Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“Do you bake?” I ask, and he winces.
“Noooo,” he says hesitantly, “but I can follow orders.”
I snort. “Yeah . . . I’m sure that’s not true in the slightest.”
Wyatt shrugs. “Let’s say I can follow orders when I want to, when they make some sense and are given by someone I want to please.”
I’m pretty sure we’re not talking about cupcakes or mopping floors any longer, but I’m almost eager to find out exactly what we are talking about. “Okay, let’s test that theory.”
Chapter 9
WYATT
For most people, going to work half-tipsy at half past midnight isn’t the best idea.
But Hazel seems to feel this is perfectly normal. Judging from her 24/7/365 comment, maybe for her, it is? She’s getting more clearheaded by the minute, not having any alcohol in more than an hour and putting away a basket of cheese fries by herself, so I’m not in doubt of her decision-making skills. And it’s not like we’re breaking and entering. She has a key.
Honestly, even if we were committing a little light B and E, I’d probably go along with it to spend time with her and get to know what makes her tick better.
As Hazel flips on the lights, I’m surprised at the charming bakery before me. After seeing Etta’s version of Puss N Boots, and hearing that her mom’s business is called the Bakery Box, I was worried it would be sexy red velvet fabrics and black lights. For Cold Springs, it’d seem apropos in the craziness. Instead, it’s bright and clean, with pink-and-white striped walls, a trio of four-seater tables, and chrome display cases that are currently empty.
Hazel looks at me expectantly, awaiting my verdict or a snappy comment. But I’m enjoying surprising her as much as possible.
“This is cute. Your mom must be an amazing baker,” I say kindly.
“She’s the best,” Hazel agrees, and I can sense the indecision in her. Under the eyes of her watchful aunt at the bar, she was flirty but knew she had a solid safety net that would keep her from taking things too far. She could tease and torment me, all the while telling me that I didn’t have a chance with her because of one thing. My name.
But now? Alone, with only herself to stop her, I can feel her wavering. She wants me, she just doesn’t want to want me. It’s a situation I’ve never been in, and I suspect she hasn’t either. As for me? I certainly wasn’t expecting to find something, or someone, to make this trip home bearable, but Hazel has more than done so.
The kitchen is different from the front of the shop. Gone are the cutesy decorations and soft pastels, replaced with commercial-grade stainless-steel worktables, an industrial mixer that looks like it could handle cake batter or concrete with equal ease, a huge refrigerator, and a trio of big ovens that could bake a whole wedding cake at once.
Oh, and a microwave. It looks out of place, the only black thing in the entire bakery, with a twist dial and a huge scuff on top. “What’s with this old thing?” I ask, running my hand over the surface. It’s clean, just scarred.
Hazel looks my way and flips the switches on the wall with practiced ease. “Mom only uses that for two things.”
“What’s that?”
“Rewarming coffee and melting butter,” she says, pointing at the big industrial sink. “You. Hands. To the elbows.”
I sense this is my first test—to see if I actually will follow directions. I scrub up to my elbows like a surgeon getting ready for open-heart surgery, with every intention of acing this test. “Now what?”
Her reply is to toss an apron in my face, and I’m tempted to protest. It’s . . . cutesy.
But without a word I slip the baby-blue gingham strap over my head, fiddling with the ties to get something approaching a bow knot going behind my back. I feel like I look stupid, but Hazel gives me an appreciative look. Though it’s possible that’s because she’s tying her own plain white apron on.
“Cara had this crazy midnight-madness idea,” Hazel explains, giving me flashbacks of the awful wedding planner barging into my suit fitting like she owned the place, “which is actually brilliant, but I will kill you if you tell her I said that.” She points a sharp finger at me, and I hold my hands up, promising that I’ll do no such thing. “Good, because it basically means that, in addition to Mom making the wedding cake, she now has to make four hundred desserts.”
“Four hundred?” I ask incredulously. “Holy shit, that’s a lot.”
“Exactly,” Hazel says. “Now we can’t bake it all tonight, and Mom’s already started on some of the goodies, but we can help out by getting a few batches of cupcakes done and in the cooler for her.”