That sounds vaguely like an order, but a lot can be lost in translation on a text message.
Me: It’s late.
Patton: By talk, I meant taste. I could use some help at the bakery and something tells me you find my Crush Cakes irresistible.
My pulse does a record scratch. What I once thought was cockiness, but might have always been flirtation, stares back at me in black and white.
Patton: Meet me at the bakery. Now.
Me: Now?
Patton: Now.
Grandma Joyce reads over my shoulder and then does what looks like a victory dance.
“What?”
Moving to the sound of her own drum beat, she shoos me toward the door. “Go on.”
“But it’s late and?—”
“Go.”
I grab my coat, my heart already halfway tothe old fire house. When I arrive, despite the late hour, lights glow warmly and invitingly from inside.
I park and sit in my car for a moment, gathering courage.
He wants to talk? Taste? That could mean anything. Maybe he regrets the kiss. Maybe he’s realized I’m too messy, too complicated, too much.
Or maybe instead of letting myself finish the thought, I should get out of the car and walk to the door.
28
PATTON
I wroteand rewrote a variation of the same text message to Winnie five times.
Come to the bakery.
Too demanding.
Would you like to come to the bakery?
Too formal.
Need your opinion on something at the bakery.
Too vague.
I settled on:By talk, I meant taste. I could use some help at the bakery and something tells me you find my Crush Cakes irresistible.
Casual, yes. Flirty, maybe. The kind of thing a guy who hasn’t completely lost his mind over a woman might say.
Now she’s on her way.
The bakery smells like vanilla and butter—a combination that is usually comforting, but instead makes my stomach twist with nerves. I’ve been attempting a chocolate frosting recipe for the past hour, and it’s still not right. Too sweet. Not enough depth. Missing something I can’t name.
Kind of like my life before Winnie walked into it.
