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11
LARK
I really should have kissedWyatt.
Iwantedto kiss him that night on the porch. Something about his rough, grumpy exterior was working for me.Really working, and in that moment I had wanted nothing more than to wrap my legs around him and let himdevour me. Maybe it was the way he always seemed a little lighter around his adorable daughter. Or the way he was looking after three unruly college football players. Or the fact that despite being back in his hometown, he seemed really,reallylonely. His broad shoulders and chiseled jaw certainly didn’t put any marks in theThis Is a Terrible Ideacolumn.
I groaned inwardly. I definitely should have kissed him.
“Hey, can you clear that table over there?”
Torn from my thoughts, I gave Sylvie a shy smile. “On it.”
Tootie had called in a favor and gotten me a summer job at the Sugar Bowl, and so far it was... not great. They didn’t really need me. It was a pity hire. I knew it, and they knew it.
Sylvie worked behind the register and seemed to run the bakery as kind of a general manager, while Huck Benton, the burly owner and baker, mostly kept to himself in the back. Huck had nodded a brusque greeting and disappeared into the kitchen.
I smiled, remembering how I’d met his fiancée my first day in Outtatowner. The way they’d looked at each other was the sweetest thing, and a little pang of envy pinched beneath my ribs. Sylvie had already started rambling on about the bakery’s daily specials and attempted a quick rundown on how to use the commercial coffee maker.
A barista, I was not.
I quickly learned that the machine wasn’t nearly as simple as a Keurig, and between pumps of mocha, shots of espresso, and steamed milk flying everywhere, I was quickly relegated to table-busing duty.
Sylvie was kind and patient but also annoyed, so I quietly slipped the barista apron from around my neck and picked up a rag.
I piled up small plates, cups, and saucers as I maneuvered through the crowded bakery.
The Sugar Bowl was a gathering place for many Outtatowner locals. Overhearing conversations about the rapidly approaching “busy season” and plans for the influx of tourists was fascinating. Several times I got caught up in the conversations, pausing to listen in with a smile on my face until scrunched noses and curious looks broke me from my wandering ears. I offered a polite smile but kept moving.
But I couldn’t help it. The town was intriguing. Many people had wacky nicknames, and it made my head spin trying to keep everyone straight.
Bowlegs’s twin brother came in, and someone bought him a black coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. He joined the small group of old men, and despite the fact he wore a trapper hat and was missing several teeth, no one batted an eye or made it seem at all uncommon.
From the few conversations I could catch in passing, Bowlegs and his brother were neither Sullivans nor Kings—among the few people who managed to straddle the line. The local bar, the Grudge Holder, was open to everyone. Huck’s bakery was also one of only three businesses that also refused to pick sides. Sylvie was a King, and I didn’t miss how she’d subtly slip into the back whenever too many Sullivans came around. With the patrons inside, there was also a visible divide between Kings, Sullivans, and tourists, if you knew to look for it.
The tinkling of the bell on the door was constant, and I was already sweating before 10:00 a.m. I had placed the last pile of dishes from a high-top table into my arms and swiveled to carry them to the back when I crashed into the back of an older woman waiting in line.
“My goodness!” the woman shouted.
Startled, the dishes slipped from my arms and crashed to the floor. The commotion drew every eye in the bakery as I sank to my knees and frantically tried to clean the broken plates and spilled coffee.
Heat burned my cheeks. “Crap! I am so sorry. I’m sorry.”
Sylvie knelt beside me with a large plastic tub and a rag to help gather the mess.
“I’m sorry, Sylvie. I didn’t see her.”
“It’s okay.” Her kind smile eased the sharp edge of my nerves, and Sylvie glanced up at the woman. “Your order is on the house today, Ms. Tiny.”
“Thank you.” Her nose tipped up at Sylvie, but then she added, “I suppose accidents do happen.” The woman named Tiny smiled at me, and I finally exhaled.
I leaned closer to Sylvie. “Thank you. Really, I am sorry.”
Sylvie winked at me as she discarded the last shards of a broken cup. She leaned in closer to whisper. “Just be glad it wasn’t me who knocked into her. Ms. Tiny can be a bit of a bear, but since you’re a Sullivan, she’s willing to overlook it.”
My cheeks flamed again at being lumped in with the Sullivans. Part of me really liked that. Being claimed by a tribe of fiercely loyal family members.
“I’m not really anyone’s, I guess.”
