“That’s better.”
“It is not, but I’m an artist.”
I tie on my apron with fingers that do not feel entirely steady. The fabric is clean, yellow, and stupidly cheerful. It seems almost offensive against the wreckage. I wear it anyway because sometimes defiance looks like color.
By six thirty, coffee is brewing, the ovens are hot, and the first batch of rolls fills the air with enough cinnamon to fight the scorched smell. I keep waiting for Kauss to come through the door.
He does not.
Every sound from the street makes my pulse jump. A skiff brake squeals and I look up. The bell over the door rattles in the wind and I turn too fast, making my ribs throb. A heavy footstep passes outside and my whole body prepares for him, but it is only Renn carrying a crate of scrap panels under one arm.
“You opened,” he says from the doorway, rain dripping from his hair.
“I own a bakery. It’s a thing we do.”
His gaze sweeps the room, pained and angry. “Damn, Evie.”
“I’ve looked worse.”
“Not talking about you.”
“I know.”
He comes inside and sets the panels near the front wall. “I can reinforce the window better before lunch. That board’s not going to hold if the wind turns.”
“Can I pay you in coffee and moral superiority?”
“You always do.”
Darlene appears with a mug. “You want breakfast?”
Renn looks at the ruined case and then at me. “You charging today?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He pulls out more credits than breakfast costs and puts them on the counter.
I push half back. “No.”
“Evie.”
“Renn.”
“I want to help.”
“Then fix my window and let me keep pretending this is a normal transaction.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“I hear that from the finest people.”
Customers begin arriving in a slow, awkward stream. They do not know where to look. Some stare at the broken case. Some stare at the boarded window. Some stare at me with expressions so full of pity I want to fling cinnamon rolls at their heads.
Mrs. Pell comes in with a box of fresh oranges and two jars of preserves. “These are surplus.”
“They are not.”
