At 5:02 p.m., my phone lights up on the prep table beside me.
Nathan:Hey. I’m so sorry, my last meeting ran late, and the day got away from me. I won’t be able to make it tonight.
I stare at the message for a full thirty seconds.
A sigh escapes before I can stop it. My hand shakes as I drop my phone to my side.
Disappointed? Of course. But also… grateful. He told me. He explained. That’s a first. He said something.
Still, I deflate like a sad soufflé.
I quickly text him back.
Me:No problem! Thanks for letting me know.
There, that sounds mature and not like I’m ready to cry into the newest batch of chocolate chip cookies. I decide to distract myself with cleaning, and before I know it, it’s already time to close up.
The “Cup & Cake” sign outside is already dark, the street beyond the glass front reflecting the glow from the menu screen mounted above the counter.
Only tonight, it’s not the menu.
Somehow, in all my business cleaning, the screen must have been switched to the local news, which I’ve ignored for the most part, until the anchor’s voice shifts into that overly enthusiastic tone that only comes with sports.
“…and Bishop Towns is having the season of his life,” the sportscaster beams. “Breaking records left and right, his touchdown count alone is enough to put him in the running for the league MVP. The question now is, will he be able to get out of his current contract and secure the monster deal he’s been hinting at? The numbers don’t lie; he’s now officially the number one wide receiver in the NFL. And in other Bishop news, he was spotted out last week with pop sensation Riley Cruise…”
I glance up, and that’s when I see her.
Ashton. Standing in the middle of the bakery, mop in hand, staring at the screen like it just told her the meaning of life. Her eyes are locked in like laser beams. Bishop’s smiling photo, the kind they use on sports reels where the player looks charming and just slightly cocky.
But Ashton’s expression… is new.
Not her usual dry, I-know-everything-in-the-room-before-you-even-open-your-mouth look. Not her law-student, give-me-a-case-file-and-a-cup-of-coffee focus. No.
It’s a damn spark.
I lean against the counter with a smirk. “I’ve never seen that look before.”
Her head snaps toward me. “What look? There wasn’t a look.
“Oh, there was a look, I’m not buying it,” I tease, grinning. “Don’t even try to deny it. You like him, don’t you?”
Ashton’s cheeks burn the faintest shade of pink, which, for her, is basically a flashing neon sign.
I sigh.
“It’s not like he’s tall, handsome, charming, and the best football player in the league,” she says sarcastically, turning back to her mop like the floor is suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room.
I gasp and then do a triumphant scream into my hands. “Ah! I knew it. Youdolike him.”
Without missing a beat, Ashton walks to the counter, grabs the remote, and switches the channel from the sports broadcast to an episode ofDexter.
“No, I don’t,” she says in the calmest, most unusual Ashton voice I’ve ever heard. It’s eerie as the sound of a murder scene starts in the background. She keeps mopping like we’ve just been talking about the weather.
I grin and do a little dance. “Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”
Ashton doesn’t look up, but I swear I catch the ghost of a smile.
Chapter 23
