Before I knew it, the sun was peeking over the horizon and I was showered and dressed and heading to the bakery. My hands needed to be busy, and baking was the only thing that kept my mind from spiraling. I started with the honey-ember tarts.
Her favorite,I thought.
My hands moved in rhythm as I folded and pressed and pulled the dough, with steam curling all around me. The smell of sugar and cinnamon filled the air as I sighed continuing to stretch the dough until it was thin. Picking up a knife, I began to slice circles through chunks of the dough, while thoughts ofbrown eyes lighting up when she bit into the tarts sifted through my mind.
Lately, every time I made something, Amara was on my mind.
Marco arrived at six, yawning as he tied on his apron.
"You're here even earlier than usual," he said, eyeing the trays of tarts cooling on the rack. "Let me guess. The librarian?"
"Shut up," I muttered.
He laughed. "Man, you've got it so bad."
I didn't argue. What was the point because he was right as rain? By the time seven-thirty rolled around, I'd already made two batches of tarts, a fresh batch of cinnamon nest buns, and enough molten vanilla loaves to feed half of Fernwood.
"You trying to bury your feelings in baked goods?" Marco asked, pulling a tray of croissants from the oven.
I sighed. "It's working, isn't it?"
"Not really." He set the tray down and looked at me seriously. "You know you're gonna have to tell her eventually, right? About who you are?"
"I know."
Marco raised a brow softly. "And the longer you wait..."
"I know," I said again, more sharply than I meant to.
Marco held up his hands. "Alright, alright. Just saying."
I scrubbed a hand over my face. "Sorry. I'm just..."
"Freaking out?"
"Yeah."
He clapped me on the shoulder. "For what it's worth? I think she likes you. The real you. The baker. Not the prince. So maybe telling her won't be as bad as you think."
I wanted to believe that.
God, I wanted to believe that so badly.
But every time I thought about it, my throat closed up. What if she felt betrayed? What if she thought I'd been toying withher? What if she only wanted the prince and couldn't care less about the man who made her honey-ember tarts every morning?
The bell above the door chimed at exactly seven forty-five and my heart began to hammer inside of my chest. Amara had returned, bringing her scent with her.
She was wearing another one of those cardigans today. This one was cream-colored, oversized and soft-looking. It hung off one shoulder slightly, showing the collar of the simple shirt she wore underneath. Her pants were a deep burgundy, flaring like bell bottoms over her sneakers. Cozy, I thought.
She always looked so cozy and warm.
Her hair was up in its usual bun looking dark and silky, pinned at the back of her head. I knew from eavesdropping that she got it done at a salon on the east side of the city. I'd overheard her mention it once to Mrs. Luna when the older woman had accompanied her only once to the bakery.
I remembered everything she said and I knew how pathetic that seemed.
But when it came to Amara, I just couldn't help myself.
"Morning," she said, and her voice was soft, almost a little shy.
