“Then, my god, let him touch you and don’t feel wrong for it. Of all people, you know how precious life is and how it can change on a dime. Don’t deny yourself another day of misplaced indentured servitude. And” —she points a stiff finger at me— “you’d better get your behind into town and sign up for that baking competition or so help me I will drive there and put your name in the running myself.”
For the first time since stepping foot in the house just now, I feel myself smiling.
Grandma straightens, pride etching its way onto her features. Her talk worked.
“Don’t worry, Grandma. Brady’s driving me into town after a while, so I can add my name to the list.”
She makes a fist and punches the air in front of her in excitement. “That’s my girl. You fall down seven times, you get back up eight, Addison. You’re last name might be West thanks to your father, but you’re a Craft in spirit, and Craft women don’t belong on the ground.”
I come around the table and wrap my arms around her. “I love you, Grandma.”
She pats my arm. “I love you, too. Why don’t you go take a shower and get ready? You smell like sex and you look like a bedraggled kitten.”
I pull away, laughing. “You don’t always have to say what you think.”
“That’s one of the joys of getting old. You get to relax your filter and everybody attributes it to old age.”
I kiss the top of her head and go upstairs, heading directly for my bathroom. I peel off the damp clothes and step under the hot spray of the shower.
My grandma is right. I can’t use what happened with Warren as a crutch, allowing it to keep me from living. I thought I wasn’t sure how to take the next step forward, but then I made it here to Lonesome, befriended Brady, and had a baking competition fall into my lap.
While my mind was busy freaking out, my heart was doing exactly what it knew I needed.
18
Brady
“There,”Addison says proudly, bouncing on her toes and beaming. “I did it.” She tucks the pen into her purse while I look at the piece of paper on the cork-board at the bakery.
Addison Westscrawled in her loopy handwriting. I take her hand and bring it to my lips. “It’s in the bag,” I murmur against her fingers.
“Your biased, but thanks for the vote of confidence.” She walks to the display case and bends, perusing the treats. Straightening, she tells the girl behind the case, “We’ll take a chocolate eclair and a sticky toffee bread pudding. And a blueberry muffin.” Twisting to look back at me, she winks and says, “Research.”
We sit down with our food and Addison grabs a fork, but instead of taking a bite she dissects everything but the blueberry muffin. When she’s done with them, they resemble the leftovers of a messy toddler.
“I left the muffin for you. Those are easy.” She places a tiny bit of filling from the eclair on her tongue, then runs it along the roof of her mouth before closing her lips and swallowing.
She must see the curiosity burning in my gaze, because she says, “I’m trying to get a feel for what the customers expect in terms of flavor. What if I’m into vegan baking and I show up and take over the place using cashew cream instead of custard? That’s not what people expect when they come here.” She looks around. “This place is cute, right? I love how it looks like a little home. The front door needs a new coat of paint, and maybe I could put a couple small tables with chairs on the front porch. The homier it feels, the more time people will spend here.”
I grin. I love watching her talk about her passion. She’s not only incredibly talented when it comes to baking, she has a good head for business. Too bad her ex-fiancé’s family couldn’t get past themselves long enough to see that. Their loss, my gain.
The bell above the door chimes and in walks a woman with black hair and a purposeful gait. Maybe it’s the severe bun at the nape of her thick neck, but her energy is palpable and off-putting. She marches to the counter and thunks her flattened palms on the surface beside the register.
“I’m here to sign up for the baking competition.” Even her voice is harsh. This woman gives off the general sense that she doesn’t take an ounce of shit from anybody. Ever. I think she missed her calling in law enforcement.
“Oh-kay?” the poor girl behind the register stammers. Compared to the woman in front of her, the girl looks like an innocent dove.
Tearing my gaze from the situation, I glance at Addison to see if she’s aware of what’s happening. Her gaze is glued to the woman also, her eyes scrunching slightly.
“Well?” the woman demands. “How do I sign up?”
The girl stays silent but points at the cork-board on the wall above the offered utensils and napkins. The woman twists her thick neck to see what the girl is pointing to. From my seat, I can see a portion of her face, enough to know she has bushy eyebrows and a permanent frown.
She looks back at the girl, nodding once at the case. “I’ll take a blueberry muffin.”
Addison and I look at each other. She’s as astonished as I am at this interaction. The woman takes her muffin and stops by the board, using a pen to write in the space below Addison’s name. She settles at the table beside us, facing me, and just when I think the spectacle is over, it’s not.
“Too much sugar,” the lady declares, after taking a bite. And then I realize she’s talking to me.
