Page 13 of Where the Music Grows

I’m suddenly self-conscious about my wrinkled t-shirt and the day-old stubble on my jaw. She’s pretty. Really pretty. My age, I would guess. She steps up to the glass case. She’s not wearing much makeup. She doesn’t need it. Her hazel eyes lock on me. I see goodness there. Genuine. She’s looks kind.

“Passing through?” she asks.

“I look rough,” I admit with a nervous laugh.

“Nah. You look tired. Like you need a sugary treat and a big coffee.”

“You got that right.” I nod.

She laughs. “Where you headed?”

“South,” I say, because it’s the only answer I have. “Wherever the road takes me, I guess.”

“Well, ‘south’ sounds like a long trip.” She gestures to the display case. “What can I get you?”

I glance at the case. Everything looks so damn good. Huge cinnamon rolls, muffins studded with blueberries, croissants so flaky they’d probably dissolve if you breathed on them wrong.

I’m starving and am pretty sure I could eat every last pastry in the case.

My stomach growls. Loudly.

I want to dissolve into the floor. Of course the first pretty girl I’ve seen in a while that doesn’t know me or my family or anything else about me and my body revolts.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Hungry?”

“A little.” I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling the last few bills crumpled there. “What’s, uh... what’s cheap?”

She hesitates, then leans on the counter. “You broke?”

The question is so blunt I almost laugh. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

She nods like this is a totally normal answer. “Hang on.”

She disappears into the back and returns with a paper bag. “Yesterday’s stuff. Still good, just not fresh enough to sell. You can have it for a couple bucks.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She grins. “Unless you’d rather pay full price for today’s?”

I fumble for my wallet. “No, yesterday’s is great.”

I hand her the cash, and our fingers brush.

“I’m Jinnie,” she says, tucking the money into the register.

“Jack.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack.” She pushes the bag toward me. “Try the apple muffin first. It’s my favorite.”

I reach for it at the same time she does, and our hands collide. The bag tips, sending a roll tumbling onto the counter.

“Oh—sorry,” I mutter, grabbing for it.

She laughs. “I’m all thumbs.”

“I think I’m the clumsy one. I’ve been driving all day.”

“Where you from?”