Amber sighs but pulls him into a floury hug. And for a second, there’s no fear in her eyes. Just love.
It makes me wonder if I’d be a good mother? I want kids someday, ones that I can teach how to bake, and make silly, chaotic memories such as this one with.
The oven dings again. This time they’re ready, so I pull them out as warm cinnamon drifts through the room like comfort itself. I glance at Amber, then at Giovanni, and something in my chest settles.
I never really considered having kids and building a family with someone after my last boyfriend dumped me. Most of my relationships after him were short-lived, most of them jumping ship when they realized I wouldn’t sleep with them. So, thinking about the future really isn’t something I do very often. But ever since I met Rich and his friends, I’ve been bitten by the baby fever bug, the one that won’t stop gnawing on my heart that’s been empty and broken, or my ovaries that have been incubating dormant style for the last five years.
“You okay?” Amber asks, eyebrows etched with concern.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I promise.”
She smiles, the mess Giovanni made already a distant memory.
Man, she cleans fast.
We dive back into baking. There’s flour everywhere, but it doesn’t bother me. Not when I finally feel welcome after being here for months. I arrived here back in June, and now that the shop’s open, I can’t wait for the holidays to begin. Thanksgiving and Christmas have always been my favorite holidays to celebrate, and maybe now I won’t have to celebrate them alone.
A part of me shifts, a frown slightly forming.
“You sure you’re okay, Mindy?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I’m okay. I guess I just get lonely around the holidays. All of my family is gone, and as the years go by, things get harder. I grew up with my grandma, and she passed away a few years ago.”
Amber nods. “I know the feeling. Do you have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving?”
I shake my head.
“Then consider yourself invited to mine. I’m going to make damn sure you’re not alone this holiday season.”
The holidays make me think of love and warmth, and floating underneath it all is the echo of Amber’s whisper: “He likes you, Mindy.”
Though the man hasn’t shown his face here all day.
“Come on, you two. The cookies aren’t going to bake themselves,” Giovanni shouts, making me snap back into bake mode.
The three of us fall into a smooth rhythm… well, as smooth as you can get with a five-year-old who talks a mile a minute and tries to sneak chocolate chips when he thinks I’m not looking. The shop stays busy, but with Amber handling the front andGiovanni “supervising” the baking, the hours pass in a kind of sweet chaos I didn’t know I needed.
At one point, I glance into the café area and see a line out the door.
A line.
For me.
For my bakery.
My eyes blur with grateful tears that I pretend are just from the oven heat.
When Amber’s mom arrives to pick up Giovanni, he hugs me around the waist with a chocolate-covered face.
“Bye, Miss Mindy. I hope I can make cookies with you again.”
“Anytime you want, Giovanni,” I tell him, smoothing his hair. “Just no more flour tornadoes next time.”
He giggles. “Mommy says you can’t make promises you know you won’t keep.” And before I can counter his adorable euphemism, he runs off, leaving a trail of crumbs like a tiny Hansel waiting to be followed.
The shop finally empties out around four. My feet hurt, my hair’s frizzy from the ovens, and flour is in places it has no business being. I’ve never felt more victorious.
Amber stretches, rubbing her stomach with a sigh. “Girl. You made so much money today I feel like I should invoice you for emotional support.”
