“I’m just saying.” He stares out at the water and sips from hismug.
It would be so easy to stay with him. To sleep, our arms intertwined, our legs tangled. To wake up to the stubble that appears on his chin every morning. Would he kiss meawake?
We finish our coffee without saying anything more. It’s not uncomfortable, our silence, but it’s not without tension. I know what Isaac wants. I just can’t give it tohim.
“You know what?” I stand and brush off the seat of my jeans. “I think Claire would really like to wake up to some blueberry muffins. I’m going to that bakery Mrs. Iams mentioned. Do youmind?”
Isaac gets to his feet. “I can runthere.”
“Are you afraid to let me drive your truck? I promise not to change the radio station.” I elbow his ribslightly.
He chuckles, places his hand on the small of my back, and guides me to the cabin. When we get inside, he reaches for the keys he left on the kitchencounter.
“Just wait. You’re going to be a cowgirl before you know it.” He drops the keys into my outstretchedpalm.
I smirk and turn my attention to jamming my feet in myshoes.
“Aubrey?”
“Hmm?” I straighten and look athim.
He’s suddenly right next to me, hands on either side of my face. He kisses me until there’s no air left in mylungs.
“What was that for?” I ask when he lets mego.
“No reason. I just wanted to kissyou.”
“But,” I cough, trying to regain my composure, “I don’t have time for an hour with you right now.” As though my stomach can understand me, it lets out a loudgrowl.
Isaac stares at me for a long moment. Finally, he says, “That wasn’t what I wasafter.”
“Oh. OK.” Embarrassed, I hurry through the front door and to the truck. It takes me a minute to figure out how to adjust the seat to fit me. Carefully, I back up. He’s probably watching me. While I retrace yesterday’s drive, my brain mulls over this morning withIsaac.
We didn’t actually talk about it, but the agreement seemed unspoken, the parameters set up by ourbehavior.
We hadhours.
And outside of those hours, we were co-parents.
I rub my eyes. I can’t think about itanymore.
And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m here. I pull the truck into an open spot a couple businesses down from the bakery and climbout.
I really hope this place makes more than just blueberrymuffins.
Folks. That’s what I would call the people in the bakery. I’ve never used that word in my life, but these people seem like people that should be referred to asfolks.
The smells of the bakery assault me in the very best way. Sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, swarming into an aroma that makes my mouth moist and my stomachyell.
Two glass cases flank the cash register. Inside are muffins in every flavor, chocolate croissants, bagels, cookies, cupcakes, baklava, andmore.
Are there enough people in this town to eat all this food?It would appear so, because every seat in this place istaken.
I’m the third person in line. The man in front of me talks to his wife about going somewhere to get a paper. She tells him they can’t spend all day at Hatcher’s, because she has gardening to do before the sun is beating down onher.
I try to tune them out, but it’s hard because they’re loudtalkers.
“Jane here today?” The man asks the young girl at the register when it’s his turn toorder.
