by Frankie Love
A few minutes later, I am adding yeast and hot water to the giant Hobart. The floor mixer is my BFF most mornings as I get my famous cinnamon buns ready for the oven.
When Mags walks in a few minutes after I arrive, tying an apron to her waist she doesn’t wait to ask. “So did you do it?”
I flip on the mixer and the yeast begins to froth. Not looking up at her, I measure flour in a commercial grade container. “Do what?” I ask.
She walks right over to me. “Oh, don’t you even. Dish!”
I look up at her and another laugh escapes me. Why is everything suddenly so freaking hilarious?
“Holy shit--you slept with Mr. Man Bun, didn’t you?”
I bite my bottom lip, raising my eyes, nodding my head. Suddenly tears fill my eyes. Apparently I’m manic too, because one minute I’m giddy, the next I’m stifling a sob.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mags says, taking my hand. “It’s okay. Luke knows you--”
I cut her off. “No, it’s not about Luke, Mags. Luke knows I love him more than life-- I don’t doubt that. He’d want me to be happy.”
Maggie tilts her head. “Then why the tears? Oh God, did this guy do--”
I cut her off again. “No, Ansel was an absolute gentleman.”
“Then why are you crying?”
I wipe my eyes, collecting myself. “He made me feel ... like I was...” I stop talking, feeling ridiculous to say these things out loud.
“Feel what?” Mags asks gently.
“He made me feel like I was more than a mom or a widow. I felt like I was a twenty-seven year old woman who was wanted. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel that way again.” I smirk. “Well, I knew I’d never feel like that with the guys who are from Linesworth--they’re all terrified of hitting on Luke’s wife.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
I raise a brow. “It wasn’t like that. It was sex. I mean, do you remember how handsome he was? He wouldn’t want to date a mom. He thinks I’m some girl on vacation. “
Maggie shakes her head, smiling too. “I’m glad you had fun, no one deserves it like you, Greta. I can’t remember the last time I saw you so happy.”
It’s hard to hear. “I’m happy.”
Mags shrugs. “You have a lot on your plate. I just like the idea of my sister having fun. It’s been a long time.”
I give her a squeeze and return to the mixer. “These cinnamon rolls won’t make themselves.”
“Yeah,” Mags snorts. “You should bring one to your Man Bun and see what he thinks of your cinnamon center.”
“Ewww,” I say, laughing. “I don’t even want to know what that might mean.”
“It means if you get the chance, you should see him again while he’s in town.”
I add flour to the dough, thinking she’s right. Truth is, I’d like some more cookie in my crumble, and some more icing on my cake.
7
Ansel
“She didn’t leave her number or last name or anything?” Torin asks, pulling open the fridge.
I shake my head, running a hand over my beard. Damn, I wish I’d heard her when she left this morning.
“I know her sister, Maggie, is local, but that doesn’t help considering I know nothing about her.”
“You really want to see her again?” Jonas asks, reaching for his toast as it pops from the toaster. “Dammit,” he says, holding up a blackened piece of bread.
“I’ve got to see her again. It’s not a question.”
“Well before we can figure out how to canvass the town looking for Greta, can we go find some coffee?” Torin asks. “We don’t have any.”
“And we need breakfast, too,” Jonas says, tossing his bread in the trash. “This burnt toast isn’t gonna cut it. I want more of those cinnamon buns I grabbed us yesterday.”
“Agreed,” I say. “Those were the most amazing things I’ve ever eaten.”
“We know, bro, you practically came while you ate them,” Jonas jokes. “It was weird.”
“Whatever,” I scoff. “They were good.”
A few minutes later we’re walking down the snow covered sidewalk of Main Street. The mountains rise above us, the bright white snow blinding us with the morning sunlight.
“Are you planning on recording again after the new year?” I ask Jonas and Torin as we walk.
“We’re breaking until March. The tour kicked our butts. You should be happy you got out of the industry when you did.”
“Yeah, I’m happy to be doing my own thing, but I miss the collaboration sometimes, you know?”
“I bet,” Jonas says. “Being a writer, alone all day, seems like it could get old.”
“But getting a fat ass advance for the sequel was pretty sweet,” Torin notes, shoving me.
“New topic,” I say, hating to talk about my writing--especially since I haven’t made much headway with my work-in-progress. I know I got hella lucky with my first novel. I took a break from song writing, and wrote a book that had been burning a hole in my heart--next thing you know, I get an agent who sells it in a month.
“Fine,” Torin says, making a snowball and throwing it right at me. “We’ll lay off,” he jokes. “We know how sensitive writers can get.”
“Hey, watch it,” I say shoving a snow ball of my own in his face.
We laugh, walking until we get to the bakery Jonas found yesterday. We push inside a warm and cozy establishment that’s full of customers, which is a good sign. The coffee smells amazing too. Cases upon cases of baked goods tempt me and I’m drooling over the memory of yesterday’s cinnamon bun.
But then I look up at the person behind the counter. My face breaks into an incredulous grin.
“Greta?” I walk toward her, ditching my friends. She’s wearing an apron, her hair is in a knot on the top of her head, and she’s putting a pie in a box for the customer in front of me.
She looks up when I say her name--eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, uh, hi, Ansel.” Her head whips over to the other apron-clad person behind the counter-- her sister Maggie.
Her sister jumps in and takes the box from Greta, assisting the customer.
Greta runs her hands over her apron front, refusing to meet my gaze. Her cheeks are bright red--she’s been caught in the act, only I don’t know what she’s hiding.
“Why’d you tell me you were on vacation?” I ask.
Behind me a bossy older woman asks if I’m going to take all day.
“Uh, no,” I tell her. Turning back to Greta, I say, “I’ll take a cinnamon bun. They’re the best I’ve ever had.”
Greta finally looks up at me, the hint of a smile on her lips. “I make them. They’re my specialty.”
I look her over, Greta the baker, I like it. Totally hot and not what I expected. I lean in and whisper, “Not surprised, considering how fast you made my dough rise.”
Her face is flaming red and she whisper screams. “There. Are. Other. Customers.”
I laugh loving the idea of getting her all worked up. “Right.” Shaking my head, I add, “Listen, why’d you lie about where you live?”
She scrunches up her face--looking so damn cute when she does. “Look, my life is complicated so I thought it might be easier if I--”
“Lied?”
“I guess. I know, that sounds stupid, but...” She hands me the paper pastry bag. “Do you want anything to go with that?”
I smirk. “Oh. I’d like plenty to go with that.”
Greta’s eyebrows raise and she leans over the counter, pulling at my coat collar so she can whisper. “Listen, you might have the wrong idea about me. Last night--”
“Was amazing,” I finish for her. Damn, she was more than amazing. She was the best sex of my life.
She was a real woman, who knew her body, yet at the same time vulnerable. It was the most desirable combination I’ve ever encountered. She’s the woman I’ve been waiting for.
“Sure, amazing, whatever,” she says, swatting the air. “But there’s a lot about me
you--”
“Are you seeing someone?”
“God no. Nothing like that.”
Behind me the woman butts in. “Greta, I’m in a hurry. I just need a dozen donuts for the bridge club.”
Greta gives the woman a gentle smile. “Right, of course, I’ll get that for you.”
Maggie slides over, taking a paper box from her sister’s hand. “Actually, I got this. Why don’t you make Ansel a latte, sis?”
Greta mouths a thank you then she spins around to an espresso machine while her sister takes over the line of customers.
“I don’t drink lattes. Just drip, and black,” I tell her curvy backside.
She wordlessly shimmies down to a coffee pot and fills my cup. “Here,” she says. “I’m surprised you drink black coffee. I’d have pegged you for some fancy latte guy.”
I scoff. “Just what kind of guy do you think I am?”
She laughs. “A guy with a man bun.”
I shake my head. “It was a bet. I lost. I had to wear my hair like that-- I swear.”
She smiles, shoulders falling.
“So if you aren’t dating someone else,” I say. “Why pretend to be from out of town?”
She exhales, rearranging a tray of apple fritters. “Look, I wanted to have fun last night, and if I led with my actual life, I would have scared you away.”
“What aren’t you saying?”
“I don’t want to get into it, Ansel. But thank you for last night. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”
I run a hand over my beard, and then bring the coffee to my mouth. Damn, it tastes good. “Not okay. I want to see you again. Clearly, there’s a lot about you I don’t know, so fill me in.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. Leaning in closer she says, “We didn’t talk about anything real because we were too busy--”
She’s cut off though, because someone shouts and it catches her attention.
“Mommy!” a little boy cries, running toward the counter. Running toward Greta.
8
Ansel
Greta’s face breaks into a beautiful smile. “Hey goose, you have a fun night?” She walks around the counter and pulls the boy into her arms. The little boy beams at her.
Okay. So when she said complicated, it was because she’s a mother.
“Mom,” another voice calls. A blonde girl of about six wraps her arms around Greta. She kisses her, then pulls back, crossing her arms. “Milo forgot his hat, he’s gonna get a cold.”
“You’re not my boss,” he cries. “Mommy, tell her she’s not my boss!”
“Hey, kids, calm down.” A man with a burly ass beard gives the kids a stink eye. “Let your mom breathe--she’s still working.”
I take a hard look at this man who just showed up here like this. She said she wasn’t dating anyone, but fuck, is she married? I look at her ring finger, and see that it’s bare--and this guy has a shiny new band on his. Maybe he’s her ex?
“Thanks so much, Clive, I really needed a break.”
“Let me guess, you stayed here all night baking?”
Her cheeks heat up and she laughs nervously. “Uh, something like that.” She flashes him a fake smile. “Where’s Hazel?” The kids wait for Maggie to finish serving Torin and Jonas and then she helps the kids with their treats.
Torin and Jonas look over at me as if asking what gives. Hell if I know.
“Hazel just went to grab something in the candy shop,” the big guy tells her. “After the kids eat we’re going to get some Christmas shopping done until you’re off.”
“Wow, sounds great.” Greta raises her eyebrows and looks over at me, where I’m standing with arms crossed. Not saying I’m intimidated by the guy, but I do want to know his intentions.
“Who are you?” he asks gruffly.
“I’m Ansel. A friend of Greta’s.”
The guy shakes his head. “Not possible. I know all her friends.”
“God, Clive,” Greta huffs, pushing the man away. “Intense much?”
The guy shrugs his shoulders, laughing “What? You know I keep tabs on my older sister.”
“Do you always have to tack on the older part?” She scowls.
I cock an eyebrow her way. “This your little brother?”
“Yeah, Clive’s my brother. He and his wife Hazel had my kids last night.”
I nod, relief washing over me. She wasn’t trying to keep anything other than the fact that she was a mom from me.
She’s the epitome of the entire package--which may be jumping to conclusions--but you can learn a lot about a woman when you sleep with her. Hell, when she screamed my name last night it told me everything I need to know.
“So how do you know my sister?”
Knowing the kids are out of earshot, I say what I want. “We’re dating, Greta and I.”
Her mouth drops into a perfect O.
I like that look on her.
“Dating?” She shakes her head. “Uh, you sure about that, Ansel?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I tell her, walking toward her, ignoring Clive altogether.
She purses her lips. “I don’t exactly remember you asking me out.”
“It’s what I was trying to do,” I tell her. “But you kept making excuses. Something about things being complicated.”
“Aren’t they though?” she asks, jutting her chin to the table where her two kids are eating glazed donuts.
I shake my head. “I’m not scared.”
She presses her fingertips to her forehead. Quietly she asks, “Are you messing with me?”
Her eyes are filled with so much sincerity that it makes me want to scoop her up in my arms and lock her away from anything in the world that might scare her. Might hurt her.
I want to protect her.
“I don’t play games.”
She smiles, lifting her eyes to meet mine. “You just lose bets?”
“Something like that.”
Her eyes are soft and welcoming and I lean closer, wanting to memorize everything about her.
“Uh-hum,” Clive coughs. “Kids are present.”
Greta jumps back, pressing her lips together as if it’s necessary in order to hold herself back from kissing me.
“So tonight? Five o’clock. Dinner?” I ask.
For a moment, I think it’s going to be an easy yes, but then she looks over at her kids. Wistfully she sighs, “I don’t have a sitter--”
Maggie sweeps in, cutting her off, apparently listening to the entire conversation, along with her brother.
“I’ve got the kids tonight. I’m vying for Auntie Of The Year at the moment, and need to step up my game.”
9
Greta
We get through three chapters of the Boxcar Children before we fall asleep, Lucy and Milo tucked beside me in my bed, for a long afternoon nap. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who stayed up past her bedtime. They stayed up pretty late at Auntie and Uncle’s last night too.
We all seem to wake around the same time, and I pull my babies close, kissing the tops of their heads. “Did you have a fun day with Uncle Clive?” I ask. With a teasing tone I add, “Any presents I should know about?”
“They’re secrets Mommy,” Milo squeals. “They’re hiding at Uncle’s house.”
“Don’t tell her where we hid them,” Lucy admonishes.
“Hey, sweetie,” I tell her. “Easy now.” She’s been giving Milo such a hard time lately, and the older sister claws are definitely coming out. I try not to worry too much about it myself, remembering all too well what a bossy older sister I used to be.
“Surprises are fun at Christmas, is all,” she says.
“So are daddies,” Milo says softly.
“What’s that mean?” I ask, my chest aching for what my kids have lost. Milo never talks like this though. He was so little when Luke died.
“He means,” Lucy explains. “That daddies do things at Christmas like chop down trees and put lights outside around the house.”
&
nbsp; “Mommies can do those things too,” I say, trying not to be offended at my children’s division of household responsibilities. “We always get a tree.”
“A little one. From a store. I want a big one this year. Big enough to touch the ceiling.”
“Okay,” I say. “Well, then let’s get a big one. The hardware store sells lots of sizes.”
“I don’t want one from a store. I want one from the woods. The kids in class chop ‘em down with their daddies.”
“Um. Well,” I say trying to keep my voice even. “Sure, we can ask Uncle Clive or Uncle Charlie to help us cut one down. It will be an adventure.” I say this even though this is a terrifying idea. One I don’t know if I’m ready to face.
That mountain is where I lost Luke ... and returning to it ... terrifies me.
“Mommy hates the mountain, Milo.”
For once Milo doesn’t argue with his big sister’s correction. Instead he nods sadly, pressing his tiny hand to my cheek. “I don’t want to scare you, Mommy. We don’t have to go.”
Lucy’s eyes meet mine. She remembers a little bit about what it was like when her dad was alive. They’ve both watched the videos a thousand times, videos of their births, first steps, first food--all footage that includes Luke. But there are so many more firsts neither of the kids will have with Luke.
“Hey,” I say, squeezing them close. “We will chop down a tree this year. We can invite the whole family, okay? It’ll be fun, I promise.”
Milo and Lucy look up at me, eyes twinkling, full of love that is so pure and true it makes me well up with emotion.
“Don’t cry Mom,” Lucy says. “It’s just a tree.”
Laughing, I think they’re right. It is just a tree. A tree on a massive hill. Going back to the mountain doesn’t need to be bad--it can be a brave and simple thing.
“This can be the start of a new tradition,” I tell them.
Their faces filled with joy tells me it’s the right call--even if it’s scary.