Page 21 of Finding Him
“AND THERE’S THISone girl, named Fiona, and she has this really fancy leotard—like with sequins on the trim—and she says her big brother plays rugby at the school you go to, isn’t that cool? And Mrs. Fitzpatrick said my technique was really good. I think she likes me.”
I nod along as Lorraine skips down the cobblestone square, her hand swinging in mine. She had her first ballet class today, and I promised to walk her home after. It’s a trade-off; I get to clear my head after the adrenaline spike of the trials, and she gets to provide a high-speed monologue about the hierarchy of primary school dance attire.
It’s more complicated than it sounds. Or maybe it’s just because I’m not really paying much attention to her.
If I end up on the team, Mom has to pick up Lorraine every day and I won’t get to walk with her. Claire told me practice goes till seven, and on days Lorraine has dance, her class only goes till half-past five.
I was wary about Mom being close with Lorraine. I knew what it was like to be disappointed by her first hand. I promisedmyself when we got here that I would protect Lorraine from whatever pain I could.
I hope I can continue to keep that promise.
Jamie used to promise me the same thing, and for a long time she did. Before she left, that is. But I wouldn’t ever leave my sister.
“Very cool,” I say in response to her. Most of my engagements with her conversation have been properly timed “uh-huhs” and “rights” and “cools.”
Her attention span snaps towards one of the storefronts in the square, yanking on my arm like she’s trying to dislocate my shoulder, pointing: “Molly! Molly, look! Look at the cakes! Can we go in there? PLEASE?”
She is pointing at the bakery. Tucked between what looks like a pharmacy and a darkened pub is a storefront painted a soft, buttery yellow. Above the door, a sign in curling elegant script reads: BLUEBIRDBAKERY.
“Please, please, please!” Lorraine continues to beg, before I can even form a word.
“Okay, sure, twist my arm.”
I figure she deserves a treat for being such a good sport about this whole move, and maybe I deserve one too. I feel like I’d done good in the try-outs, but that still doesn’t mean I’ll get on the team. I mean, no one but Niall and JJ would pass to me during the scrimmage. What if O’Shea notices that and figures that no matter how good I am, it just won’t work?
Still. I am trying to do the dangerous thing and have hope.
The bell above the door jingles cheerfully as we step inside, the two of us encased right away in the warm air and smell of baked goods. The glass display cases are an altar to carbohydrates. There are scones the size of grapefruits dusted in powdered sugar, and cupcakes with gorgeous frosting swirls that look too pretty to be edible.
But the real shock isn’t the baked goods. It’s the baker.
Leaning on the counter, forearms resting on the polished wood, is Niall.
Niall Blue.Bluebird bakery. Yeah, okay, makes sense.
I just can’t shake this guy.
He’s handing a paper bag to an elderly woman, flashing her a wide grin that reaches his eyes and reveals a single dimple on the left side of his face. As the woman leaves, the bell chimes again, and his gaze flicks to us. His eyebrows shoot up, clearly as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“Hey.” He clears his throat, pushing off the counter to stand up straighter. He’s wearing a flour-dusted apron over a plain t-shirt that draws my gaze to his arms.
Do not zone out looking at him again, Molly.
“Hi,” I manage, giving a little wave that feels stupid the second my hand leaves my side.Why am I waving? What the fuck is wrong with me?
Lorraine, lacking any social filter, rushes the counter. “Hello! Can I have—oh! I know you!”
“Do ya?” He raises a brow, looking down at my little sister with genuine amusement.
“Yeah! You’re the boy from the shop. You were with your bad friend who crashed his cart into ours.”
“Ah,” he nods. His eyes keep flicking from Lorraine to me, as she browses the cases in front of the counter. It is lined with all sorts of cookies. “I remember. Sorry about that.”
“It’s alright, I already forgave you in my head,” she says magnanimously. “Which cookie is the best?”
Niall follows her gaze, tapping a finger against his chin as if considering a complex chemical equation. His sweetness towards her paints a small smile on my face.
“Well now, that depends on your mood. If yer feelin’ like an adventurous soul, we have the oats and raisin. If you’re feelin’simple and classic, there’s the shortbread. But, to be honest...” He leans over the counter, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My favorite is the double chocolate chip. I consider myself a bit of an indulgent man.”
