Page 1 of How (Not) to Conjure a Boyfriend
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If I have to wipe up one more glob of caramel, I’m quitting. I promise. I swear it by the Allfather. I’ll walk right out the front door, not a second thought.
“Could you not, maybe”—I twirl a finger in the air at Kaitlynn—“make a mess?”
“Me?” She feigns pouty eyes and intentionally misses the cup while coating the counter with cinnamon. Ladies, gents, and theys, my best friend, the one and only essential bane to my existence, Kaitlynn May Miller.
She dusts the mess onto the floor, as if that’s better, and I roll my eyes to hide my amusement. I pop a lid on the drink I whipped up for one of our regulars and shake my head. A mess. That’s what she is, but she’s my mess, I guess.
“What?” She acts innocent.
“Really?” I ask. “Come on, less mess means less cleanup, and I still have to finish the pumpkin bread before we close, or Dawn is going to freak.”
Dawn practically begged Kaitlynn and me in the work group chat earlier to get all the extra stuff done so she could focus on baking the many Thanksgiving orders in the morning. There were lots of pouty emojis. She really likes emojis.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Kaity groans. “Gotta have a—”
“Have you seen Hayden yet?” I interrupt as if I’m only now thinking of it. I’m not. It’s been on my mind the last hour. He’s a… Well, he’s a guy who comes into Woodsy Café & Cakes a lot. Okay, not just a guy, he’stheguy.
“No.” Kaitlynn grins, brown eyes squinting with amused accusation under pinned-up blonde hair, and shakes her head. “You miss your man?”
My man? I deflect by turning around, a plastic cup in hand markedGUNTER. Hayden is notmyman. I wish he was, but he isn’t. I’m one hundred percent not that fortunate. He’s probably super straight anyway, which rules me out entirely. Besides, he doesn’t even know I exist. Okay, hedoesknow I exist, but… You know what, stop. Just focus on the now.
“Mr. Franz,” I call out across the counter. It’s a rule to always call out the customer’s name on the cup, but I refuse to call him Gunter. It’s Mr. Franz. Unlike some, he isn’t weird and flirty with Kaitlynn, and he has this cool hint of a waning European accent. I want to say it’s German—my mom is German—but it might be something else, like Polish or Danish. He’s just one of the sweetest old men I’ve ever met, and until he says otherwise, it’s Mr. Franz.
“Here,” Mr. Franz answers, one hand on a thin wooden cane, the other reaching for his drink. His fingers are rough when he takes it from me. “Thank you, Mackenzie.”
“Of course.” I nod. “Hope you enjoy it.”
My friends call me Kenzie, but my name badge saysMACKENZIEin brown letters. I don’t usually hear my full name unless I’m in trouble at home, but there’s a warmth to the way he says it.
“Is that a new skirt?” Mr. Franz’s head ticks to the left. His movements tend to be a little abrupt.
“It is!” I let my shoulders bounce and I do a little curtsy. The light mocha fabric shuffles around my legs. I only recently started wearing skirts last semester. Mom didn’t care, and Kaity thought it was great, but I knew not everyone would, especiallyat school, and that wasn’t how I wanted to spend my freshman year. We live in one ofthosetowns where the high school dress code changed to let dudes wear skirts, but people’s acceptance didn’t change with it.
Last week even, Mr. Franz saw someone give me a weird look while I was working, probably because of my outfit, and he made a point to compliment me right in front of them. He might be old, but he’s far from old-school.
“Looks good.” He nods and starts toward the door. “Have a good night, you two.”
“Thanks! We’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and walk around the counter. Kaitlynn yells her goodbye as the door settles shut behind him.
I walk past her, slapping the counter as I swish around it. “I’ll be in the back if you need me,” I say, and stop at the prep station.
Away from the shades of browns and grays, the old farmhouse-style lantern lights and eclectic gathering of wooden tables, couches, armchairs, and stools, I uncover loaves of pumpkin bread under a harsh fluorescent bulb. A nutty, spicy scent wafts up to greet my nose. I take a deep breath of it and sigh. It’s one of my favorite things about my job, even if after a few months of pumpkin spice I know I’ll be so ready for the flavor to go out of season. It’s amazing.
“Perfect,” I say to myself before starting on the bread that Landon put out earlier. I steady my thoughts while I start to slice. Chest relaxed, I pull in a new breath and whisper a blessing over the bread.
“Whosoever eats of these cakes,
may prosperity find them,
may good health be with them,
may happiness shine on them,
and no harm befall them.
Oh, and may their Thanksgiving be bright…I mean happy.”
