1
CALLIE
The dough is too warm.
I press my palm against the steel work surface and feel the heat bleeding through from the proofer. It’s four thirty in the morning and the kitchen is already fighting me. I pull the first batch of raised rounds and check the texture; they spring back when I touch them. Good enough.
The fryer hisses as I drop six donuts into the oil. The radio plays something twangy and sad, I don't change it. This early, the world belongs to me and whatever the overnight DJ decides we need to hear.
I'm piping cream into the third dozen éclairs when I hear the back door.
"You're early," I say without turning around.
"National Donut Day." Luke's voice is rough with sleep. "Figured you'd need help."
"I've got it covered."
"Sure you do."
He moves past me to the coffee maker, and I catch the smell of his shampoo. It’s the same brand he's used since high school. Some things about my brother never change.
I finish the éclairs and slide them into the display case. Luke appears at my elbow with a mug of coffee, I take it without comment.
"How many dozens are we talking?" he asks.
"Forty. Plus the special order for the hospital."
He whistles low. "You really are insane."
"It's just one day a year. I can handle one day."
"Didn't say you couldn't." He leans against the counter, watching me work. "Just saying you don't have to do it alone."
I glance at him. His jaw is tight, and there's that look in his eyes. The one that says he's already decided I need protecting whether I want it or not.
"I'm not alone," I tell him. "You're here."
"That's not what I meant."
I know exactly what he meant. Luke has opinions about how much I work, how little I sleep, how I turned down Marco's dinner invitation last month. He thinks I'm hiding behind this shop. Maybe I am, but it's my shop, and my choice, and he can keep his opinions to himself.
The timer goes off. I pull the donuts from the fryer and set them on the cooling rack. They’re golden, perfect, and exactly right. Luke doesn't say anything, but I feel him watching.
"You want to make yourself useful?" I ask. "Start the glaze."
He pushes off the counter without argument and moves to the stove. We fall into rhythm. I fry, he glazes, and the display case fills up row by row. The radio plays. The sky outside begins to lighten.
At five forty-five, I hear the front door.
I freeze with a donut in my hand, half-dipped in chocolate. No one should be here yet. We don't open until six.
Luke is already moving toward the front. "I got it."
I follow anyway, wiping my hands on my apron. Through the service window, I see a familiar shape at the door.
Ethan.
My stomach does something complicated and unwelcome, but I ignore it.
