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‘I can read lips…a little. And I know all the swear words,’ Caleb bragged with a wink. ‘It’s so nice to meet you. Can I text you later?’
‘Any time,’ Peyton assured him.
Caleb hesitated, then darted forward again and dragged Peyton into another hug before letting him go. This time he didn’t apologize, and Peyton grinned before grabbing his coffee.
‘Sorry, I have a kitten at home or I’d stay longer.’
Caleb waved him off. ‘Go, go. We’ll talk soon.’
Peytonreallydidn’t have time or space in his life to take on bakery orders for a café, but he couldn’t deny that something about the partnership seemed like maybe—at least in his professional life—things were starting to make sense again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Austin: Tell me if I’m way off base here. I totally understand if you’re busy, but I know what it’s like to regret giving your number out.
Austin: I won’t keep bothering you, I promise.
Austin: Just tell me to fuck off if that’s what you need to do. No hard feelings.
The messages seemed kind,but a small part of Peyton wondered if the guy was actually being pushy and passive aggressive. This was what he got for never having bothered to actually date someone before his illness.
He also had a long DM thread with Caleb from BrewBiz and a tentative list of things to bake for their café. Caleb was sweet and understood that Peyton was a one-man army and could only do so much, but it turned out the shop’s baker had become a sudden single caregiver—and Peyton had a feeling there was a bit more to it, though he didn’t pry.
But according to Caleb, anything was better than nothing, and Peyton had a long list of cookies and batch bakes he could prepare in bulk without throwing off his timetable too much. Then all the shop baker would have to do was throw them in the oven and serve them hot. Anyone could manage it.
At least, he hoped.
Worse came to worst, he could probably put an ad out for a part-time assistant since a new contract with BrewBiz meant he could probably afford it. As it was, his order queue was completely full again and his bank account was heavy with profit.
After checking on Ginger, who wasn’t interested in sleeping in her new bed butwasinterested in sleeping in the box the litter pan came in, Peyton took his cup of decaf and wandered outside. It was late, so the neighborhood was dark and quiet, and he took in a long breath of the thick sea air.
“Working late?”
Peyton jumped so hard he spilled coffee on himself, letting out a long string of swears.
“Sorry.” It was the neighbor with that rich, cinnamon voice Peyton could have listened to for hours. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
The man sounded as tired as before, but a little less hostile, so Peyton relaxed a fraction. “It’s fine,” he said after a beat. “I didn’t realize anyone was out here.”
There was another long pause, then the neighbor cleared his throat. “Do you want your, uh, container thing back?”
Peyton frowned, then his brows shot up. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Uh…I can run over or whatever.”
“Back gate’s open,” the guy said. His tone was sharp and short again, but Peyton was starting to think that maybe that was just how he talked. Like a resting bitch voice.
He could live with that, and he sure as shit wasn’t turning the guy down for the chance to see him again, and maybe wear him down a bit. “Are the brownies still in there?” he asked as he set his cup down and headed for his own gate.
The guy huffed, but Peyton was pretty sure it was more laughter than anything. “No. There was no way I could have eaten all that by myself, but my business partner came by, and he’s obsessed with your bakes.”
Peyton flushed lightly as he pulled the latch on the wooden door, then slipped out and gently pushed on his neighbor’s fence. For a second it stuck, and he felt a surge of panic like maybe the guy was fucking with him. But he gave it a second nudge and the hinges creaked as it swung inward, and he almost tripped over himself as he stumbled onto the grass.
“You’d think people with two functional legs would have the whole walking thing down a little better than you,” the guy said dryly.
Peyton rolled his eyes. “Hilarious. Tell that to the fourteen-year-old me who hit his first growth spurt.”
“You too?” The guy pushed forward in his chair, coming to the end of his concrete patio, and he had the box on his lap. “I was sixteen, though. I think my mom was convinced I wasn’t gonna get taller than five nine.”
“What’d you end up at?” Peyton asked, leaning against the patio support beam. He crossed his arms and studied the neighbor’s wide shoulders, trying to make an educated guess.
