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I’d hidden in the back by the ovens when Hoss picked up his order this morning. I’d been prepared. I’d baked my little heart out the last two nights and this morning. But his order and the cases Squared were filled, as well as a ton of extras as back-up for the crowd we expected today. We wouldn’t be turning anyone away, though I may sleep for the next two weeks to recover.
Ms. Minerva would be by any minute for her weekly treat, but I had no idea where she would have to park. They’d cordoned off all the parking around the square already - special rules for Christmas. All sorts of special rules discussed at the meeting where I’d managed to anger more than a few people by pointing out a few common sense issues - primarily this, where regular customers were supposed to park. The alley behind the row of buildings circling the square, including the strip housing Sugar Squared, had filled up with workers and volunteers hours ago.
Just then, a blue and silver golf cart turned onto the road in front of the bakery. A lighted wreath bedecked the cart grill with a pine garland circling the roof. The Renegades crest took pride of place on the hood. And perched in the backseat, a grin splitting her lips, sat Ms. Minerva, appearing for all the world as though she arrived via limousine. The cart stopped directly in front of the bakery. The driver, a huge man in the ugliest red and green Christmas sweater I’d ever seen, slid out from behind the wheel and turned to help Ms. Minerva down from the back bench seat.
The man tipped his head with a laugh, his wheat and honey hair shining in the sunlight. I grinned, imagining the crazy that came from Ms. Minerva’s mouth. The old woman had been coming to my bakery since I’d opened. The first year, she and her husband came in early on Saturday mornings to share coffee and peanut vanilla croissants. When he passed, and Ms. Minerva showed up solo the first time, I think I cried more than she did.
She toddled forward now, her fingers wrapped around the man’s elbow, her cane dangling from her opposite hand. He dwarfed her by miles, but leaned down to better hear her and slowed his gait to match hers. I pushed the door open as the mis-matched pair approached. “And here I was worrying about where you’d have to park.”
Minerva’s eyes sparkled. “They’ve got parking set up in the old Woolworth lot. And this gorgeous young man was ready and waiting to drive me over here.”
I smiled up at the “gorgeous young man”. He was big, though not quite matching Hoss’ physique. But he towered at least a foot over me in my four-inch heels, whiskey brown eyes grinning down from beneath an unruly swath of dirty blond hair.
He tipped his chin in greeting. “When Hoss assigned me cart duty and said no wheelies or donuts, who woulda thought I’d still have so much fun chauffeuring people around?”
“At least the weather’s holding and you’re not under a foot of snow,” I said as Minerva passed me and headed to her usual table with a wave over her shoulder.
He lingered just inside the door, speculation rampant in his eyes as his gaze drifted over me. “You the one who’s been giving Hoss such a hard time?”
Heat blossomed in my cheeks, but my chin tilted up. “Maybe.”
He grinned and I shifted on my heels. “He always did have all the luck.”
I recognized the man in front of me, of course. I’d have to live under a rock to not recognize the local boy made good. Shepherd Landon made headlines - the Virginia boy who went off to Boston U to skate at a hockey college known to push out pros, only to be drafted the second he was eligible by the Renegades.
And another annoying fact? Zero attraction. Appreciation for an attractive male specimen? Sure. But none of the finger-tingling, none of the maddening twitchy feeling between my shoulder blades that warned there might only be one solution to that itch.
Kyle Hossman loomed large, even from half a block away.
When had I morphed from a twenty-seven-year-old business owner to a shy kid hiding in the bakery when my crush appeared?
Not that I was crushing on Kyle Hossman. Not at all. This was just some weird fascination for a sexier-than-sin ex-hockey player with a grin that set off a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies in my belly.
Shepherd took off with a wink and a wave, and I hurried to get Ms. Minerva’s order underway. We were still busy, despite the issues with parking. A lot of new faces, here because of the car stuff, I guessed. In a month, when I’d slept a full night and faced the new year with a bank account solidly in the black, I’d be grateful for the business.
The next lull in customers found me in front of the window again. Instead of using the parking as the spots were drawn out on the asphalt, people in bright orange “crew” vests guided a vast array of cars in long rows. A slow process as the crew members sorted everyone by the kind of car they drove. Even a few trailers with shiny cars perched on top. Too special, I supposed, to be driven like any old thing.
Just then, the loud roar of a new arrival drew my attention. Easily the loudest car I’d ever heard, the rumbling engine or whatever made certain cars sound like fierce and wild predators, pulled up in front of Squared. They’d created a traffic jam ahead. The dark red car idled loudly right outside the bakery.
Movement drew my eye to the grassy area of Pendleton Square. A boy—the same boy that’d been attached to Hoss’ hip the last two months—darted into the street only to stumble to a stop at the side of the loud red car. Even across the distance between us, I had to laugh at the wide-eyed amazement in the boy’s expression. His mouth moved a mile a minute. In his excitement, he swiped his hand over his head, shoving his knit Renegades hat right off to plop in the muddy puddles in the street. He didn’t notice. The driver reached out the window, hand extended, and the boy scrambled to exchange a fist bump with the man. In the next minute, the traffic gave way and the rumbly red car crawled forward, winding around to disappear into the lot behind the caboose.
One after another, loud cars thundered by. The boy scrambled back into the grassy area and out of harm’s way, but his forgotten hat disappeared under the rolling wheels. With his wide eyes and irrepressible grin, I didn’t think he’d noticed the loss yet, or the cold. But despite the sunshine, it was December in Virginia, and he needed something on his head.
I turned away from the window and hurried into the little office in the back. I’d worn my own Renegade beanie this morning, one I’d crocheted myself. I didn’t think the boy would notice, as long as the colors fit his team.
A minute later, I stepped out in front of a slow-moving beast of a black car, scowling at the driver when they glared through the windshield. As if they were gonna get anywhere fast in this quagmire. I swept up the boy’s soggy hat and strode over to meet him at the edge of the grass.
“Well,” I said, “this thing is no longer fit for your head.”
“My mom’s gonna kill me.” His face scrunched up, big brown eyes shining over a trembling lower lip. “I’ve already lost two hats. She’s gonna be so mad.”
“Here.” I passed him my blue and silver beanie. “No Renegade patch, but the colors are right.”
He tugged it down low over his ears and nearly covered his eyes. “You think she’ll notice?”
I shrugged. But he continued to squint up at me with worry wrinkling his face, so I finally said. “It is what it is, kid. Yours is ruined.”
He nodded. His narrow shoulders heaved as he sucked in a deep breath and let it out with a long, forlorn sigh. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I didn’t know kids. Were they all this dramatic? “Come with me.”
