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Here it was well past two in the afternoon, and I was just getting my day started.
Anyway, excuses aside, I should’ve likely met Bayou before now.
I should’ve also made an attempt to be around my family more, too.
But I hadn’t seen that problem until lately.
Lately when Slate came in the picture.
“Should I ring the bell again?” I asked Hoax.
Hoax shrugged.
“I guess,” he muttered.
I rang the bell again, this time tapping it twice.
Slate’s voice carried loudly out of the kitchen.
“I’m fuckin’ coming.”
Slate finally came out of the back room with a tray of what looked to be blueberry muffins, and my mouth watered.
For two reasons.
A, of course, the muffins.
B, because the way he was holding the tray put his forearms on display, and made his biceps look huge.
“Umm, do you need help?” I gestured to all of the people that were now in line.
He rolled his eyes. “No. Been doing this since I was a kid and old enough to count money.”
I tried not to be offended by the roll of his eyes that clearly said, ‘you’re joking, right?’
“Then possibly you could take my order sometime this week?” I shot back, unable to control my simmering anger.
Slate placed the muffins—which were, in fact, blueberry—into the display case and turned to me.
“Yes,” he replied silkily. “What do you want?”
I rolled my eyes. Could I get away with saying ‘one of everything?’
“Umm, give me twelve of those blueberry muffins. Twelve of those cinnamon twist things.” I paused. “A dozen of those cookies right there,” I pointed. “And a glass of milk.”
“We don’t sell milk,” he informed me.
My brow rose. “But you had milk the last time I was in here.”
“I’m also the grandson of the owner,” he shot back.
He did have a point.
“All right,” I said softly. “Then that’s it.”
Slate got the delicacies in record time, and he was right.
He did look like he was fully competent.
By the time he had me all rung up and I was handing him my card, he was staring at me.
“What?” I asked.
“You gonna eat any of those cinnamon twists now?” he questioned.
I thought about that, then shrugged.
“Maybe,” I volunteered.
“If you do, I suggest you warm it up. They’re way better,” he offered.
“Just one,” I said. “You can warm it up while I take these out to the car.”
He opened the box up, took a sheet out of the box that he used to grab all my food with, then plucked another cinnamon twist out of the case and popped it in the microwave. Once that was done, he gestured at the man that was behind me.
Hoax.
“Hey, would you mind taking this to her car? I’m not sure if she can lift it,” Slate teased.
My mouth dropped open.
“Hey.” I lifted my arm up and showed him my impressive muscles. “I have guns. See?”
Okay, so they were pretty pitiful. But they weren’t anything to sneeze at, either.
I did CrossFit.
I ran.
I also was still five foot nothing.
I didn’t look like I could lift a flea.
“Sure,” Hoax shouldered up to the counter and grabbed my boxes of shit, then started back out without another word. I hurriedly followed behind him and got the front door, holding it open for him to exit.
He walked directly to my car without me having to point it out to him, and I wondered if there was something about it that screamed ‘that’s Harleigh’s.’
I didn’t ask him, though.
Instead, I hurried to catch up and opened the front door for him.
He placed it on my seat and closed the door.
“You come here a lot?” he asked as we walked back to the bakery.
I shrugged. “It’s the best bakery in town besides the one over by the old mental institution. But the owners of that one relocated to Arizona after a freak tornado a few months ago, so it’s this place or nothing. Not that I’m complaining.”
He grunted out a wordless reply and opened the bakery’s door for me, allowing me to move ahead of him back up to the counter.
The line had grown to about five people, if you didn’t count the entire group of bikers.
And I smiled at a few as I rushed up to the front to get my card and my twist.
When I arrived, it was to find Slate once again returning from the back, this time with a cup of milk in his hand.
I felt something inside me warm at the gesture.
Then he had to go and ruin it.
“Thank you!” I gasped, excited.
Slate rolled his eyes.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Just didn’t want to hear you bitching the next time I saw you. Which seems to be the only fuckin’ thing you do.”
I gasped.
“You really shouldn’t be dropping the F-bomb in front of your grandmother,” I murmured. “She doesn’t look like she likes it when you do that.”
Slate looked over his shoulder at his grandmother and grinned.
