“It’s part of my job, so it’s normal.” I give her a reassuring smile. A private tasting is the least I can do for disrupting her.
“It’s five a.m. somewhere?”
“Ha! Yes.” Damn, she’s got a hidden sense of humor. I can see her mind working behind those cunning eyes. The baker’s got me thoroughly fascinated now. She’s shy but bold, like ayoung whiskey, clear and strong like a quality vodka, and prickly like a potent gin. “How ’bout we have a taste and I’ll go?”
That came out flirtier than I meant, but I do like showing off our products.
She chews the inside of her cheek, assessing me. Her creamy skin has returned to its normal color, but her lips are a ruby red.
Her guards are firmly in place. Dammit, she’s going to kick me out, but I give it another attempt. “It’ll only take a minute. Two sips for a tasting is all I’m asking. Promise.”
As soon aspromiseleaves my mouth, the shine in her eyes dulls. “I have to get back to work.”
Dang, that went south. I would’ve kept my promise, but someone in her life must not have, for her to shut down that fast. If I keep pressing, she’ll trust me even less. I’ve waited this long, and today I got to know her just a little better. I’ve got time.
I back toward the door. “If you want a taste tester for any of the new recipes, hit me up.”
Her lips form a troubled line. “Do you need to approve my food before the fair?”
I’m caught on what to say. I want to tease her and say absolutely I do, but she’s wound tight and I don’t know which way she’ll spin. “Not at all. Everything you make is perfection. You could’ve named your store that. Confection Perfection.”
“That’s actually not bad.” She purses her lips. “But Dee’s has meaning.”
“I’d like to hear about it sometime.”
Her expression shutters. “It’s, um . . . it’s private.”
Mercurial. That’s not a word that would normally pop into my head, but it does now. “An inside story?”
She moves the bottles from the box to another counter and pushes them close to the wall. “I’ll bring some samples by during the next crochet group so you all can approve them before the Billings craft fair.”
Okay, the reason for the name behind the bakery is off-limits.
Her privacy is intriguing. My business was splashed all over the neighborhood as a kid. But Elodie’s is locked. She’s got her shit together, and damn, that’s a turn-on.
She’s also locked me out, and until she opens that door, I’ll have to stay outside.
“I’ll let the guys know.” She could make vodka-flavored mud and we’d hope our spirit lifted out the best flavors of the dirt. Besides, it’s Elodie. She’s got the whole town nursing a sweet tooth. But she offered, and while I have to back off of the pretty baker, I’m not missing an opportunity to see her again. “Have a nice day, Elodie.”
Elodie
Saturdays and Sundays are my busiest days. I’m closed Mondays when I do a lot of admin and baking for the upcoming week, along with any special orders. I often spend the whole day working, but today, I have somewhere else to be. The crochet club is a small reprieve from constantly toiling away on my dream business. A little bit of hope that I might see a flirty cowboy I should stay far away from.
A flirty cowboy who saw me pop nearly every joint out of socket during my morning wake-up jam session.
A flirty cowboy who acted like a gentleman instead of his usual incorrigible self when I was dying of embarrassment.
Before I leave for the Foster House Distillery, my uncle Karl is here to pick up his order for the church.
I step outside and soak up the warm July sun. He’s got the door open to his car, and he grins when he sees me. He has on ashort-sleeved blue shirt and his white pastor’s collar with black slacks. The sun gleams off the dark skin of his head. He’s been bald as long as I’ve known him, only now he no longer has to shave his scalp each day.
“There she is.” He rushes to take my load of flat boxes filled with cinnamon rolls from me. I have another tote bag full of samples, but those aren’t for him, and a second one filled with my crochet supplies.
“And there’s my favorite customer.” It’s not polite to lie to a pastor, and as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I have to bat away the image of Cruz Foster aiming that lazy grin at me across the bakery counter. He’s perplexing and frustrating, and after he saw me shaking my ass like I was in front of a crowd willing to pay all my bills, he’s all that times a thousand.
My uncle balances the goodies in his hold. “If these weren’t for a funeral, I would sneak a few myself.”
I wipe my hands off. “You know I’ve got you covered. There’s an extra half dozen for you and whoever else is around.”
