I crack up. “Don’t worry, the tip jar’s got your name on it. I’ll split it with you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she states, leaning against the counter for support.
“Of course I do. You earned it, girl.”
I hand her a hundred dollars from the tip jar and notice her studying me.
“What? Do I have flour in my hair or something?”
She laughs. “More than you probably want to know about, but no, that’s not why I’m staring.”
“What could be worse than flour hair?”
Her shoulders lift slightly. “I could see the hopefulness in your eyes every time that bell chimed. You were hoping it was him, weren’t you?”
Sighing, I turn to her. “Was it that obvious?”
She nods. “Yes, but that’s okay. Just so you know… he’s been here all day.”
My heart stops. “Who? Rich?”
“Mhm.” She smirks. “He was outside watching the customers go in. Acting like he wasn’t, but his head was on a constant swivel like he was guarding the damn President.”
A warm flutter ripples through me. “Why would he—”
“Because,” she says, bumping my shoulder, “he cares. He’s just too emotionally constipated to admit it.”
I roll my eyes, though the thought makes my chest squeeze in dangerous ways. “He barely talks to me.”
“He talks with his actions. You just have to learn Rich-speak. For example: Him standing across the street staring at your bakery all broodingly translates to: ‘Hi Mindy, I missed you.’”
She’s not wrong, and we both know it. But I still laugh awkwardly anyway.
“It does not.”
She grins. “Oh, it sure does.” Then she throws me a wink just as her phone buzzes. She checks it, and her smile only grows bigger. “Eddie’s outside. I’m gonna head out. You need anything before I go?”
“No, today was perfect. A bit chaotic, but perfect.”
She opens the door and pauses. “Hey, Mindy?”
“Yeah?”
“I hope you know that you’re good for him. And once he opens his damn eyes and realizes it, I know he’ll be good for you too.”
Then she’s gone.
The moment the door clicks shut, the silence hits me. The bakery smells of cinnamon sugar and success. My tip jar is full, my heart is soaring, and I can’t shake the phantom image of a tall, stubborn biker lurking across the street, pretending not to care.
I blow out a breath and lock the front door.
Tomorrow will be sweeter, and hopefully even busier.
Heck, tomorrow… I might even get to see him.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to something more than just baking.
ChapterTen
