by Sarina Bowen
“Gotcha.”
And then the inevitable happens. Roderick turns his chin a notch and glances in my direction. And I handle it all wrong. Instead of stepping out to greet him, I duck back into the kitchen and out of sight. Eavesdropping was a stupid thing to do.
Fuck.
“Hey—who’s the Peeping Tom?” I hear Roderick ask.
All my blood stops circulating.
“What?” Zara asks, and I can hear her walking this way.
“The spy in the kitchen,” Roderick says with a chuckle.
I have all of about two seconds to panic before they file into the kitchen. I throw the cookie dough mixing bowl into the sink and blast the water as Zara introduces Roderick to my back. “This is Kieran Shipley, who’s only with us in the mornings. Kieran—this is Roderick, who might be working with us.”
“Nice to meet you, Kieran,” Roderick says.
“Same,” I grumble over the water’s spray. I turn my chin a fraction to nod at him.
But somehow it’s enough. The smile falls right off Roderick’s face as his eyes widen. “Oh,” he says stupidly, recognition settling into his expression.
And now I know that Roderick has a killer memory to go along with his killer body. It’s just my luck that the dude remembers my face. I didn’t think he would. The high school gym thing happened seven or eight years ago, in some seriously bad lighting.
But he’s blinking at me with curiosity in his eyes.
And he called me a Peeping Tom just now. Which, I guess, I am.
Jesus Christ. There is no end to the humiliations that life doles out. I turn back to the dishes in the sink and get to work, Roderick’s gaze burning a hole in my back.
Roderick
Kieran Shipley. All these years later, I finally know his name. We weren’t in the same class at school. We never spoke. But of course I remember him. Who could forget?
At eighteen, I thought of myself as a wild man and a party animal. I wasn’t afraid of anything. My plan was to become a famous guitar player and screw the world’s most attractive men after each concert.
Sexual encounters beneath the bleachers were my idea of a raucous good time. And if a younger guy wanted to watch, the more the merrier.
From the look on his face, though, Kieran Shipley doesn’t share my fond memories. He has daggers in his eyes as he turns back to his work.
So this is a setback. Twenty-six-year-old me needs a job. Badly. I wonder if Kieran is going to screw this up for me. He’s a Shipley, too, like Audrey.
“Can we call you after we get a chance to sort ourselves out?” Zara asks. “Audrey and I need to huddle up and figure out if we’re ready to hire a full-timer.”
“Of course!” I say, snapping out of my funk. “You have my résumé, with the references on the back. Just holler if you have any questions.”
I shake everyone’s hand, except for Kieran’s. He’s too busy scrubbing a pan like he’s trying to teach it a lesson.
Then I get back into my car and continue my job search.
At seven o’clock that evening, my unemployed butt is running a quick three miles on the treadmill at the gym. I’ve had no calls from Zara, or from anyone else.
I spent the afternoon trying to put in applications at bakeries and restaurants around the area. I visited Price Chopper and also the Colebury Diner. Nobody needs a baker.
That’s the curse of a small town—a tiny labor market.
I suppose I could go back to Nashville. My boss would take me back. But Nashville isn’t really my home. It was Brian Aimsley’s. And since I never want to see him again, I can’t make myself go back.
The treadmill keeps me at a steady pace, and my feet slap against the belt as I try to burn off another wave of fear and anger. For the last three years I gave my whole soul to Brian. The more I think about it, the worse I feel.
Our Nashville friends were really his friends. Our social life happened on his schedule. He’s a musician who frequently tours, so I’d stack up my work hours for the times when he was gone, making myself available when he was home.
I was so accommodating. And he gave so little back.
There’s sweat dripping off my body now, so I hit the stop button and slow my paces. When I step off the treadmill, the floor does that thing where it feels like I’m still in motion. Teetering, I grab my phone and peek at the messages, because hope springs eternal. And—boom! There’s a text from an unknown 802 number.
Roderick—can you come to the Busy Bean tomorrow morning at seven? We discussed it and we want to do a trial period. If tomorrow is bad, let us know when you can come. —Zara.
Hot damn. I didn’t think I’d get this chance. But I sure am happy about it. Tomorrow at seven I’ll bring out my A-game in the kitchen. I will bake perfect bagels. I will dazzle with pizzas and pastries. I will scrub the floor if they ask me to. And I will charm the heck out of them while I’m doing it.
And somehow I’ll make friends with Kieran Shipley. Not that it will be easy. If only I hadn’t said, “Who’s the Peeping Tom?” I hadn’t been referring to high school—my word choice was just a shitty coincidence. He must know that, right?
The only things I know about him are that he’s smoking hot and he used to enjoy watching me blow another guy under the bleachers. I spotted him that first time, and then he kept coming back.
Maybe he’s in the closet and thinks I’m going to out him. But Kieran has nothing to fear from me. Unless he’s afraid of excellent bagels.
That night—after another shower at the gym, and a takeout sandwich—I park my car behind a yarn shop that’s on a curve in the road. The parking spot isn’t visible from neighboring properties, and the sign in the window says they open tomorrow at ten a.m.
I still don’t feel safe. Once again I spend the night squirming around in the passenger seat, waiting for a psycho to bash in my windshield with an ax and murder me. Anxious thoughts chase through my brain at dizzying speed.
On the plus side, it’s no problem showing up for work before dawn. I can’t wait to get out of this car. At six a.m. I’m brushing my teeth with bottled water and tidying up my hair with a wet comb. By six thirty, I’m rolling into the Busy Bean parking lot.
I’m so early that I have to tap on the kitchen window to let Audrey know that I’m here. She opens the door with, “Morning, sunshine. There’s no coffee yet, but we can fix that soon.”
“I’d be happy to make it,” I offer. Although I haven’t eaten much these past few days, and my stomach is too empty for coffee.
Being broke is the worst. I just need a little bit of luck to come my way before I can stop feeling like a homeless loser.
“Grab an apron,” Audrey says, pointing to the clean ones on a hook. “I’m making biscotti.”
“How can I help?”
“Sliver these almonds?” She tosses me a bag.
“No problem.” I wash my hands and get to work.
We work together for a while in companionable silence. We finish the biscotti and then move on to two kinds of muffins—corn and pear ginger. “The pears are from Zara’s family’s orchard,” she says. “We use local food as often as we can.”
“Is there locally grown flour?”
She shakes her head. “Not often. But we can use local butter and milk, and fruit, obviously. My husband’s family has a big apple orchard, so I make a lot of tarts.”
My stomach rumbles loudly, and Audrey laughs. “Somebody likes apple tarts.”
“Love them,” I say mildly. My poverty is not her problem, and complaining about my hunger doesn’t make me a better job prospect. “I remember the Shipley orchard. They used to hire teenagers in the fall. And there were bonfire parties.”
“We still have those parties. There’s one in a couple weeks. But the youngest Shipleys are out of high school.”
“Cool. Hey, can I ask a favor? My sourdough starter needs feeding, and I didn’t have time this morning. Could I feed it a cup of your flour?”
“Of course! Show me your ways.”
“Awesome. One sec.” I dash out to my car to get the jar, leaving my crusty measuring cup behind. Even if I can’t feed myself very well right now, I’ve still fed my sourdough starter every night and every morning. I’m using a five-pound bag of the cheapest white flour from the store, but I won’t let him die.
“So let’s see how you do this,” Audrey says when I return.
I set the jar down on the counter and screw off the top. “Audrey, I’d like to introduce you to William Butler Yeast.”
She snorts. “You named your starter?”
“Everybody names his starter. What did they teach you in cooking school?”
She watches with a smile while I remove two thirds of the stringy, bubbly batter from the jar. A sourdough starter is just three things: flour, water, and the millions of natural yeasts living in the mixture. Every day you have to remove two thirds of its bulk and then replace it with fresh flour and water, so that the yeasts have enough to eat.
“Don’t you have to weigh it?” Audrey asks. “I thought there was some precision involved.”
“You’re supposed to,” I admit. “But I’ve kept William in this jar for so long that I can just eyeball it now.” The discarded starter goes into a metal mixing bowl that I’ve grabbed off a shelf. Then, into William’s jar, I add a half cup of water and nearly a cup of flour. I stir the sticky mass together with a wooden spoon and close the jar again.
“So that’s how the magic happens?” She lifts the mixing bowl and takes a sniff. “I’m getting… bananas. And a whiff of alcohol.”
“Right, I smell that banana ester, too. And alcohol is a byproduct. I let it go a little too long between feedings.” That’s what living in your car will do for you. “So there’s extra alcohol present. William eats twice a day to stay at peak performance.”
“Can we make something with this?” she asks.
“Sure!” This is just what I need—to put my hands in some dough and make the kitchen smell like fresh bread. When I’m baking in a warm kitchen, that’s when I know everything is okay. “Do you have any yeast, though? If we wanted to do a bread that’s entirely leavened by sourdough, it won’t be ready until evening. When I’m making a strict sourdough, I start it the night before.”
“Probably?” Audrey goes to the refrigerator and roots around. “I have this. I don’t know if it’s your brand.” She hands me a package of Red Star.
“Perfect. Let’s make some pretzels.” I open the yeast and sprinkle about a teaspoon over my sourdough starter. “All we need is flour and water and maybe a dollop of honey or some sugar.”
“Not a problem,” Audrey says. “Let’s see your magic.”
If I had magic, I wouldn’t be broke right now. But did I mention that I’m a natural showman? “Get ready to be dazzled, Audrey. We’re eating well this morning.” I dip the metal scoop into the flour and get started on a batch of pretzels.
Kieran
I unlock the front door of the bakery and step inside. The air already smells like pumpkin muffins and coffee. Shrugging off my coat, I’m just about to call out a greeting when a baritone voice sings out a line from “Royals” by Lorde.
I freeze in place, listening to the next line and the finger-snapping that goes along with it.
“You are way too good at this!” I hear Audrey say with a giggle.
“Sing the high part. We’ll rock it together.”
Roderick. He’s here.
The two of them keep singing, and I have déjà vu. Because once again, I’m standing frozen in place, eavesdropping on Roderick like a creeper. Audrey was right. He is way too good at this. His voice is like a soulful liquid pouring through me, leaving goosebumps behind.
It’s seven o’clock in the morning, but I am vividly awake and wondering how I’m supposed to work elbow to elbow with this guy. He’s back. And I am not ready.
They sing the whole damn song before I snap out of it and hang my jacket on a hook.
“Is that you, Kieran?” Audrey calls.
“Yeah,” I rasp awkwardly. “Morning.”
“I’m covered in cream-cheese frosting!” Audrey calls. “Want a pumpkin muffin? Although you should know there are bagels, and they are spectacular.”
“Good tip,” I mumble as my heart sinks.
If Roderick made spectacular bagels, he’s probably here to stay. This is terrible. Working at the Busy Bean isn’t my life’s goal. I started here to help my cousin’s wife, and to save up for my own place. But it’s comfortable, or at least it used to be. Now I have to work with him? Not possible.
Sure enough, Roderick comes out of the kitchen ten minutes later to work the morning rush with me. “Just tell me if I screw something up,” he says in a chipper voice. “Okay?”
I jerk my chin in a nod, avoiding eye contact. What is he thinking right now? Oh right. Now it’s time to serve coffee with the creep who used to watch me blow guys under the bleachers.
I want to die. Preferably quickly.
Unfortunately, the next few hours move at a snail’s pace. Ordinarily I’m a perfectly competent barista, quick, but bad at small talk.
Today I am all thumbs. Whenever Roderick stands close to me, I lose my train of thought. He smells like baked goods and citrus. Sometimes he hums a bit of a tune under his breath, and the notes bounce like rubber balls inside my chest.
And every time I catch myself paying too much attention to him, I become a little more of a self-conscious wreck. Each order takes twice as long to fill as it should.
Still, I hold it all together until Roderick suggests that we work assembly-line style to clear out the line. “Do you want to fill the orders or work the register?”
“Fill the orders,” I grunt. Because I’m better at coffee than people.
On the one hand, this new arrangement is a relief because it keeps Roderick out of my personal space. I no longer have to take so much care to avoid bumping into him. But now I have a new problem. Roderick jots the orders on the cups, and he has terrible handwriting. So, and this is an introvert’s nightmare, I have to ask him questions.
“Dark soul? Dark scar?” I guess, squinting at a cup.
“Dark roast with a scone,” Roderick says with a flinch. “Sorry. I’ll do better.”
Of course that says scone. My face reddens as I dive into the pastry case. He’s more careful on the next few cups. But then the Retired Teachers Knitting Club descends on the Busy Bean, and the line grows long again.
“You guys okay out here?” Audrey asks, dropping a fresh tray of muffins into the case.
“No problem,” Roderick says with a quick smile, although his blue eyes flash with panic.
A busy shop doesn’t rattle me, so long as I don’t have to make small talk with anyone. Maybe that’s why I don’t ask him what the next few scribbles say. I start guessing instead. It goes fine, until I fill an order that asks for “BB and BCH”, and I serve up a breakfast blend with a buttered chive biscuit.
One minute later though, Mrs. DeAngelo, my third-grade teacher, is standing in front of me yelling. “Coffee? I asked for a Berry Buster Tea. And this biscuit looks good, but it is not the bagel with cream cheese I ordered.” Naturally, Audrey sticks her head out of the kitchen just then, a question on her face.
“Sorry, Mrs. DeAngelo,” I stammer. “Let me fix that.” I take the coffee out of her hand and look for the tea bags.
“Oh, shit. Sorry,” Roderick says. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was that hard to understand.
“S’okay,” I mutter. Everyone is staring at me, which is my least favorite thing in the whole entire world.
“You could have asked,” Roderick says under his breath, reaching for a bagel while I make Mrs. DeAngelo’s tea.
Yeah, I could have. But talking to you is like crossing a bed of hot lava.
“It’s a shame that you’re still so distracted,” Mrs. DeAngelo says loudly to the whole planet. “Always doodling in class instead of listening.”
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Roderick cringes on my behalf and hastily spreads cream cheese on the old bat’s bagel. Then finally, we’re rid of her.
“Sorry about the terrible penmanship,” Roderick whispers. “If my teacher ever showed up, she’d have plenty to say about that.”
I only grunt in response, wondering how it could be only ten in the morning. Four more hours of this? I don’t think I can take it. Mrs. DeAngelo was right, anyway. I can’t concentrate this morning to save my life. Roderick wipes down the counter, humming under his breath, and the rich sound climbs right under my skin and vibrates through my consciousness.
I glance at the time. It’s only advanced a minute since the last time I looked, and I let out a sigh.
Roderick
As the day wears on, I charm Audrey by keeping the customers happy. And when Zara comes in at noon, I charm her with my baking success. “We had to save you a bagel and a pretzel to try because we sold the rest,” I tell her.
“Someone bought a dozen pretzels for her office after tasting them,” Audrey chirps. “She said it wouldn’t be right to keep them to herself.”
But the one person I cannot charm is Kieran Shipley. He avoids eye contact with me, even when I’m being super friendly.
I don’t take it personally, of course. He must be worried about our high school encounters. Maybe he thinks I’ll tell his family that...
Okay, I don’t have the first clue what he’s worried I’ll say. He obviously remembers me, and not in a good way. But I can’t tell if his chilly attitude is because he’s embarrassed, or becaue he’s a jerk. Either way, I don’t have any fucks to give about shit that happened in high school.
Maybe if I could get him alone for a minute, we could talk it out, though. Clear the whole thing up.
But Kieran leaves for the day before I get my chance. And then Audrey asks me to come back tomorrow and open the coffee shop with Zara. “We both want a chance to get to know you,” Audrey says.