Chapter One
EVIE
“Evie?”
My head snaps up. “Hm?”
“You weren’t listening, were you?” My coworker crosses his arms over his broad chest and lifts a sculpted brow. “It’s almost like you don’t care about my date with Austin.”
He’s right. I stopped listening to him five minutes ago. It’s not his fault, but as I push my weight onto the dough, he is thelastthing on my mind. This bread needs to develop the gluten, and I have to help it out.
Not to mention that it’s four in the morning. I’malwayshere at four in the morning. New employees get the worst shifts, and I’ve only been here for three months, so I’m stuck waking up when the sun does. I used to hate working these hours, but it’s peaceful now… or it would be if not for my chattering coworker, Dean.
I’m being a bad friend, aren’t I?
I smile through the exhaustion. “You know that’s not it.”
“You could have fooled me. You’re in your own little world over there. It’s almost enough to make me think thatyou’reseeing someone.”
“Stop! I’m not. Like, I’mreallynot.” I laugh and shake my head, returning my attention to the dough. My love life is the last thing I want to talk about. I need to distract him. “It’s still going good with that guy, I hope.”
“It’s goingbetterthan good. You would know that if you were listening to me.” He pours flour into the stand mixer, humming to himself. “I think this one is getting a third date.”
I gasp, my eyes widening. “A third? No way!”
“Way.” He lifts a shoulder. “Let me guess—you’re thinking about Declan?”
So much for distracting him.
I wrinkle my nose. “Ew. No.”
“What?” He laughs aloud. “What happened? I thought he was going to be theperfectboyfriend!”
“They always are, but”—I hesitate—"It’s nothing. It’s silly.”
“No. Youhaveto tell me.”
My expression drops, and I stand upright, wiping my hands on my apron. “He doesn’t know how to do laundry.”
Dean clutches his chest as if he’s about to have a heart attack. “I beg your finest pardon. At the ripe old age of…?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Jesus Christ, Evie.”
“I know—trust me, I know. Obviously, I had to end it before it got serious.”
He laughs loud enough for me to easily hear it over the whirring of the stand mixer. “You didn’t want to, I don’t know,teachhim how to do it?”
I turn off the machine and glare at him. “No. I’m not his mother. She should have taught him how to wash his smelly clothes.”
“Guess I can’t blame you. A pretty face doesn’t always make for a good partner.”
“We both knowallabout that.”
I have bigger things to worry about—bigger than Dean’s scrutinizing look and certainly more important than dating a man who never trims his toenails. Dean and I usually spend these shifts discussing life, dating, and culinary school.
What I’m going through right now isn’t idle gossip. It’s more embarrassing.
