Page 8 of Chasing Amanda

He studied a menu displayed near the front door, then glanced inside. The place was mostly empty, but movement in the corner caught his eye.

A woman was bent over a table where three elementary-aged girls were cutting out rounds of puffy dough. Were they making biscuits?

It was the strangeness of the scene that had Mark watching. Was the woman giving the kids a cooking lesson, right there?

The instructor shifted to a different table, where an older boy and girl were rolling out thin sheets of dough. She had her own bit of dough, which she’d already rolled out. She brushed butter across it, then folded and rolled it paper-thin again. After repeating the process a second time, the students followed her lead with their own dough.

The girl focused on her work, but the boy kept looking at the instructor. If Mark had to guess, he’d say the kid had a crush on his teacher. Though Mark only saw the woman from behind, her apron was snug over her jeans and T-shirt, showing off a shapely figure.

The woman stood and shifted, and…

Well, no wonder the kid had a crush. She was stunning.

It was Amanda.

The door opened again, and a couple of people went inside and to the counter, where they ordered. Amanda paid them no attention.

Might as well wait where it was warm. Not that he was trying to hide, but he didn’t want to interrupt.

He ordered a coffee and a muffin and found a seat facing the other direction. He couldn’t see her, but he heard her voice as she instructed the kids. She was so patient and kind, laughing at the little ones’ antics, never getting annoyed.

“Did I get these too skinny?” one of the little girls asked.

“I think so.”

Uh-oh. Mark held his breath, waiting for a scolding. If he’d been the one to mess up, he’d have been scolded or worse by his mother, and the teachers at his private school hadn’t exactly been warm.

“That happens, sweetheart,” Amanda said. “It’s just dough. Let’s roll it out and try again.”

What? No berating? No humiliation? No yelling?

Not even a firm, Now what did I tell you? Try harder next time.

Not that Mark had never had decent teachers, but Amanda was more than decent. She was sweet and gentle.

The little girls were already giggling again.

When she led them behind the counter, they each carried a small tray of dough rounds. A few minutes later, they emerged with plates of steaming biscuits she must’ve prepared earlier.

They smelled heavenly.

The little ones quieted, and Mark figured they were eating, though he didn’t turn to look.

Amanda was teaching the older kids how to cut and roll their dough. When they passed him with their trays, their sheets had transformed into uncooked croissants. They returned a few minutes later, beaming, with the baked renditions.

Now that he’d found Amanda—and had a little food in him—he was in no hurry and almost sorry when the kids’ mom showed up. The kids told her everything they’d learned—the little ones all talking at the same time.

“They’re so yummy!”

“Can I eat mine for dinner?”

“I’m gonna take mine to Gram!”

“Tell Dad not to forget them this time.”

The mother responded to that. “I’ll call him later and remind him.”

Mark guessed their father owned—or at least managed—the bakery.