“You’ve made the best decision of the day stopping here in our booth,” Miles says. He launches into a spiel about my baked goods that is so perfect it sounds rehearsed, only without the stiff delivery. He’s so natural with everyone, and he has no problem selling her on the half dozen sampler—a box of six different treats, perfect for the indecisive and nondiscriminating sweet tooth.
As he’s ringing her up, he tells her where the bakery is located and when we’re opening, then leans in closer and says, “And she’s kind of shy, but that’s the baker right there.” He points to me. “She’sverytalented.”
The woman looks at me and smiles, then hands her money over to Miles, pats his hand, and tells him to keep the change. Shewaves the flyer in my direction. “Can’t wait to come by when you open!”
“Thank you!” I call out as she walks off.
I turn to Miles, but before I get a word out, two more people step into the booth, and he starts the spiel all over again. He begins by asking them questions about themselves, and he actually seems interested in their answers. This appears to hook them. After that, he tells them about the bakery.
Despite what I thought of him when we first met, Miles is one of the most sincere people I’ve ever known.
He’s also one of the most enthusiastic fans of my baked goods.
Still. Fan or no, genuine or dishonest—he doesn’t do relationships.
Never mind that sometimes I still catch him looking at me like he’s remembering the night we kissed.
Like maybe he wants to do it again.
I’m lost in thought when Lennon steps right in front of me. She’s been at the market for over an hour, and I’ve seen her walk by my booth at least three times. I notice that she’s carrying a stack of flyers, and I’m pretty sure she’s been handing them out to everyone here.
She gives me a knowing look, makes a point of moving her eyes over to Miles and then back to me.
I frown.
She slowly lifts her shoulders, as if to send me a message telepathically.
I shake my head and go back to the customers. Because she is making a point that doesn’t need to be made.
Around noon, when things finally wind down, I look around the booth and realize... I’m practically sold out. I’m just finishing up with a sweet young mom who bought a big sugar cookie for her little boy. She gives me cash and hands the boy the cookie. His eyes go wide.
“We’re going to share that.” She looks at me. “He’d live on cookies if I let him.”
I smile, remembering those days. “Have a great weekend!”
As they walk off, Miles comes up next to me. “Well, I’d say that was a huge success,” he says, looking around at the empty display.
“Thanks to you guys,” I say. “I never could’ve done any of this without you.” I go quiet. “And I can’t believe you gave up your Saturday to do this.”
He shrugs. “I’m just here for the Scotcheroos.”
I grin, but then a yell cuts through the noise of the market, followed by a loud, “It’s too yucky, Mommy!”
I turn and see the young mom and her son only a few feet away from the booth. He’s holding out the cookie, spitting the bite out onto the ground. “I don’t like it!” He bursts into tears.
I frown. “Oh no.”
“Don’t sweat it,” he says. “Kids are picky.”
“But kids love my sugar cookies,” I say.
But then Zoey rushes into the booth. “Hey.” Ava is right behind her.
I frown. Because they both look panicked. “What’s wrong?”
She pulls me toward the back of the booth, her face serious. “Claire, did youtastethe stuff you sold today?”
My stomach drops. “Of course, I know all my recipes by heart.”
