I’ve hardly managed to do any administrative work in days. I only took time to double-check that the heat, electricity, and phone bills were paid before shoving everything else aside like emotional baggage in an overhead bin.
Emotional baggage I drum up the courage to unpack when the beret lady—my last customer—leaves.
Maybe, finally, a moment.
I wipe my hands on my apron and glance around the empty front. No customers. No catastrophic messes. Just the soft purr of the convection ovens and the heady scent of all-spice and cinnamon.
Taking advantage of the reprieve, I duck past the counter, weaving between cooling racks and prep table toward the mountainous pile of mail. On the way, I catch sight of the order sheet for tomorrow’s café au lait order and try to work out the time I’d need to complete it, plus the ingredients I need to double-check, along with everything for my usual daily pies—which I’ve recently had to double, thanks to Making Whoopie’s popularity.
Deep breath.
By the time I have the pile of mail in hand, my laptop open and have mentally reworked the math three times trying to figure it all out, I’m ready to make a deal with the devil himself for a reprieve and a cup of coffee.
Ding.
The bell over the door chimes. Soft yet forbidding.
Sighing, I drop the mail back on the prep table and head for the front, already preparing my face for round one thousand and ninety-seven of—Smile. Nod. Repeat.
Except this time, my smile falters and my Crocs come to a squeaky stop as I realize what I’ve somehow conjured in my exhaustion.
Jack Lourd—aka the devil—stands in the doorway, hell-hound Skippy at his side, holding two to-go coffee cups and looking way too attractive for someone with wind-swept hair, red-tipped ears, and a scarf that would make one lookas if they had strong opinions about early bird specials and perfectly steeped chamomile.
Figures. Joke about selling your soul for caffeine, and the devil shows up holding a latte.
Jack raises one cup. “Dirty chai latte?”
My usual order—proof that if he’s not the devil himself, he’s at least in league with one.
I arch a brow, walk toward him, and enjoy the way his smile widens and then fades when I bend down toward Skippy.
“Hey there, buddy.” Reaching in my apron pocket, I offer him one of the broken pieces of pie I keep around just for him. “How you doing?”
In answer, Skippy swallows that palm-sized piece in one go and then circles to face the door, silently asking me to let him back out to complete his daily rounds.
Which I do.
Leaving the door open, I pluck the offered cup from a now-frowning Jack and salute him in thanks before pivoting on my heel, muttering, “Don’t let me stop you from your heroic dog-watching duties” before heading back to my pile of mail, having too many other things to do than trade passive-aggressive banter with a man who never asked how I was after taking me out with a diving tackle.
In the kitchen, I drop back into my desk chair, take a long drink of latte, and start sorting mail.
The door chimes closed.
A beat.
Then footsteps.
Huh.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him round thecorner as I toss envelopes into piles—junk, Christmas card, Christmas card, junk, junk.
“So.” Jack comes to a stop beside one of the cooling racks. “How are you?”
Christmas card. “Busy.” Bill.
“That’s good.”
Is it, though? I pause, letter in hand, at the thought.
