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It’s also been quiet because I’ve made my own efforts to keep my noise level lowered in the mornings. The bakery opens at eight, but I’ve been making batters and doughs that can be made ahead of time and baking cookies right as I’m opening. My nights have been late, as I’ve been staying up to make things that can be baked the night before, like muffins, croissants, and scones.
Once I am in my kitchen baking in the morning, I make an effort to be conscious of how loud I am. My music stays limited to my headphones, and I try to keep the pan clanging and the mixer whirring to a minimum. It helps that I can also refill the cases during the day since the counter opens right to the kitchen, meaning customers can see me flounce from one end of the bakery to the next in between filling orders.
It’s not ideal, but it's the least I can do to be neighborly. Granted, there have still been a few times—twice, to be exact—where a deep voice has yelled in the hall to keep it down. Each time I rolled my eyes but tried a bit harder to be quiet.
The neighbor situation might not be ideal, but I love this location with the perfect amount of foot traffic it brings in. My business is already thriving, and it doesn’t seem to be just because I’m Shane Turner’s daughter keeping her mother’s memory alive. The town has noticed I’m good at what I do, and people keep returning because my food is damn delicious.
It’s been interesting to feel that success, a success that feels like mine and mine alone.
I’m pretty sure, though, that my favorite day of the week is going to be Friday. I’ve decided Fridays will be the day I open later, meaning I can have a little more time formyself.
This summer, Friday mornings are going to be for walking down the boardwalk and enjoying the warm air. Grabbing an iced latte at the cute little coffee and smoothie stand before walking back and getting to work.
Do I have coffee at home? Yes.
Do Isellcoffee at the bakery?
Also, yes.
Do I have the money to spend on frivolous things like coffee when I just opened a brand new business?
No.
Am I going to make it my new routine anyway because I need to start living formyselfand doing the things that makeLolahappy?
Yes. Yes, I am.
That’s what I’m doing now: my hair tied back into my normal braids, a pink “Libby’s” tank on, and another pair of black bike shorts as I walk back from the coffee stand with my coffee. It’s a hot morning, the cold plastic already sweating in my hand, but it feels good to be out.
My eyes are caught on a pair of seagulls fighting over a pile of bread, headphones in as I listen to music.
The music is loud.
So loud, I don’t hear the voice behind me.
Not until it is so close it’s nearly right behind me, forcing me to take out a headphone and turn to look behind me.
As I do, the back of my shoulder slams into a body that’s coming at me.
A wet, sweaty body.
Someone on a bike flies past, yelling something my mind can’t decode in my confusion and overstimulation.
And of course, because my life is a joke, it’s the hand that’s holding my coffee that goes flying.
“What the—?” I pull out my other headphone and turn.
And there he fucking is.
Ben Coleman.
Fuckin’ A.
A shirtless, tanned, sweaty Ben Coleman is standing there, an arm out away from his body, said arm dripping in coffee.
The sun plays on his pecs, glistening with sweat and the light dusting of hair, adding shadows and highlights to tattoos that weren’t meant to be there.
I shouldn’t be looking, gawking, really, but . . .
