“Oh. No.” Mr. Rossi scratches his head.
“All right.” I carefully erase what he's written and write outEspressoin my neat script. “Let’s start small.” I frown at the espresso maker. “Are you sure there’s no instruction manual? Maybe a Latin scroll, handwritten by monks?”
Mr. Rossi has already disappeared into the back. He comes back out carrying a box filled with several shiny pieces, and lengths of opaque plastic hosing. “I forgot to reattach these,” he says and ducks his head like a little boy with his hand caught in the biscotti jar.
The oven buzzer blares.
“Okay.” I take the box of missing and probably essential espresso machine parts. “I’ll deal with this. You deal with the oven—leave the muffins out, and I’ll fill the case once they’re cool. Then you can go check on Cedella.” I’ll try to figure the machine out while he’s upstairs and out of my hair.
“Perfetto.” Mr. Rossi salutes me and scurries off, leaving me grinning. Sometimes my boss just needs to be told what to do.
“Tell her I’ll be making the apricot and cream cheese scones! They’re her favorite,” I call after him.
“Sei un angelo!”You're an angel!
“Too bad I’m not an engineer,” I mutter to the box of missing parts in my hand before setting it aside. Maybe the bad weatherwill make the morning rush light, and I’ll have time to figure out the glossy monstrosity on the countertop.
With snow mixedwith sleet spitting from the clouds outside, I expected fewer morning customers, but the popularity of my muffins proves me wrong.
The lemon poppy seed ones run out first, like they always do, followed by the cinnamon buns.
Mr. Rossi returns and helps at the counter while I whip up a big batch of Mrs. Rossi’s favorite scones, and do a quick check in case there’s an espresso machine instruction manual lying around that Mr. Rossi forgot about.
So far, the coffee shop gods have smiled on us and everyone ordered their usual—a drip coffee and a muffin. But in between customers, Mr. Rossi reminds me that “We are going to be onthe map! We will be printing money!” so he’s probably not going to give up on the machine any time soon. That means I need to become a barista, stat.
In my search, I unearth an old Italian cookbook, and tuck it under my arm to take out front and read between customers. Mr. Rossi pretty much lets me bake whatever I want, and I’ve been wanting to try some new recipes. Why not biscotti to go with the espresso?
When the morning rush is over, I make a cup of mint tea and hand it to Mr. Rossi. “Why don't you bring that up to the missus?”
“Oh, she’ll love that. Thank you, Leah.” He beams and disappears, leaving me in an empty shop. I putter around and tidy up, savoring the quiet.
The bakery is my favorite place in the world, but I especially love it before opening, or in the break between the morning and lunch time rushes. That’s when I get a chance to bake.
Other than that, I wouldn’t change anything about the bakery—except maybe the tip jar with the handmade label taped to it. Last summer, Mr. Rossi scrawledLeah’s College Fundon it. Totally embarrassing when my fellow high school students were coming in for their morning coffee, especially my cheating ex and his new, beautiful, blonde and scrawny prom queen of a girlfriend. Now that it’s February and they’re back at their fancy Ivy league college, I can breathe a little easier.
I like my little life. I wouldn’t change anything—except the lack of funds in my or Mr. Rossi’s bank account. And getting better medicine for Mrs. Rossi.
I’m in the back, sifting confectioner’s sugar to make a quick almond-flavored glaze for the cooling scones, when the bell jingles.
“Coming,” I call. My grip on the sugar bag slips and a white cloud puffs in my face. I grab a wet cloth and pat my face before rushing out to help the customer.
A tall man in a long, black pea coat is standing in front of the counter, his dark glossy head bent towards me as he regards the chalkboard menu. My steps slow. I have the strangest sensation, like I’m about to step over a threshold to another world. I’m holding my breath.
He raises his head, and my heart trips over itself. Strong jaw, dark olive skin, patrician nose—his face is beautiful, regal, and unapproachable all at the same time.
I take a step forward and my elbow knocks over a stack of the paper to-go cups. I fumble to catch them, but only manage to kick them, sending them rolling across the floor. Now I'm bobbing and weaving up and down, trying to catch them all.
Is it too much to hope the handsome customer didn’t notice? I look up and he’s leaning over the counter, his dark eyes on me. His beautiful lips twitch. “Need help?”
Lordy, his voice is as beautiful as his face. Smooth and deep. Delicious.
“I'm all right,” I say. Reaching up, I try to set a stack of cups back on the counter, but miss it entirely and they all fall back down. One bonks me on the head.
“Never mind,” I say, rising and taking my place behind the register. I heroically ignore the fallen cups littering the floor at my feet. “What can I get you?” I dust my hands off briskly. Calm, professional. That's the ticket.
“Un espresso,” he says in a delicious bass that sends goosebumps flowing up my arms. My very floury arms. Crap, I’m covered in flour. And powdered sugar. And some cinnamon. I surreptitiously try to brush some off, but there are still little white and reddish brown flecks dusting my hands.
“An espresso?” I repeat. “We don’t?—”
