I slow my pace outside one of my favorite bakeries that specializes in giant twisted pretzels. I rarely pass without picking one up, but typically it isn’t during work hours.
“Smells good,” Connor says.
We watch through the big front window as the master baker rolls the dough into a long log, picks up both ends and then in one effortless motion, he twists it to form a perfect pretzel shape before placing it on a tray.
“What’s your favorite flavor?” Connor asks, pointing to the display with plain pretzels, traditional with salt, and one with cinnamon and sugar on top.
“I’m a traditional kind of girl.”
“What about the dipping sauce? The spicy honey mustard sounds good.”
“I’ve never tried it.”
Suddenly, Connor’s hand grips mine and he drags me through the door. The place where his palm meets mine and where his fingers twine tightly around, sends a flare of warmth through my arm and into my cheeks before doubling back to my belly. My heart ticks out an unusual rhythm—though it’s been doing that a lot lately, especially when under stress.
A bell jingles when we enter and Mrs. Gilbert, behind the counter, greets us. “Hello, Cateline. I haven’t seen you in here in a while.” The older woman, wearing an apron, looks Connor up and down from head to toe. “And who’s this handsome gentleman you brought to visit me?” She winks.
“This is Connor Wolfe. Meet Hildie Gilbert. She and her husband, Hans, own the shop.”
Connor extends his hand.
Hildie dusts flour off hers. “Best in town.”
“Oldest in town,” Hans calls from the window by the front, where he continues to twist pretzels.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gilbert. Cat almost walked by without introducing me.” Now, like at the meet and greet, Connor is all smiles as though an invisible spotlight shines on him.
“You mean Cate?” Hildie corrects.
His smile is charming when he says, “My apologies. Cat is my term of endearment for Cate.”
Hildie leans in and says, “Handsome, polite, and old-fashioned.” She waggles her eyebrows. “I’d say he’s a keeper.”
I’m about to explain that by term of endearment, he means term of belittlement, but Connor keeps talking. “If these are the best pretzels in town and I’m a keeper, that means we have to get one of everything on the menu.”
Hildie starts to laugh and then stops abruptly. “I don’t think he’s joking, but that just gave me the greatest idea.” She pulls Hans from the window over to us and then leans in as though in a team huddle. “What do you think about a mini pretzel and dipping sauce sampler?” She explains creating miniature versions of their signature pretzels, plus sample sizes of each of the various dipping sauces. She bounces up and down with excitement.
“Now, Hildie, sometimes you get some cockamamie ideas, but this one is marvelous.” Hans smiles at her.
She beams. “What do you guys think?” She looks brightly at Connor and me as if we have a say in their business plans.
“I like it,” I answer.
“Sounds like you have a winner,” Connor adds.
“We have to do what we can to keep business going.” Hildie digs under the counter and pulls out several small ceramic bowls.
“You’re telling me,” I mutter. I know all about the struggle of keeping a business afloat, although Blancbourg is sinking fast.
“I have you guys to thank for the inspiration—you’re our good luck couple—and because of that, you get to be our guinea pigs.”
I wrinkle my nose and my mother’s strict ballet diet races toward me with reprimands about how many carbs I eat—that’s old news and one I’m mostly free of. But occasionally her voice is in my head, berating me for my dietary choices and comparing me to a certain curly-tailed animal. The one that oinks.
Tonight, I’ll have cakeandice cream, mère.
But back to the matter at hand. Firstly, Connor and I are not a couple. Far from it, in fact. And what does Hildie mean about being a guinea pig?
Before I can answer either question, Connor says, “What’s that face?”
