“That’s great. Thank you,” I repeat.
“How’s Siv?” she asks as she walks toward the cash register.
“Still in a coma.” I try to keep my voice steady, to not let myself feel the fear. I don’t have time to go to that place—not right now. “But I’m sure she’ll wake up soon,” I add.
Rebecca nods, but I can see the skepticism in her eyes.
“Right, well, if you’re okay up here, I’m going to keep going—I have to finish up somepepparkakor.”
“Yep, I’ve got it covered.”
I escape back to the kitchen before I break down in front of her. There are no answers as to why Farmor hasn’t woken up, only that her vitals are steady, and the pressure in her brain has normalized. In fact, they have her scheduled to replace the skull piece tomorrow morning. There’s nothing we can do except wait—and pray.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when Rebecca peeks her head into the kitchen and says, “I’m so sorry to bother you, but do you mind helping me for a minute?”
I glance at my watch and am startled to realize it’s after eleven. I wipe my hands on my apron and use my shoulder to push through the doors, carrying the box with the Deitlen order—a regular customer who often puts in private orders—to put in the smaller display fridge out front to await their pickup.
There’s a line at the cash register. I almost stumble when I recognize Hunter three people back. He catches me looking at him and lifts his chin slightly.
I give him a half nod and hurry to put the order away and step up to our rarely ever used second register.
“I can help whoever is next in line,” I say, summoning a smile for a woman I recognize. She’s been in a few times before.
I force myself to focus, looking only at her, thekladdakashe’s buying, or the register. But trying to ignore Hunter isakin to turning my back to a fire and pretending I can’t feel the heat scorching my spine.
“Come again!” Rebecca finishes with her customer when mine is signing her receipt. We each help two more customers, but Rebecca finishes first. I notice Hunter in my peripheral vision; even though Rebecca’s register is free, he doesn’t move toward her.
“I can help you,” she says.
I make myself stay focused on my customer, even as Hunter replies, “I’m still deciding whether I want one more.”
Rebeccahmms and then turns to me. “Is it okay if I run to the bathroom and take a quick break?”
I nod to her as I take the signed receipt and smile at my customer. “Have a good morning!”
She thanks me and leaves as Rebecca pushes through the swinging doors and disappears into the kitchen.
Hunter and I are alone in the shop, only the counter between us.
I busy myself with putting the receipt in the cash register, setting the pen back in the mug that saysLiving with a Swede Builds Character, and then have nothing else to do except look up at the man who stands on the other side of the counter, watching me silently.
The sun shines through the windows behind him, emphasizing his height, the thick wave of his hair. He’s tall, dark, and imposing—and there’s pain in his eyes that makesmyheart hurt.
“Did you decide if you want anything else?” My voice is too loud and embarrassingly strained.
“Are you glad to be back at work?” He’s as stiff as I am.
You looked like you wanted to kiss me senseless last night, and you’re asking if I’m happy to be back at work?But I merely say, “Yeah.”
The AC kicks on with a whine, blowing cool air through the bakery, stirring up the scents of cardamom and cinnamon. Hunter hasn’t moved, and neither have I. We’re in some strange standoff; whoever moves first loses. Or wins. I’m not sure. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I don’t know whathe’sthinking. A memory of the heat in his gaze last night flashes through my mind, of the way he looked at my scar, then my mouth—
“Do you have any of those Swedish cinnamon rolls? I think I want one of them.”
I’m yanked back to the present with a flash of heat to my face. “Of course.”
I use the excuse to turn away and walk to the shelf where thekanelbullarare stacked in their little blue-and-yellow boxes. I take one off the top and turn, stiffening when I realize Hunter moved, too, and is standing a mere seven or eight feet away—the protection of the counter gone.
He’s close enough that I can smell him again, this time a combination of his cologne and the body wash that I know the name of since he still has to use our shower. I actually try to beat him to our bathroom every morning because I hate going after him and having to be enveloped in the tantalizing scents of his shampoo and the lingering hint of his deodorant and cologne.
