“The shop was closed today, so I don’t have any brewed,” I tell him, turning toward the Keurig tucked against the back counter. “But I have a solution.” I grab two cups, pump in a generous swirl of gingerbread syrup, and pop in a pod for each. The scent of sugar and spice fills the room as the coffee brews. I stir both, add cream to mine, then snap lids on and hand him one.
“Thank you.” He wraps both hands around the cup. “This is going to hit the spot.”
“And keep us up all night.”
He nods. “That too.”
“It’s time to finish these pumpkin bars and get them in the oven.” I slowly pour the dry ingredients into the bowl with the wet mix.
“Want me to stir it together?”
“Nope. I’ve got a mixer for that.” I click the beaters into place and turn it on. It buzzes to life, and I move it around the bowl. A minute later, it’s ready and I’m scraping the thick batter from the metal attachments.
“Is that the mixer you normally use?” he asks, eyeing it skeptically.
“No. That’s my backup. My main one is powerful enough to mix cement all day long. This one’s for small batches like this.” I toss him a bag of vanilla chips. He catches it with one hand and sets his cup on the counter. “Now you can stir those in.”
He pops a few in his mouth before the rest land in the bowl. “Think of me as quality control.”
“Or lack of control,” I tease.
When he’s finished stirring in the chips, I spread the batter into the parchment lined pan, then slide it into the oven. He leans against the counter while I set a timer.
“We’ve got thirty-five minutes to wait,” I say, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
“That was easier than I expected,” he admits.
I tilt my head. “You thought it’d be hard?”
“Your muffins taste like they’re challenging to make.”
I smile, surprised by the compliment. “Baking’s more about patience and precision than magic. You measure, combine, and don’t get distracted.”
Plucking my cup from the counter, I raise it to my lips and take a sip of the spicy brew. “We can go sit down while we wait.”
We move to the front of the shop, to the same little table we sat at the other night. It feels different now, cozier and quieter. With today being a holiday, the street outside is empty.
“Check out how awesome the shelves look now,” I say, nodding toward them.
His gaze scans from one end of the wall to the other, touching on each item displayed. “Damn. I’m actually impressed with how great they look with all the stuff on them. Your merchandise came out really nice. I’ll have to buy some.”
“You already earned whatever you want by hanging those shelves.”
He grins. “You paid me in muffins and the edibles in the oven.”
“You still need to pick out a sweatshirt. You’d be a walking billboard for all the women in town.”
“If you want me to wear one, I will.”
“That would be great.” I stand, moving over to the shelves. “What size?”
“Extra large.”
My mind blanks for a second.I bet you are.I stare at the sweatshirts, hiding my flaming cheeks. “Which color?”
“Something dark.”
I pull down a navy-blue one and hold it up. “How about this?”
