Page 22 of Business Casual
My father has had…difficulty…letting go of his role. He calls me weekly with “advice” on how to do my job. He keeps in touch with most of his old clients too. The ones that didn’t care how he was acting or who he hurt in the process. The ones that were assigned to me as “legacy” when my dad was canned.
I sigh and breathe in deep through my nose. A plume of smoke has started to rise from the chimney stack over at Layla’s bakehouse, a hint of cinnamon carried by the wind. This place is my priority right now. My dad’s bullshit can wait. Mr. Billings can too.
“Can you slot Mr. Billings in for thirty minutes this afternoon? I’ll do damage control.”
“And your dad?”
I exhale, my breath a puff of white in the chilly morning air. “I’ll take care of it.”
At some point. Maybe.
?The little bellabove the door signals my arrival at the bakehouse, the smell of melted butter and crisp apples smacking me in the face. A rumbling groan tears its way out of my chest. This early, there’s only a few people in the front of the shop. Clint from the firehouse sitsat a booth in the corner, sipping from a mug of coffee. And Cindy Croswell is busy at the takeout counter, collecting white carryout boxes with headphones on.
I love everything about the farm, but the bakehouse might be my favorite. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the front half, pine trees brushing against the glass on every side. Cozy booths with throw pillows and cable-knit blankets sit against the walls. Bistro tables with mosaic tops and mismatched chairs fill in the middle, and a counter runs along the back wall. Display cases with every treat imaginable anchor either side of it, and a little door leads to the back.
It’s always cozy, but it feels downright homey during the fall. It’s the version of home I always wished for while sitting at the too-big table in my parents’ formal dining room, eating a catered meal, and listening to the awkward silence stretch thick. This feels like comfort and belonging. Layla making apple pie in the back with bouquets of dried flowers in vases all over the place. Cinnamon sticks and cardamom and allspice heavy in the air.
Maybe I’ll just work from here for the duration of my trip.
Caleb pokes his head out from the swinging half door that leads to the back kitchen, brown eyes searching. They crinkle into a grin as soon as he spots me, the handsome bastard. I feel like he’s always either smiling or staring at Layla with heart eyes. I’m glad his unrequited longtime crush worked out for him.
“Hey, man. Wasn’t expecting you.” He tips his head toward the back. “Layla is working on some pie thing—”
“Apple pie strudels with a caramel filling, Caleb!”
His grin twitches wider. “Layla is working on apple pie strudels with a caramel filling if you want to come back.”
Like I’m going to ignore that invitation. I slip back behind the counter and follow Caleb to where Layla is holding a massive mixing bowl in one hand, a spatula-shaped thing in the other. She mixes it around and around in the bowl, offering me a smile.
“Hey. Did you need help with something?”
“Nah, just visiting.” I toss my messenger bag beneath the counter where Caleb is leaning. He has a butter croissant in his hand and another one on the plate in front of him, cheek bulging as he chews. As expected, he’s staring at Layla with cartoon hearts floating around his head.
I sigh and steal the croissant off his plate. He tries to protest but I shove the entire thing in my mouth.
“I figure if I’m here,” I mumble around flaky, buttery pastry dough, “I might as well capitalize on the benefits.”
Layla looks amused. Caleb looks irritated.
“That was my croissant,” he mumbles.
“I’ll give you another one,” Layla offers.
He straightens out of his slouch to beam at his fiancée. “Thank you.”
I roll my eyes and swallow the rest of the croissant. I don’t know how I found myself surrounded by couples desperately in love, but here we are. I love seeing my friends happy, of course, I just wish—
I don’t know. I don’t know what I wish. I wish it were me? I don’t think so. I have no desire for a relationship. That’s never been something I’ve craved for myself. I’ve seen firsthand how relationships can twist you into something you don’t recognize, desperately looking for a way out. No, thank you.
I guess I wish I could hang out with them and not feel like I’m the one that doesn’t belong. An aimless, drifting half to a nonexistent whole in a room full of perfectly matched pieces. I don’t want to be an imposition. I don’t want to be some…project or thing they feel like they need to fix.
I roll the sleeves of my flannel. “You need any help while I’m here?”
Layla nods. “You can take over for Caleb. He’s been manning the register while I get these strudels in the oven. Nico called in sick and Caleb has to head over to the school.”
Caleb is the Spanish teacher at the high school and, judging by theclock, about ten minutes behind schedule. He glances at his watch, curses, and strides across the kitchen. He drops a kiss on top of Layla’s head, grabs a croissant off a cooling tray, and then drops another kiss right below her ear. Her entire face scrunches up with her delighted smile and something in my chest plucks, just once. Caleb straightens, shoots me a look that’s vaguely accusatory—on account of the croissant, I guess—and disappears through the door without another word.
A pink-cheeked Layla looks at me with a sheepish smile.
