Page 29 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“Will do,” I assure him, gulping down all the other things I want to say. For example, ‘Why the fuck aren’t you kissing me?’
He closes the driver’s door for me gently. I watch him as he makes his way back to the Main Square, where he stops, waiting for me to pull out of my parking space and drive off at what can’t be much faster than snails trying to race.
And as I drive home with my cheeks flushed and a grin splitting my face in half, I can’t help but replay today in my head over and over again.
Chapter 11
Caleb
The door to my kitchen opens behind me, and I hear the sound of Bobby’s cane hitting the wooden floor. Glancing at the clock above the connecting door to the café reveals that it’s only 6:30 a.m., meaning there is still half an hour to go until it opens.
The radio in the corner plays the newest pop music. Thankfully, I am, at least for now, spared bad pop renditions of classic Christmas songs. Or Christmas songs in general. It took me forever to find a station that doesn’t fall victim to the commercialized end of the year, but I did it. I don’t recognize the song currently playing, but it’s probably from the new Taylor Swift album.
“Ah, I see it’s a yeast-dough kind of day.” Bobby chuckles, walking past me to his chair right by the drip coffee maker. I can’t be bothered to start one of the espresso machines inside the café first thing in the morning. Instead, I got a small, cheap one for back here. It’s not great coffee by any means, but it does the job. Occasionally, I overdo it on the ground coffee, though, and need to add some milk.
“Yeah,” I say gruffly, and scrape the dough out of the giant bowl of my heavy-duty mixer.
“I see. Meaning it’s either a particularly good or bad day. Do you want to talk about it?” He sits down with a groan and reaches for the mug I set out for him, pouring himself a cup.
It has become something of a tradition for him to pop in and keep me company while I go through all the prep for the day. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he plants his ass right where it is now, giving me unsolicited advice while sipping on his coffee and apparently pestering me about my mood. Then once the café opens, Henry comes in to do the same.
In Bobby's case, I think he just can’t fully let go of the café.
“No. Yes.” I let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know,” I mumble, as I fold the dough into itself. It’s an extra step in the recipe that I initially thought was unnecessary. Then Bobby, knowing fully well how stubborn I am, made me do one batch each. One with the folding, one without.
After that, I never questioned a step in his recipes again.
He puts down his mug with a loud clank against the stainless-steel counter, clearing his throat. From the corner of my eye, I see him narrow his eyes at me, leaning his cane against the counter so he can cross his arms in front of his chest.
“Historically speaking, if it’s a yeast kind of day, I can tell that you’re all up in that handsome head of yours. I’ve cut you slack with your moodiness the past week, but now it’s time to talk. Spill.”
I scrape the dough up and fold it one more time. It hasn’t even been half a day since Lauren came here with her boxes of surprisingly tasteful Christmas decor and took over the store. Only nine hours and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her clinging to my arm. Or the adorable way she scrunches her nose when she says “Snickerdoodle,” because she finds the word funny. And how she said all the right things.
“I told Lauren that my mom left,” I admit, and reach for my rolling pin, coating it in sunflower-seed oil so it doesn’t stick to the dough as I roll it out to shape the cinnamon rolls.
“That’s it?” Bobby asks, the frown on his forehead softening.
“That’s it,” I confirm with a nod, putting more oil on my pin as I continue. “She didn’t pry. I didn’t elaborate.”
“You should have told her the whole story.” He lets out a deep sigh, and I shoot him a glare.
“Why would I have done that?” I ask, putting the pin in the sink and reaching for the cinnamon-sugar mixture to spread on the dough.
“Whether you admit it or not, Caleb, even a blind man can see you’re into the girl.” I freeze for a second, hand in the sugar mixture. Henry and Kieran have mentioned this before, but for some reason it’s taking Bobby laying it out too, for me to believe it. “It would be fair for her to learn the truth.”
“The world isn’t fair,” I grumble as I dust the mixture over the dough evenly.
“Correction: the world doesn’t owe you shit,” Bobby objects, and from my periphery I see him shaking his head. “The world can be fair, but it sure isn’t going to serve you anything on a silver platter. Right now, the world is giving you an opportunity. Whether you take that shot or mess it up, that’s up to you. And let me tell you, by not telling her, you’re more likely to mess it up.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Have a proper think about it.”
Instead of an answer, I point to a bowl on his left. “If you sit here yapping, you might as well make yourself useful. Mix up the streusel, will you?”
He gets up and staggers to the sink to wash his hands, then sits back down, putting the bowl in his lap to mix butter, flour, brown sugar and some cinnamon together. Meanwhile I add thinly cut apple slices on the spread-out dough, before I roll it up and sprinkle the streusel over them.
I wouldn’t admit it even if someone put a gun to my head, but the decorations Lauren forced upon me put me in a better mood throughout the day. Not exactly because I’ve suddenly become a fan of Christmas, but because they remind me of her. I see her pink cheeks from the cold outside in the red baubles and the twinkle in her eyes as she saw the snow in the glow of the fake candles she put on every table.
“Here you go,” I say and put Nic’s coffee down in front of her.
It’s shortly after the lunch rush, the exact time that Kieran, and Nic and Henry usually try to come in for their lunch in a blissfully empty café.
