When I went upstairs earlier to get coffee, Grandma Donna and Grandma Nancy were excited about Juju making stroopwafels this week. I swear, there’s no getting away from Juju Fair. But I need those stroopwafels desperately.
I remember the first time I saw her making them, how impressed I was with her skill. Always had been. And she just got better all the time. I was probably seventeen and she was fifteen when she started making the thin, round waffle cookies held together by caramel. A Dutch delicacy that, once I tried, I craved them. Juju stood at her kitchen counter with an old iron press, so focused and sure of herself. I was supposed to be grabbing Gatorade for Jackson and me and rushing back outside, but instead, I stood staring at her. Caramel oozed out of the sideswhen she sandwiched the cookies, then scraped it away with precision.
She was wearing leggings and a fitted tank, and both showed way too much of her body than I needed to be seeing. I wanted to simultaneously thank the heavens for this experience and to run over and cover her up so no one else could.
Yeah, the age-old dilemma where Juliana is concerned.
One I’ve been battling a long, long time.
Britney, my pastry chef at Elm & Echo, isn’t cutting it. She’s messy and unfocused, and even her dinner rolls aren’t consistent. She seems more interested in being in my way than in doing her job. Her advances have gotten out of hand. Last night, she cornered me against the counter and said she’d dreamed about me the night before.
This afternoon I’m meeting with Sammi, a chef from Chicago who’s interviewing for the position.
I’ll be surprised if she has Juju’s expertise.
No one does.
The Kitty-Corner’s bell jingles when I walk in, and the smell of coffee, freshly baked bread, and sugar wraps around me.
There she is. Behind the counter, head tipped back, laughing at something Bentley just said.
For Christ’s sake.
The dude’s got his elbows on the counter like Juju has nothing better to do than listen to him yammer on about nothing. He’s leaning in close, and Juju’s cheeks are pink, her eyes sparkling as she laughs.
My stomach knots with that twist of jealousy. My temper spikes, but I bite down on the inside of my cheek. No scenes. Not here. Not ever again.
I walk to the counter and get a small bit of satisfaction in seeing Juju’s gaze tear away from Bentley as she stares up at me.
“I’ll take all the stroopwafels you’ve got.”
She blinks at me, stunned. “All of them?”
“Every last one.” My voice comes out clipped. “Box them up. Please.”
“Yes, sir.” Her lips tilt up on one side, and she turns before quickly stacking the golden rounds into a bakery box.
When they reach the very top, she grabs another box.
Bentley bumps my elbow. “Have I just discovered your weakness?”
I guess everyone can see the way I look at Juju.
His smile dims when I look at him.
“Your love for stroopwafels…” he adds.
I swallow. “Right. Yes. My grandmas do too, so I’ll be taking some home for them.”
“Oh, that’s funny. I think they’re still here.” He points behind me. “Right over there.”
My gaze flickers over to see Grandma Nancy and Grandma Donna at the corner table, closing their eyes in bliss as they take bites of their stroopwafels.
God Almighty. I can’t win.
Hector and Hal catch my attention when they walk out of the kitchen side by side. Hector is wearing a fedora with an apron and exudes class in every setting. Hal is wearing a bandana like a hat on his head of white hair. The level of his energy and confidence is apparent with every step.
I don’t think they even notice I’m here—their eyes are on my grandmas, of all people. My mouth drops when they saunter over there, Hal winking at Grandma Nancy, and Hector taking Grandma Donna’s hand and bowing over it.
