he keeps giving me stuff to eat. I don’t even know the guy that well.”
Mom and Dad share another look and dig their forks into their pie slices.
As with all the other baked goods Bubble has given me, the pumpkin pie is divine.
I really must ask him why he does this. But then, what if he stops?
Or worse. What if I have to confront this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach every time he’s around?
Better just eat the pie. Yeah.
4
BUBBLE
“One dark-soul espressoand a sad chocolate-chip cupcake coming right up,” I say to one of our regulars at Spilled Beans.
The customer stares at me, her eyes blinking.
“Would you like anything else?”
“Can I have ahappychocolate-chip cupcake?” she asks, tilting her head and making a cute face to get a smile out of me. Not happening today.
I look at the display in front of me. All the cakes and pastries created by my boss are impeccable, but I don’t see anything happy.
“No, sorry, sweetie. But they’re freshly baked and super delicious.”
“Let me think about it,” she says.
I’m finishing the drink as Indy, my boss, comes from the kitchen with a tray of freshly baked Dutch pepernoten cookies. The delicious scents of nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon, and ginger follow him.
This year we have a few themed days leading up to Christmas, so we’re baking specialty cookies and cakes from around the world. It was my idea—a fantastic one, even if I say so myself. But Indy said it too, so I can be smug about it.
