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“One of the many perks of living over a bakery.” Brooklyn dropped the keys into my palm. “Change whatever you want. I’m not married to any of the furniture or even the colors.”
“No, it’s seriously exactly as it should be.”
The apartment over the bakery was what I needed. Over time, I could add personal touches, but for now, it was like walking into a warm hug. It was bright, cheerful, and homey.
Completely unlike the home I had shared with Knox.
“Come downstairs for a cup of coffee and a biscotti,” Brooklyn suggested.
I locked up the apartment and followed her downstairs into the kitchen in the back of the bakery. A finished wedding cake rested on one of the large tables and it was truly a work of art.
I inhaled deeply and nearly shuddered.
“I know that look,” a young woman with dark hair said as she came into the kitchen from the front of the bakery.
“What look?” I inquired.
“You just became a sugar junky.” She grinned.
I laughed.
“Jazz, this is Logan,” Brooklyn said. “She’s going to be renting the apartment upstairs. Logan, this is Jazz. One of my best friends and business partners.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Likewise.” To Brooklyn, she said, “Brielle just called. She’s at the venue and the bride is having a meltdown about the cake. Apparently it doesn’t look the way it was promised.”
Brooklyn sighed. “The not-so-fun part of running your own business.”
“You could delegate,” Jazz said.
“We’re in a growth phase,” Brooklyn said. “I have to handle stuff like this myself.”
“You refuse to slow down even though you need to.”
“Now you sound like Slash,” Brooklyn said. “I’m getting better about delegating other things.”
Jazz snorted. “No, you’re not.”
A cell phone rang and Brooklyn reached into her apron pocket and pulled it out. She answered the phone. “Hi, love. Hold on a second.”
Brooklyn angled the phone away from her mouth and said to me, “Sit and enjoy a cup of coffee. I might be awhile.”
She headed in the direction of the back office and a moment later I heard the door shut.
“Come on,” Jazz said. “I’ll make you a coffee.”
There was a lull of customers, but a few patrons sat with their laptops and half empty mugs at tables in the café. I took a seat at the counter in the corner, which had a direct line of sight to the fancy espresso machine.
“What would you like to drink?” Jazz asked.
“Surprise me.”
She nodded and crouched down to the fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk. “So…”
“So,” I said.
“You hung out at the clubhouse yesterday—barbecue, right?”
