It seems I’ve just replaced one problem with another.
Because while I usually fall asleep to the soundtrack of my never-ending to-do list, last night I was replaying the way Jack’s large, strong hands worked my dough.
And that made for a verydifferentkind of restless night.
Jack
“Saw Skippy this morning.”The vet, Dr. Eli Bennett, grins as I ring him up. “Healthy as ever.”
“Yes.” I hand him his change. “If anything, he seems rather pleased with the extra attention and treats everyone is giving him since Saturday.”
“Don’t let that stop you from bringing him in.” Eli, as he asked me to call him, laughs good-naturedly. “My practicecould always use more helicopter pet dads with black Amex cards.”
Shaking my head, I give in to laughing at myself. “Yeah, I might’ve gone a little overboard on asking for the full work-up of tests for Skippy.” Grabbing a couple of broken cake pieces, I toss them into a small bag before adding it to his order. “For your patients. Tell them they’re Skippy-approved.”
His grin spreads. “They’ll be thrilled.”
The bell over the door jingles as he leaves, marking the end of customers for the day—and there have beena lotof customers. Every day since I started working out of Audrey’s kitchen has been busy, but the weekends are something else entirely. The Winter Market opened yesterday, and a lot of out-of-towners drove in, all saying they had to stop by ‘the bakery Felix Jones and Amanda Willis raved about.’
They came, in addition to the locals who greeted me without surprise, having already been informed through the local grapevine that I’m working Making Whoopie’s counter. Greeted with large smiles, no less.
Apparently, in just a few days, I went from persona non grata to Hideaway’s non-celebrity guest star.
Between establishing Making Whoopie’s start of business date and calling in a few favors to some trademark lawyers, I’ve bagged orders, greeted customers, and even made change from the register without Audrey eyeing me every time my hand dipped into the cash drawer. Progress.
Through the doorway, I watch the reluctantly trusting baker scoop batter into cake molds, her motions quiet yet precise.
Baking Audrey is different from Order-Taking Audrey. The perpetual tension between her brows is gone, her expression soft. Her love of baking is visible in her almost-smile and the subtle flare in her wrists when she pipes a line of frosting or uses chopsticks to individually place sprinkles on top of a pastry.
Not that frazzled, snappish Audrey didn’t have her own appeal. But happy Audrey? She’s dangerous.
She licks a smear of frosting off the back of her hand without thinking, and my brain instantly queues an entire highlight reel of thoughts that definitely violate the attorney-client handbook.
She’s my client now. And seeing as I’m leaving after the holidays, it would be beyond dumb to mix business with pleasure. I don’t start things I have no intention of finishing.
I retreat to the table I’ve commandeered as an office—the one in the back corner and the most out of the way. Sitting down, I glance over my latest research on the screen. Whereas I should be answering the pile of unread messages from California—producers, clients, a studio head who doesn’t understand time zones—I’m instead combing through statutes on business names and registration requirements in Maine.
I’d forgotten how much I liked business law. The puzzle pieces of legislation and precedent. The satisfaction of things lining up neatly. I gave it up to help Felix launch his career, thinking it would be a temporary detour. Ten years later, the detour has become the road, and I’ve forgotten there was another route entirely.
Now here I am, in a snow-covered fishing town,enjoying the hell out of practicing the kind of law I walked away from.
I snap the laptop shut and lean against the doorway to the kitchen. “I think I left my scarf here the other day.”
Audrey doesn’t look up, still piping. “I brought it upstairs with me yesterday to get it out of the way.” She might as well have said ‘You’re in the way.’
I probably should wonder if something’s wrong with me, finding her faux grump attitude a turn-on.
She sighs heavily at my silence and puts down the piping bag. “I’ll go—” An oven timer goes off, Audrey’s eyes cutting to it then to me.
Holding up my hands, I take a step back. “You just bake.” I thumb over my shoulder at the door leading upstairs. “I’ll run up and get it.”
Grabbing her oven mitt with one hand, she shuts off the timer with the other. “I don’t know.” Hand on the oven handle, she pauses, biting her lip. “I don’t usually have people up there.”
I laugh, misreading her hesitation. “Promise I won’t judge any dirty dishes in the sink.”
That gets me an eye roll before she opens the oven door. “I never leave dirty dishes in the sink.” She wafts the hot air escaping the oven in front of her, her cheeks pinking in the heat, the fine tendrils around her face blowing from the convection fan. “Fine, go ahead.”
I blame the mix of cloves and nutmeg for the hard swallow I have to take.
