Skip didn't even look up. "Not anymore."
"But he's already angry."
"So give him the scones," Skip said, like this should be obvious. "That'll calm him down."
In that moment, I was sorely tempted to tell him exactly where he could shove those scones and his cellphone, too. But that wouldn't accomplish anything, so I asked, "What kind of scones?" We had chocolate chip, blueberry, and lemon poppyseed – none of which we baked here.
Skip was still scrolling. "He didn't say."
"Seriously? Did you evenask?"
His half-hearted shrug told me everything I needed to know.
But I refused to let it drop. "And why didn't you grab some from the case out front? It's right there near the register."
He was still lost in his phone. "I dunno…why didn'tyou?"
"Me? What do you mean?"
"Before your break," he said. "Yougot pastries from back here. Why shouldn't I?"
Damn it.And now, I didn't know what to say. I had dashed into the back room to flee Ryder Vaughn – for all the good it did.
Every time I turned around, there he was – in the shop, on the road, and where next?
I shuddered to think.The man was everywhere.
Of course, the main problem was myself. For someone trying to lay low, I was making myself way too visible – first messing with his pastries and then nearly flattening him with my bike.
Correction –Maisie'sbike, the one I'd swiped by mistake.
What if I had damaged it?
I would definitely need to do better.
But right now, a man was yelling for scones. With a silent curse, I turned and hustled toward the swinging door.
The moment I pushed through, I wanted to turn right back around. The angry customer – a hefty fifty-something man in abright blue shirt – was looming over the counter, red-faced and scowling, with his arms folded like a bouncer at a bake sale.
Still, I rushed forward, trying to look on the bright side. At least the woman next to him was smiling. She was rounded and sun-kissed, with curly red hair, laugh lines around her eyes, and a souvenir tote bag slung over one shoulder.
Happily, there were no other customers waiting. Then again, all of that yelling might've cleared the place out.
The man glared past me toward the back room. "Where's the other guy? The one with the phone. Hesaidhe'd be right back, and that was a million years ago."
I plastered on my best customer-service smile. "Sorry. He's, uh…currently indisposed."
"Indisposed?" he snorted. "What's that supposed to mean? He fell in the oven?"
I wish.But I didn't say it, because there was no need to encourage the guy. "He's just, um…" I hesitated, searching for a nicer word than useless. Finally, I settled on, "…busy."
"Busy, my ass," the guy said. "He's probably surfing girlie stuff in the back."
The woman next to him gasped. "Bob!"
He turned to look at her. "What? It's not like I called it porn."
"Yeah, but it was implied."
