Mabel: A schedule?
Corbin: Yes, it’s that thing where you keep track of your days and activities.
Mabel: You made one?
Corbin: My daughter did. Ergo, it’s mine now. Also, at the risk of being serious, I suppose I just assumed you’d call it by the name you’ve been using: You Deserve a Treat?
Mabel: Maybe that can be its tagline?
Corbin: Bakeries have taglines now? Good to know.
Mabel: Also, I thought about that—using the same name as I do for my catering. But I have a special concept for the bakery, so I think it needs a special name.
Corbin: What even is a bakery without a concept?
Corbin: Also, you really like teasing, don’t you?
As I’m grabbing my bag, my makeshift sign, and my computer—because I have a schedule too, thank you very much, even though it’s in the form of a list, which, of course, is a second cousin to his much fancier schedule—I stop at the door, juggling keys and a phone as well.
I swing my gaze to the text exchange. Doeshelike teasing me? Seems like it. I’m a little desperate to confirm it.
Don’t do it, Mabel. Really, don’t do it.
I shouldn’t answer the last text. I should leave him hanging like I’ve done before. I should edge him. Truly, I should.
But I don’t like stopping.
Mabel: Do you though?
My pulse skitters. Something bubbles up inside me—the frothy sensation of flirting and all the goodness it brings with it.
Which leads me to the next thing I probably shouldn’t do. Setting my stuff down, I race to the closet—not far away, since I live in a studio—yank it open and flick through my pickleball outfits. It’s late October, but since it’s San Francisco, that just means it’s in the high sixties. I grab the black dress with the polo collar, strip off my jeans and top, and tug on the new outfit with its built-in sports bra.
And…suddenly everything’s better.
After I pop on cute sneakers, I grab the matching jacket I picked up when Skylar and I went on one of our clothing treasure hunts. On my way back to the door, I snag my paddle.
Well, Imightfeel inspired to play. You never know. Then I tap one of Grandma’s postcards that’s tucked into the corner of the mirror by the door. This one has a line drawing of a sleeping cat and, under it, the caption:I do what I want.
On the back are Grandma’s words.Do what you want! Life is better that way, Mabel. Today, I’m floating down the river on an inner tube! What about you?
I scan my reflection. “Well, Grams, I’m wearing what I want. This counts, right?”
I listen for her voice. Imagine her smile. Pretend I can hear her say,Of course, doll.
Then I add, for me, “Maybe it’ll drive Corbin a little crazy.”
As I hustle to my car, I keep checking the chat. But it’s quiet. Dreadfully quiet. The whole drive up to Cozy Valley, he doesn’t answer me.
I’m a little thrown off that Corbin hasn’t responded to my question, but I tell myself it’s no big deal as I pop into Rise and Grind. Nothing like a little caffeine to boost my morale. All things being equal, I probably should have grabbed some morning joe back in San Francisco, but I didn’t have five hands. I still don’t have five hands, but my bags are in the car now, which I parked at the firehouse, so I head to the counter with my to-go cup and ask the bored-looking barista with a nose ring for a pour-over.
Her expression is blank. “What’s that?”
She works in a coffee shop. Shouldn’t she know? I’m about to answer her when the owner, a pale blonde with frizzy, eighties style hair, hustles to the counter and says to her employee, “Cassie, that’s a slow-drip coffee method where you pour hot water over the grounds in a circular motion. I taught you that last week, hun.” The owner—her name is Joni—snaps her gaze to me. “Well, Mabel! How the hell are you? I haven’t seen you since…”
Since I made a complete ass of myself.“Yeah, it’s been a while.”
“Just saw your mom the other day. She didn’t mention that you were coming up here.”
