“Sorry, couldn’t—” I start.
Just then, the door slams, closing us both into the office, er, closet.
We’re close. Very close. So close, I’d hardly have to move for my lips to land on hers. But we don’t kiss. Instead, concern builds in me.
She hasn’t mentioned what seems like a dire financial situation. But I don’t want to think about how my father might be right. Not with us pressed together in the small space. Not with what suddenly feels like a kitchen timer counting down the minutes until we’re done.
The dim desk light barely illuminates the room, and I hope she doesn’t see the worry lines on my face. Not until I figure out how to talk to her about this matter.
She says, “Came to check on you and?—”
“Good thing because I couldn’t find the label maker.”
“But you found me.” She giggles and I tell myself not to be transfixed by the sparkle in her gray eyes.
It’s time to put some distance between us, at least for the moment, until I can think clearly about what her bakery being in trouble could mean. However, when I try the office door, it won’t budge.
“I’d better get those muffins in the oven,” she says, breathily as if she, too, is well aware of our proximity. But thankfully, not my slippery thoughts.
Voice rough with want, I say, “I think the door is stuck or locked?—”
“That’s impossible.” She giggles, then must read the seriousness in my eyes—the kind I wish wasn’t there because it’s not just about the door.
“The lock is on the inside—” She tries the handle herself, then frowns. “That’s weird.”
Or convenient, but I can’t long for her right now. Not when there’s a question about her intentions.
“Pretend it’s a hockey player who just shoved you into the boards.” But she’s leaning into me.
Giving my head a shake to come out of my “Nina stupor,” as best I can without much room to move, I throw my good shoulder against it. Doesn’t budge. “I think we’re locked in.”
We spend the next twenty minutes trying to figure out how the door got jammed from the outside, but come up empty-handed. And okay, fine. We make out a bit. It cannot be helped. Eventually, Leah comes looking for us and lets us out.
Eyebrow arched, she says, “I do not want to know what was going on in there.”
Pink-cheeked, Nina says, “We got locked in.”
“Mmmhmm. Sure.”
“No, seriously. It was strange, but there have been someodd pranks around here, especially lately, when Kai comes here after school. Nothing major, just mischievous things.”
“Like what?”
“Someone swapped the baking soda with the baking powder. Then I found those dreaded fake spiders in the coffee bean bin. Yesterday, three cookies were missing. They were day-olds, but still.” She shrugs. “Kid stuff. But the door seems different.”
“Have you talked to him?” Leah mentions that she comes from a big family and is well aware of shenanigans.
“We discussed how the pranking had to stop if he wants to skate.”
Leah nods. “Well, we’ll make sure he doesn’t ever talk to my brother. Chuck was the tiny king of mischief when we were growing up. Anyway, Lane, can we grab you for a few minutes to help move some equipment?”
I jokingly flex my biceps, then peck Nina on the cheek, promising her I’ll be back to help with the extra baking.
Even as the guys and I joke and banter, I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. The mysterious girl, Kai’s defensive behavior, the pranks around the bakery, and the letter in Nina’s office.
I follow Leah across the street to the town center and help some of my teammates move tables, chairs, and makeshift vendor booths into position for tomorrow. I thought the Happy Hockey Days Festival would be a small-town affair, but this looks like a major operation.
When hours pass and Nina is still baking to prepare enough items to sell for the bake sale, I return to pitch in and help. My thoughts whir along with the mixing machines as I think about my father’s comments, Xoe, and the final notice document in Nina’s office.
