by Katie Allen
Shaking off her renewed unease, she looked over at the pastry display. “There’s one croissant left. Good timing!” After putting it on a plate for him and handing it over, she reached for a cup. “Your usual large coffee?”
“Yes.” He looked pleased. “It’s nice that you remember what I like.”
Leah hummed in response. For months, he’d been in almost every day the bakery was open. If she hadn’t been able to remember that he always ordered a butter croissant and a large coffee—black—then that would’ve been pretty pathetic. As she filled his cup, she remembered her promise to Hamilton.
As if on cue, Hamilton pushed through the swinging door.
“Sorry, Ham!” She held out the coffee to Jude as she apologized over her shoulder. “Give me just a minute, and I’ll get your coffee. I got distracted and forgot to bring it to you.”
“He’s working here now?” Jude asked in a low voice, taking his coffee. His lips pulled tight into a straight line, making his words sound strange. “I thought he was your landlord.”
“Not really, and he is.” She tapped the register screen and accepted the card Jude held out even before she told him the total. It was the same as every other day he’d ordered the exact thing, so she wasn’t surprised he had it memorized. This time, though, she noticed his last name on the card—Whittier—since she was curious, thanks to Hamilton’s paranoid questions. “Ham’s just helping me out this morning. I misread an order, so I was in a tight spot.”
“Oh. You call him Ham?” Jude wasn’t looking at her anymore but was staring over her shoulder. A glance behind her showed that Hamilton was staring right back. Leah swallowed a laugh. Jude looked like a beagle trying to stare down a rottweiler.
“Yes. Making cookies together is a good way to break the ice and achieve first-name status.” Inwardly, Leah groaned. After spending the morning with him, she was apparently starting to talk like Hamilton now. Maybe it would be best to limit her interactions with him. Even as the thought passed through her brain, she dismissed it. She’d enjoyed her time with Hamilton much more than she’d expected to. Even though she’d been teasing when she offered him full-time work, a part of her would’ve loved having him here more than the brief moments he popped into the kitchen to complain about her leaving the back door open.
“I’m available.” Jude jerked her out of her daydream about a cookie-making Hamilton haunting her kitchens. “Since I work at home, my schedule’s flexible. If you need help, I could do it, rather than having to ask your landlord.”
Leah tried not to physically recoil at the thought of being trapped alone in the kitchen with Jude. “Oh, thank you, but I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“But you can ask it of him?” Jude glared at Hamilton, who’d moved closer to Leah and leaned against the counter next to the cappuccino machine. Although Hamilton was wearing his poker face, Leah felt tension radiating from him.
“Well, yes. Ham is...” She tried to think of a diplomatic reason to give Jude about why she’d allow Hamilton into her kitchen but not him, but she couldn’t think of anything. It didn’t help that Hamilton had moved even closer until he was right behind her. She didn’t know if it was her imagination reacting to the tension of the moment or if she could actually feel his heat against her back. “Ham is my landlord. You’re our customer. It’s...different.” She winced inwardly, knowing she was just making things worse.
Jude’s angry glare moved from Hamilton to her, confirming her suspicion that she wasn’t handling the situation well. “I see.” Picking up his coffee cup and plate, he turned abruptly and walked to the exit. As he used his back to push the door open, he sent another ferocious look their way. Even the jangle of the bell as the door swung closed behind him sounded angry.
“Oh, dear.”
“That’s probably a good thing.” Hamilton’s voice was so close that she started and automatically turned her head to look at him. He was right behind her, his front just a few inches from her back. With her head turned the way it was, if she’d been a foot or so taller, their mouths would’ve been uncomfortably close to a kiss.
“What?” Her voice was absent, her brain too obsessed with his nearness to take in what he was saying.
“A good thing. Him leaving.” Hamilton’s gaze focused through the window on Jude’s Jeep as it tore out of the lot. “If we’re lucky, he’ll stay away.”
“That’s not what I was oh-dear-ing about.”
He dropped his gaze to hers, and she was instantly reminded of his proximity. The counter was in front of her, so there was no way to step away, and she didn’t know if she even wanted to put any space between them. A large part of her was just fine and dandy with having him so close.
“What was it then?”
It was her turn to look out the window. “He took my mug and plate.” Turning her head, she eyed Hamilton’s tiny, barely there smile. “I doubt I’m getting those back.”
“Probably not.” As Leah watched, his smile grew wide enough to dent his cheek.
“Oh my gosh! You have a dimple!”
The smile disappeared in a flash. “No.”
“You do! I saw it with my own eyes.”
“It’s an indentation.”
“Dimple.”
“A natural depression.”
“Dim-ple.”
“I do not have a dimple.”
“You’re a liar. It was right there.” She booped the spot with her fingertip. As soon as she made contact, she realized her mistake. His skin was soft, but also bristly with a tiny bit of scruff. Like everything else she was learning about him, it was addictive. Now that she’d felt him just the smallest bit, she wanted to pet him. Instead, she behaved like a normal person and dropped her hand.
He fell silent for several seconds before clearing his throat. “Babies have dimples. I do not.”
“You are such a dimpled liar.”
“Excuse me.” Leah turned to find yet another customer had snuck up on her while she was preoccupied with the strangely intoxicating feel of Hamilton’s face. “Could I get a blueberry muffin?”
“Of course.” As Leah stepped sideways toward the display case, Hamilton backed away, and she instantly missed his closeness. Telling herself to stop being an idiot, she focused on getting the woman’s muffin. The next person in line was a regular customer, an elderly man who came in every Saturday for his loaf of rye bread and two oatmeal raisin cookies. By the time she finished chatting with him, she’d regained most of her composure.
“Where is Q?” she asked, just now realizing that he’d been in the kitchen a while.
“Decorating the last few cookies.”
“Oh no.” Leah cringed.
“What?”
“That’s probably not good.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not a cookie-decorating savant like you.” Leah waved her hands as she tried to think of a kind way to say it. “Q is... He’s really good at a lot of things. In fact, he’s the only one who can fix the cappuccino machine when it’s in a bad mood, and that’s impressive. I can leave him out front and trust that he’ll do a great job—like this morning. Everything ran as smooth as butter while we were making cookies in back. When Q tries to decorate cookies, though...well, it’s just not one of his strengths.”
“He’s bad at decorating cookies?”
“So, so bad.” She covered her face in her hands as she remembered the horror of last time. “You will not believe how bad. He doesn’t see it, either. Maybe if we have a cookie sale, or just hide them under the ones you made—although I don’t know what we’ll do once yours sell, because they will in like a minute, and then we’re stuck with the horror underneath.”
Hamilton was eyeing her carefully, looking like he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. “Are they really that bad?”
“Just wait,” she said grimly, turni
ng to help the couple who’d just approached the counter with a couple of baguettes. “Just wait and see. They’ll haunt your dreams tonight.”
As if she’d summoned the terrifying things just by speaking of them, Q sailed through the swinging door carrying a parchment-lined tray bearing cookies. Leah tried to keep her gaze on Q’s beaming face, rather than looking at the monstrosities he carried, but she heard Hamilton’s quiet choking sound and knew that they were just as bad as she’d warned him they’d be.
“You’re right, Leah,” Q said, starting to transfer the cookies into the display case. “Mr. Hamilton’s decorating skills are on point. Good job, Mr. H.”
“Thank you.” He sounded a little breathless, making Leah wonder if it was from holding back laughter or sheer horror. Knowing Q’s decorating skills, it could easily be either.
“I boxed up the order and thought I’d bring these up to sell. The frosting on a couple of mine is still a little tacky, but I’ll just put them on top of the others, and they should be fine. There.” He smiled proudly at the display, looking so pleased that Leah had a moment of doubt. Maybe Q’s work wasn’t as bad as she remembered. Maybe he’d been practicing at home and had improved since the last disaster. Maybe...
She glanced down and swallowed back a shriek. It was worse than she thought it would be.
“Wow.” She had the same note of breathlessness in her voice as Hamilton’d had. “Wow. Those are...wow. And they’re right on top where everyone can see. That’s...wow.”
Q turned his happy grin toward her. “I know, right? I think I really nailed them this time.”
Hamilton hadn’t made a sound since he’d thanked Q, and Leah risked a glance at him. He was staring at the abominations that had been innocent cookies just a short time before, his face more expressive than she’d ever seen. He looked appalled and horrified and morbidly fascinated—all appropriate reactions to what Q had done to the cookies.
“Uh, Q...” A couple of customers noticed that something new had been added to the display, and they were making their way over. Leah couldn’t let them see Q’s cookies. They would never come to her shop again. “Would you mind bringing the cookie order up front? I think I saw the customer pulling into the lot.”
Her voice must’ve sounded strange, because Q gave her a quizzical look, but he agreed readily. As soon as he pushed through the swinging door, Leah slid the display open and snatched up the four horrific cookies.
“Here,” she hissed, shoving one of them at Hamilton. “Eat it, quick, before he gets back. We’ll tell him it sold.”
“I’m not eating that.” He took a step back and turned his head away, as if he were a fussy toddler refusing to eat his mashed carrots.
“What? You’ll eat anything with sugar! Why won’t you eat this cookie?”
“Look at it!” Leah did and immediately regretted it. It was supposed to be a happy-face cookie, but the expression was so, so wrong and bad. “I can’t eat that.”
“Why not?” The seconds were ticking by, and Leah was getting desperate. She looked around frantically for somewhere to hide them, but there was nowhere that Q wouldn’t see them and be terribly hurt.
“It’s possessed,” Hamilton said. “That one eye follows me. If I ate it, it would swallow my soul.”
“It’s a cookie, Ham.” She held it out to him again, but he held up his hands as if warding it off.
“That’s not a cookie. Whatever Q did to it made it no longer a cookie.”
“Fine.” She shuffled through the four she held, trying to find the best of the very worst. “Eat this dog one, then.”
“Why did Q cut its throat? What is wrong with that kid?”
“What? I think that’s supposed to be a red collar.”
“Why is it dripping blood all down its front?”
“I don’t know, okay?” She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. “Just eat it!”
“I’m not touching the mutilated dog cookie.”
“Don’t be a baby. Just eat it.”
“You eat it.”
“I’m not eating it. It’s an abomination.”
“Exactly. Why are you trying to make me eat it, then?”
“Because you’re a sugar vacuum. You could at least use your ability to inhale two dozen baked goods in five minutes for good!”
“Not that.” Hamilton shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the cookie. “Never that. Even if it were the last cookie in the world.”
The door to the kitchen swung open. After a final glance around, Leah dumped all four cookies of terror into her apron pocket. It bulged, giving her away, so she ducked behind Hamilton, peering around his side as Q carefully set the boxes holding the cookie order on the counter.
“All of mine sold already?” Q asked, sounding excited as he peered into the display.
“Mmm.” Leah sidled toward the kitchen, keeping her back toward Q.
“Those cookies are beautiful,” a woman said. “Can I get three of them?”
“Of course.” Q radiated pride. “I helped to decorate them.”
Holding back her eye roll, Leah darted toward the swinging door. “Since you have things under control up here, Q, I’m going to go clean up. Yell if you need anything!” Without waiting for a response, she darted into the kitchen.
Hamilton followed her as she made a beeline to a garbage can and tossed Q’s horrific creations inside. She immediately tied the top of the plastic bag and pulled it out of the bin.
“I can’t believe you wanted me to eat demon cookies,” Hamilton muttered as he took the garbage bag from her.
“I can’t believe there’s a cookie you won’t eat.”
“Q can’t decorate them ever again.” He said it so seriously, as if he was taking a vow. Leah started to giggle and tried to muffle the sound, which just made her laugh harder. Hamilton watched her with a baffled, slightly amused expression.
“Agreed,” she said when she got her giggles under control enough that she could talk again. “Q is never to touch frosting ever again. I promise to do my best to keep him away from all innocent, undecorated cookies.” She stuck out her hand, and he accepted it with the hand not holding the garbage bag. He gave it a firm shake and then held it for a moment longer than she’d anticipated. His hand was warm, his skin rougher than she’d expected from an actuary. When he released her, she missed the contact.
To hide the fact that she would’ve been happy holding his hand for another hour or so, Leah reached to reclaim the garbage bag. “I’ll take it out. You signed up for cookie making, not Dumpster duty.”
He shifted slightly, turning so the bag was out of reach. “Dumpster duty is my favorite part.” With that, he peeled off his apron and headed for the back door, leaving Leah staring after him. Had he just made a joke? The other option was that he really did enjoy visiting the stinky, sticky, fly-and wasp-attracting trash bin out back, which was only slightly less believable than the idea that Anthony Fitzgerald Hamilton III might have a sense of humor after all.
He had dimples and jokes. Leah shook her head as she headed for the hand-wash sink. Who would’ve guessed?
Chapter Four
“Nuh-uh.” Annabelle stood in Leah’s living room, her hands on her hips. “I know what those flannel Wonder Woman pajamas mean. You’re planning on staying right there on the couch all night—your one night a week you can stay up late—and watching movies. That’s not going to happen.”
Leah groaned. “Why did I give you a key to this place?”
“Because I’m your roommate, and you’re legally required to give me a key when I live here.”
“Stupid law.”
“Quit trying to change the subject. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re going to give up an exciting, fun, potentially man-finding night out in order to park on the couch and watch a dopey romantic movie.”
“
You are so wrong. That isn’t what I planned at all,” Leah said, wiggling farther back on the sofa cushion. It was comfortable and safe and she was determined to fight for her right to stay there until bedtime, which was, pathetically for a single, childless twenty-six-year-old, usually around nine—ten if she really pushed it.
“You were going to sit on the couch and read a dopey romantic book all night?”
“Bingo.”
“You’re hopeless.” Plopping down one cushion down from Leah, Annabelle let her head drop against the back. “Although I must say that this couch is extremely comfortable.”
“I know, right?” Leah eyed her friend, debating whether she had a chance at winning the argument. “Wouldn’t it be nice to just hang out here tonight? I’ll even give up my reading time and watch a movie with you. I brought home some of those white chocolate cookies you like.”
Annabelle turned her head to frown at her, but she didn’t get off the couch, and Leah knew she’d won. “Fine. Next Saturday, though, it’s you and me and Denver’s nightlife.”
“Deal.” She didn’t tell Annabelle that she would’ve been willing to offer up her future firstborn for a chance to lounge around at home for the evening. “Go change into something that’s not dry-clean-only and be a sloth with me.”
Although Annabelle groaned as she stood, it was a sound of reluctance to leave the couch, rather than of annoyance that Leah wouldn’t go out with her. As she headed for her bedroom, Leah put her book aside and started checking out Netflix options. “You’re home late. Is Dick living up to his namesake again?” she said loud enough for Annabelle to hear from her room. Their apartment was tiny, so it wasn’t hard to hold conversations while they were in different rooms. It should’ve been listed as a “two-closet” rather than a “two-bedroom” apartment.
“Sweet baby Jesus, yes!” Annabelle’s voice grew louder and then more muffled and then louder again as she changed. “Dick’s assistant quit.”
“I thought you were his assistant.” Leah turned away from the TV, since her roommate’s tale was more interesting than any of the movies listed. “Are you talking in third person again? You know that creeps me out.”