“What doyouwant?” Caleb retorts. He scans the display in the window, arranged with trays of red velvet cupcakes and enormous cinnamon buns and pink frosted cookies the size of my head.
My mouth waters as I imagine taking a bite of a decadent cinnamon bun. But I’m hesitant to ask to stop there. After all, Caleb seems more the sandwich type—one loaded with plenty of protein for the muscles I can’t help noticing whenever I see him.
“Sandwiches are fine?—”
Caleb gives me an appraising look. Then he rests his hand on my back and turns me towards the entrance for Decadent Delights. “We’re eating here,” he announces. “I’ve never come here myself, so I’m curious to see how it is.”
I’mcurious how he’s lived here for three years—last night over soup and sandwiches, he told me that’s how long he’s been living in Bliss after retiring from the Marines—and never stopped into this obviously popular bakery right in town. But like many of the other questions I have for him, I keep them to myself.
Not my business,I remind myself. We’re practically strangers. Just because Caleb’s letting me stay at his guest cabin doesn’t mean I have the right to ask him personal questions.
Caleb steps to the side and pushes the door open, then gestures for me to walk ahead of him. Another example of his chivalry, which stands in stark contrast to his insistence that he’s not friendly or nice.
Maybe a little gruff. Maybe used to being on his own and not dealing with people. Maybe even a bit bossy, like when he demanded I stay on the couch last night to rest while he made coffee and dinner himself.
But to say Caleb isn’t nice? No way.
As soon as we walk inside the bakery, I’m hit by an array of scents and sights and sounds. Inside, it smells even more delicious than out. The steam of the cappuccino machine blends with the cheerful buzz of customers talking and one of the baristas calling out coffee orders. And everywhere I look, there’s pink and red in anticipation of Valentine’s Day, which I belatedly remember is coming up in two weeks.
Valentine’s Day has never been a big deal for me. Not as a kid, when my mom never bought me valentines to give out to my classmates, and I’d feel so bad about it, I’d end up hiding in the library during the card exchange. And once I hit my twenties, the one guy I dated long enough to make celebrating Valentine’s Day a real possibility brushed it off as anoverrated capitalist scheme.
Maybe the holidayisa little too commercial. But as I look at the bouquets of cake pops and baskets of heart-shaped cookies on display at the counter, I can’t help feeling wistful that I don’t have anyone who’d think of buying one for me.
There are more important things to worry about,thepractical voice in my head sternly reminds me. Like cars that actually drive and keeping my job and finding a permanent place to stay. Valentine’s gifts are something forlater, just like adopting a dog.
While I’m caught up in my thoughts, Caleb scans the busy bakery. His posture is stiff, almost guarded. His gaze is alert. His hand slides to the side of my waist, drawing me closer, almost as if he’s protecting me.
“Why don’t we find a seat first?” he suggests. “Then I can place our order.”
Considering how busy it is in here, finding a table first sounds like a great idea. So I nod and say, “That works for me.”
With a quick nod of acknowledgement, Caleb leads me across the room to a two-seat table in the corner. It’s set with a standing menu with pink hearts printed all over it and a pink, cupcake-shaped candle that I assume is more for decoration than purpose.
He pulls out my chair and waits for me to sit before taking a seat across from me. He casts another quick look around the bakery before sliding the menu over to me. “Pick whatever you want,” he says. “Get some extra stuff to bring home, too.”
Two startling things strike me at once.
First, the brilliant blue of his eyes, flecked with bits of green and silver. Guarded when we first came inside, they soften as he looks at me.
Then how he called the cabin home, almost as if it weremyhome, too. It’s not, of course. I’m only stayinguntil I can find someplace else or he gets tired of the unwanted company and asks me to leave.
But I can’t deny the fizz of happiness that came from hearing him say it.
Realizing I’ve been staring at him far too long, I avert my gaze to the menu and start searching for the cheapest items. “Just a plain coffee,” I tell him. “And a slice of banana bread.”
Caleb frowns. “That’s it?”
“I’m not that hungry. We had a big breakfast?—”
“Vienna.” He reaches across the table to cover my hand. “We didn’t have a big breakfast. We had eggs and sausage. And that was hours ago. Order more food. And some to take with us.”
Sensing my hesitation, he adds, “I’m getting one of those fancy coffees with flavored syrups and a design made out of foam on the top. And I’m getting a bowl of their soup of the day. Plus a—” He peers at the menu. “A BLT bagel and half a dozen chocolate chip cookies to go. So. What do youreallywant?”
I hold a quick inner debate about whether it’s charity or not. But if he’s ordering that much, and he’s telling me to do the same, would it be rude to refuse? On the other hand, will he feel like I’m taking advantage?—
“Vienna.” Caleb’s voice gentles. “This isn’t complicated. What do you want to eat?”
He’s wrong and he’s right. But if I keep delaying, I’m just going to make things weird. So I scan the menu again before amending my order. “A vanilla latte. With oat milk. And chicken salad on a croissant.”
