I slip on my oven mitts and fix him with a pointed stare. “If you’re just here to mock me, you can see yourself out.”
He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I need a favor.”
“Ok. You couldn’t call or text?”
He shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Wearethe neighborhood, dumbass. What do you need?”
“I want to take Olivia out for a date night. Friday. Just the two of us. Would you mind watching the girls?”
The oven timer goes off, and I remove the loaf. “You know I’m always down to hang with my princesses. But tell me why you’re really here.”
He slides into a seat at the island. “Liv kicked me out. Said I’m hovering.”
I chuckle. “You do have a tendency to do that.”
“Fuck you. I don’t wanna hear shit from you, of all people. What’s with the sourdough, anyway?”
“Angie’s been craving it, but only this specific kind from some little shop back in Denver. I can’t seem to get the recipe right.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just call Hoffmann’s and ask them?”
“What’s Hoffmann’s?”
“The cafe. In Denver. Jess and Angie used to meet there for lunch all the time. I swear, Jess ate the same veggie sandwich every day for a month when she was pregnant with Emmy. Angie didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“And you’re too goddamn stubborn to ask.”
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered asking her, but Iwanted to figure it out for myself. Maybe I felt like I had something to prove, or maybe I am just a stubborn ass like Wilder claims. I guess two things can be true.
“Twenty-four loaves of sourdough, and you knew this whole fucking time?”
He shrugs, arms crossed. “You never asked.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I toss my oven mitt at his head, but he catches it.
“You know what?” I say. “I’m with Olivia. You are fucking annoying. Get the hell out of my house.”
He chuckles and tosses it back at me. “I have shit to do anyway. Have fun with your bread.”
As soon as Wilder’s out the door, I pull out my phone. One quick Google search produces the phone number for Hoffmann’s Cafe and Bakery in Denver, Colorado. It’s directly across from Angelina’s old apartment.
Silently cursing my ineptitude, I dial the number and wait for someone to pick up. The line clicks over, and a croaky male voice comes across the line. “Hoffmann’s Cafe and Bakery. Bernie speaking.”
“Yes, hi. Name’s Griffin. I’m hoping you can help me with something.”
“I’ll sure do my best.”
“My wife, Angelina, used to live in Denver. She’s pregnant with our first baby, and she’s been cravingyoursourdough specifically.”
“Angelina? Do you mean Doctor Rossi?”
