Larkin laughs as she comes out from the back kitchen. She’s grinning with her hands on her hips. “Lord help us,” she mutters, though there’s nothing but affection in her tone.
I pivot just in time to see Morri sweeping through the door like he’s making a Broadway entrance. He’s tall, gorgeous and looks like he stepped straight out of a glossy New York fashion spread then took a wrong turn at the state line. His dark skin glows against a linen shirt the color of buttercream, his trousers are pressed sharp enough to cut glass, and his scarf—a riot of floral silk—drifts dramatically over one shoulder. Oversizedsunglasses perch on top of his head amid close-cropped curls, and he carries himself like someone born to be adored.
Larkin crosses her arms. “I thought New York was keeping you busy, city boy.”
“New York,” Morri says, drawing out the syllables like he’s exhausted by the very idea, “was draining my spirit and ruining my cuticles. I needed to come home and breathe some honest-to-God Southern humidity.”
He sweeps his gaze toward me, a grin spreading across his face. “Look at what the cat dragged in… Miss Penny Pritchard.”
I stand up and air-kiss his cheeks. “It’s good to see you, Morri.”
“And it’s good to see you too,” he says, taking both my hands and squeezing them. “I heard you came back to open Central Café and have been dubbed by the town as savior of biscuits and patron saint of caffeine. Honey, your name has reached the outer boroughs.”
I laugh and wave him off. “That’s an exaggeration.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “Not in my circles. I had a man in Chelsea tell me your bacon melts away despair. I wept.”
Larkin laughs so hard she has to grip the counter. “You’re full of it.”
“I’m full of passion,” Morri corrects. “And maybe a little bullshit, if we’re being honest.”
He slides onto a stool, crosses one leg elegantly over the other, and looks around the bakery like he’s inspecting the set of a play he once starred in. “Tell me everything—who’s married, who’s scandalous, and has Lowe finally forgiven me for the donut incident?”
I blink. “Donut incident? What’s the donut incident and how have I never heard of it?”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Larkin says, covering her face. “Not this again.”
Morri looks delighted. “Oh, this again always. You see, darling, when I first came to Whynot, Lowe Mancinkus and I didn’t exactly… connect. He thought I was too big for my britches, and I thought he was the human embodiment of a tractor commercial. There was tension.”
He pauses for dramatic effect, folding his hands on the counter. “So, I did what any self-respecting artist would do—I staged a peace offering.”
“Peace offering?” I ask, pretty sure it was anything but.
“Indeed. I filled a dozen of her finest cream-filled donuts”—he gestures to Larkin—“with mayonnaise.” Morri leans toward me, puts his hand against the side of his mouth as if he’s telling me a secret. “And just so you know, Lowe hates mayonnaise with an undying passion.”
I gasp, horrified and delighted all at once. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did. Presented them to Lowe myself. Said they were a gesture of friendship.” Morri presses a hand to his chest, feigning emotion. “He took one bite and gagged so violently I thought I’d have to call an exorcist.”
Larkin shakes her head, laughing. “I think I heard him retching all the way over here.”
I’m cackling so hard my eyes water. “That’s evil.”
“Effective,” he says proudly, then purses his lips and wrinkles his nose. “But he got me back. Dyed my shower water red in retaliation. Long story short—we’re friends now and I tolerate him.”
Larkin slides a plate with a cupcake in front of him. “You’re friends with him now because your best friend, Mely, fell in love with the man, so you had to learn to co-exist.”
“Po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes,” Morri says with a wave.
“You see,” I say, picking at a few crumbs on the table, “this is what I miss about small-town living.”
“Honest to God… it’s why I keep coming back.” Morri plucks a fork and scrapes a tiny bit of the frosting before licking it. He moans so loudly an older woman near the window snorts coffee up her nose. “Still perfection.” He sighs. “I might move here permanently just for your buttercream.”
“Please do,” Larkin says. “I need someone to keep life interesting.”
He points his fork at me. “And how’s your love life,darling? Any good prospects in our nation’s capital?”
I blink. “Um…”
