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“When you’re my age, you’ve already lived a really long time.”
I scooped ice into a cup and filled it with lemonade. “I’m glad you’ll be around a little longer.”
He snorted. “Only because I buy so much of your cake.”
“Not true,” I argued.
He stabbed a plastic fork into his cake. “You should cut all this other stuff you sell. Stick to the cake.”
I’d considered that, and maybe one day I’d have a bakery too, but I enjoyed making all kinds of food, not just desserts. “Have you ever tried anything else?”
He cut his eyes up at me. “No need. This is what I come for.” Mr. Hardaway stuffed a bite into his mouth as if he couldn’t wait another second.
“As long as you’re happy.”
“Happiness is overrated,” he mumbled into his cake.
“Let me pack you something to take home for supper.” I didn’t wait for a reply, scooping up a couple of mini chicken pot pies into a paper box. This was the first day I’d served them, and they’d been a hit.
“Just give me another slice of cake and keep the rest,” he grumbled, holding out his payment.
I snickered. I wondered if this man had always been so grumpy yet so adorable.
“Would you like another piece of champagne chiffon or something else?”
“Same,” he answered gruffly. “To go.” He tossed his trash in the bin and snatched the bag of food and his lemonade off the counter. “You’re taking all my money.” Mr. Hardaway shoved a twenty-dollar bill at me and stalked away. I laughed, and at the same time, heard a deeper snort of laughter.
My breath caught when I saw who was standing a respectable distance from my window. Andrew Dixon. The man who had been lingering in my thoughts since yesterday. His lips curved upward in amusement. His eyes were as kind as I remembered.
“See you tomorrow,” I called to Mr. Hardaway, as I did every time he left.
“That’s not a tip,” he said. “That’s for my coconut cake.”
“I don’t have any coconut.” I couldn’t help myself. The man was too much fun to tease.
“You’re supposed to do what the customers want. I expect one next time.”
Andrew and I watched as he disappeared down the street before I could respond.
“That what all your regulars are like?” he asked, propping his arm against the counter.
“Nah. Mr. Hardaway is a special kind of grumpy.”
He laughed, and it reverberated through me. I soaked in every note, and hoped it wouldn’t be long before I heard it again. There was pure joy in that laughter, and I surprised myself by recognizing it so easily. Joy wasn’t an emotion I was on speaking terms with all that often. Ella was my link to it. Was it possible after only meeting this man twice that I’d found another one?
“Just thought I’d stop by to make sure you didn’t get a citation today.”
I glanced at my watch. Almost five thirty. The day had flown by.
“Glad you did. It’s about time to shut things down.” I pushed off the counter. “Are you a picky eater?”
He tilted his head to the side. “I hate pickles. And I’m not crazy about ketchup. Other than that, I’m game.”
“Stay put.”
I placed a chicken breast stuffed with feta and spinach in a cardboard container, followed by scalloped potatoes with thyme and gruyere cheese.
“Can I look now, or am I supposed to be surprised when I get home?” His finger edged under the flap of the container, but he didn’t open it.
