Page 37 of The F*ck-It List

“It’s hot out,” he grumbles. “It’s been a long day already.”

“Oh, we weren’t complaining, were we dear?” Ruth says, nudging me with her elbow, like we’re in cahoots and I can only stare at her, silently begging her to stop. She doesn’t. “Did you know Bea is single, August?”

Oh, dear God, kill me now, just strike me down with a thunderbolt or something. August raises a heavy brow, looking at the older woman with suspicion and a hint of affection.

“I did,” he says slowly.

“You know, you really should—”

“Ruth,” August interrupts with a warm patience I’m not expecting from him.

“August,” she retaliates in kind.

He doesn’t indulge her any further, turning his honeyed brown gaze to me. “You got a sec?”

I nod, my chair scraping loudly as I push it back to stand. When I come to stand next to August, I babble immediately. “I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t…I mean, I didn’t…It’s not like—”

“Oh, that’s just Ruth,” he interrupts, saving me from myself. “You’ll get used to that.”

Feeling grateful that he brushes away Ruth’s interference, my shoulders drop a couple of inches. “So, what’s up?”

August studies the plain grey wall where the bookshelves were meant to go with a creased brow. “What were you thinking? For the shelves?”

“Oh, um.” I turn to look at the same thing he’s looking at. “Well, I wanted something different, something…otherworldly.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, his deep voice rumbling over the word. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” I laugh and feel his attention snag on me. When I peek up at him, his mouth is relaxed in amusement. “I guess I just love escaping this world by reading books and wanted a beautiful way to display my books to reflect that.”

“I see.” He folds his arms and goes back to considering the wall.

“I don’t ask for much, do I?” I joke.

He doesn’t answer, instead taking a breath as he clearly thinks. “You trust me?” he finally asks.

“Yes,” my answer comes instantly and without doubt.

“Okay,” he says with a decisive nod. “I’ve got it.”

It takes five days. On the second day, Joanie showed up with cans of paint, wearing paint splattered dungarees and a fabulous scarf in her hair. When I asked what she was doing, she shooed me away, which left me bored out of my mind, so I caught a bus to the nearest large townand explored. On day three, Nick Butcher, the baker, knocked on my front door and told me I was coming to help in the bakery for the day. I was confused but ultimately went with him without complaint because he’s a nice guy, and I thought it might be fun. There was cream sheeting over the windows of the café as we passed so I couldn’t see the Zeligs inside or what they were doing, which was slightly nerve wracking. But I forgot all about that when Nick took me to the back of the bakery to the working kitchen and told me he was teaching me to make croissants.

“Really?” I said, wide eyed and amazed.

He laughed. “Yeah, a not so little birdie told me you wanted to learn, and as I knew you were off today, I thought you could help us make the morning’s batch.”

I’d jumped to hug him in gratitude, and he’d laughed some more, returning my hug in kind. He’s older than me, maybe in his forties, and cute in a round-faced way. I know his wife occasionally helps in the bakery but works hard raising their three kids and she’s a lovely woman who matches Joanie’s enthusiasm for a café in the village.

I spend the day in the bakery making croissants, which Nick tries to reassure me are as perfect as his, but I know full well he sold them at a reduced rate and put another batch in. But I can cross it off my list and that has me beaming all day, which is why I ask to stay and help. I meet more villagers when they come in for their baked goods and by the time I head home, I feel light as a cloud.

On day four, Eli is the one to knock, telling me he has some errands to run in town and wonders if I’d like to join him. Again, I have nothing better today as I’ve been banned from my own café, so I go with him. I like Eli, he’s so friendly, easy going and open, happy tokeep to small talk or go into deeper subjects, and I already think of us as firm friends.

On the fifth day, Connor knocks on my door with the biggest grin and tells me it’s ready. I follow him next door with nerves bubbling in my gut and anxiety creeping through my veins as I think how I will cover any disappointment if it’s not what I want. As we get to the door, Connor places his hand over my eyes.

“No peeking,” he says.

“Haven’t I waited long enough?” I complain as he leads me forward, I hear the door open and assume someone opened it from inside.

We keep walking until I knock into what I can only assume is a table, bashing my hip and a chair catching my shin with a loud scrape across the hard floor.