I was juggling a lot. I knew that.
“Why is it so crowded today?” I mumbled in frustration, craning my neck to see the cake display as Frida tried to tug metoward something that captured her attention. She was fidgety, but all I wanted was a slice of caramel Mikado cake. Or maybe the nutmeg, which wasn’t as good as Ms. Makruhi’s, but it was close. “You’d think the world was ending.”
“Armenian Orthodox churches hold holiday services tomorrow and Monday for Christmas and Epiphany,” someone said behind me, where Frida was tugging, her leash wrapped around my jeans.
“Oh?” I turned around to unwind the leash. The person behind me was crouched and petting Frida. Petting? Well. More like they were all up in each other’s business. “Frida,” I complained, and started to chide her for being too familiar, especially with someone who was dressed nice. Expensive shoes. Watch. Funny what you can tell about a person in the flick of a gaze. But then the person looked up.
Fen Sarafian.
Sweet holy night, I hardly recognized him. His usually wild hair was a little tamed, dramatic swoops and swirls, not so much a bird’s nest but a bird penthouse in a hipster neighborhood.
“You’re alive,” he said, pushing a backpack farther up on one shoulder as he stood up to his full height, which was still impressive, compared to mine.
“I am.” Yes, I was alive. Heart pumping. Every part of me was alert. I felt as if I was either going to collapse from weak knees or bolt out of the bakery in fear.
“And you are, uh, too—alive,” I said, recovering. “I’ve been watching your videos online.”
“Oh, yeah. That.” He scratched the side of his neck and scrunched one eye closed. “You’ve seen them?”
“All of them.”
Not sure why he was acting modest. He’d accumulated a sizeable following in no time, posting videos of himself playing short but compelling piano pieces that he’d filmed in the barn on his baby grand. The first time I saw one, I thought I was dying. It felt like he was sharing our private space with the world.
Then I realized it washisspace, not ours. That hurt worse.
“You have a legion of fans online,” I said.
“I went viral because of my family name.”
“And because you’re…” Stunning. Beautiful. Dark. Sexy. “Talented.”
He gestured to tell me that the line had moved up. I awkwardly stepped sideways to fill the gap, shifting Frida along, who didn’t want to leave Fen’s brown leather oxfords. Hard to blame her, honestly.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
He blinked and pointed at the counter. “Mikado cake.”
“Me too,” I said, smiling a little. Then I shook my head. “I meant, what are you doinghere. In L.A.?”
“Oh. Staying with my grandparents for the holidays,” he said. “I’m driving back after the weekend. Grandma Mina talked me into staying for Sunday service tomorrow. Second Christmas dinner is hard to turn down.”
“Holiday food.”
“You love Christmas.”
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything,” he said in low voice.
My ears warmed, and I was having trouble looking up at his face.
He cleared his throat and asked, “Why areyouhere? At Levon’s, I mean.”
“Oh,” I said, smiling and looking back to check the line. Shuffling up a little. “Um, I actually have an apartment that’s not too far. It’s Burbank, but that’s just, like, I don’t know, three blocks away?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, gaze wandering over me.
“It’s not my apartment. Velvet arranged it. I’m staying in her friend Hayden’s studio apartment in Burbank while the two of them are touring Europe. They went to Spain this fall, and now they’re in Greece. Anyway, it’s only a fifteen-minute drive from my community college in Glendale—funnily enough. Small world, right?”
