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“I shoulda started with that. Yes. Hi, Mariam. I’m Jesse Jones, and I’m sorry I raised a fool.”
After taking a moment to absorb all of this, she shakes her head. “How did you know your son stood me up on our date last night?”
I swallow. “The housekeeper at the ranch answered the phone when you called last night to see if he’d forgotten, then she told me. Nate gave you the house number and not his cell phone. Punk move.”
“He lives with you? He told me he lives in a condo in Bozeman,” she asks, surprised.
I explain, “He used to. I had to…it’s complicated. He currently lives in an apartment on my property while working for me…or at least he’s supposed to be working for me. The staff is afraid to rat him out for doing next to nothing.” I give her a wry smile with that last part, yet I wonder if I’m babbling. I do that around pretty women. Even women who are too young to date me, apparently.
I’ve said too much, and I feel bad for outing my son, though I shouldn’t.
She squints. “This doesn’t match up with anything Nate told me.”
I simply nod while my stomach clenches. It’s a harmless exaggeration, but I don’t like that he did it to Mariam in particular. Any other gal in Darling Creek would know all about Nate and how he puffs himself up. But she’s new here. I don’t like that.
My jaw and my stomach unclench, then, when her face brightens. “You don’t look old enough to have a son. I mean, a son who’s thirty-something,” she says, cocking her head to the side.
I scoff. “Darlin’, he’s 24.”
The bit of brow visible under her cap furrows. She glances around the bakery, confirming that it’s just us two in here. “No, the dating app said he was thirty-two. I wouldn’t have matched with someone that young,” she says. “I requested my age. Um, 26 to 36.”
Shaking my head, I apologize on behalf of my son. Nate is now not just a moron and a heel who ghosts women but also a liar.
“He must have told the dating app the wrong age,” I say. “Or lied. Let’s call it what it is.”
My words hang in the air between us like a bad smell. Mariam goes quiet and simply nods her head.
Crap. I meant to clean up Nate’s mess, but all I’ve done is add to this poor woman’s embarrassment. I look down and rub at a sudden, strange ache in my sternum with the meat of my palm.
“Wow,” Mariam breathes. She stares at the floor and blows out a breath.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Mariam takes a few seconds, then she rolls her shoulders back and faces me again. Her face is resolute with a brave smile. “No harm done. I’m glad you told me. What can I get you?”
“All the pies and muffins you have left. Please.”
Her dimples fade. “I’m sorry. Did you say you wanted all the pies and all the muffins?”
“Yes. Oh, and donuts.”
Mariam watches me for a moment. Probably wondering if I’m messing with her.
But she decides I’m legit and nods solemnly. “On it.”
Five minutes later, I’m paying for a stack of ten pink cardboard boxes loaded with great-smelling treats that have my mouth watering.
She rings me up and recounts the contents to ensure I know what I’m paying for. It’s nice of her to do that, but I’d buy it all even if her donuts were filled with sawdust. I want her to have a good day today.
“That’s twelve glazed blueberry-lemon muffins, five morning glory muffins, six cranberry-orange with orange glaze, three cherry pies, two apple pies with crumb topping, four rhubarb crumbles, a dozen Boston creme donuts, six apple crumble donuts, two dozen plain, a dozen raspberry jelly, and a dozen sour cream. Anything else?”
I examine the display case and ask, “What’s your favorite thing that nobody buys?”
Mariam looks up from the register to assess me again.
“The tipsy carrot cake.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
