“Candy apple for the cherry. It needs one more coat.”
“So I should want to bite it? The cherry?” The question is innocent, but the way his voice drops is not.
Now I’m thinking about him biting things. Specifically, me. “Yes,” I say, then I roll my lips together to seal in the murmur.
“The color works, then,” he says.
I turn away so I don’t, I don’t know, throw myself at him. I have a sky to paint. As I dip my brush in the paint can, a drop of robin’s-egg blue splashes onto the top of my foot.
I bend to grab a rag from the drop cloth and swipe off the color. I’m painting barefoot—it’s just more comfortable this way.
We work alone, with music filling the space between us. A Frank Ocean tune, which isn’t helpful since that man’s voice is sex. But I focus on the bakery instead of just how good Corbin’s being with his hands.
“Tomorrow the garage door gets installed,” I say, sticking to practical details. I’ll oversee that since Corbin has a game. “I know it makes you sad that you won’t be here to discuss ‘manly garage things’ with the contractor.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do,” Corbin says. Then he stops his strokes of blue, shooting me a curious look. “You’re not wearing one of your pickleball dresses?”
It’s said like a question. I can hear thewhy not.
I glance down at my painting ensemble. “It’s a skort,” I say, then pluck the ruffly hem of the combo skirt-shorts. I’ve paired them with a white crop top that’s a few years old, something that won’t bother me if it gets paint on it. I also chose it since he said he can see white easily. “This skort is from a few seasons and a few thrift shop trips ago, so I don’t wear it when I play.”
“They’re notpremiumclothes?” he asks dryly.
I laugh at his description. This is safer than talking about shades of color. “Exactly. I have my cute little athletic numbers for when I play, and I have the fun pickleball dresses for errands, and I have last year’s skorts and stuff for painting and working.”
“Got it,” he says, grabbing a fresh brush and dipping it into the red again, probably for the second coat on the cherry. “You have the first line and the second and the third.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I say.
“Will you wear pickleball dresses when you’re working at the bakery?”
I toss him a playful look, unable to resist saying, “I don’t know. Do you want me to?”
He steals another glance at me. “They’re cute, I guess. Even though skort is a weird word.”
“But they don’t look weird?”
A smirk comes my way this time. “Not in the motherfucking least, Mabel.”
I hide a smile. I should stop flirting with him. I really should. “And yes, I’ll sometimes wear them when I work here.”
He paints some more, scrunching his brow like he’s noodling on something. “But I’m still not sure I believe youactuallyplay pickleball, Mabel.”
I spin around, lifting my paintbrush like it’s a weapon. “I told you I do.”
“Really though?”
“Of course I do. I play with my friends,” I say. “Remy and Skylar and Trevyn. We all play in the city.”
“And by play, do you mean put on your cute clothes and catch up on each other’s lives at the court?”
I step closer, lock eyes with him, and drag the paintbrush down his shirt, leaving behind a stripe of robin’s-egg blue.
His green eyes pop. “You just painted my shirt.”
I slow-clap. “You’re right.”
He shakes his head, sighs heavily. “Good thing you’re wearing the third line.”
