Page 1 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

Chapter 1

Ava

The first man through the door of my bakery tracks mud across the floor I finished mopping twelve minutes ago.

Not a little mud, either. This is Forge Creek construction-site mud—the thick, reddish-brown kind that clings to work boots with the determination of an ex-husband who suddenly remembers your birthday after the divorce papers are signed.

I stare at the footprints, then at the man making them.

He is tall enough that the brass bell over the door almost brushes his dark hair, broad enough to block the pale morning light behind him, and entirely too handsome to be forgiven without a sincere apology and possibly a second pass with the mop.

He pauses just inside Sweet Treats and looks down.

“You’re staring at my boots.”

“I’m staring at what your boots have done.”

His gaze follows the trail leading from the front door to the counter. Four distinct prints. Maybe five. I stop counting before my eye begins to twitch.

The man lifts one heavy work boot and examines the sole as if the mud might belong to someone else.

“I wiped them.”

“On what?”

“The mat outside.”

I glance through the glass door at the brand-new black mat bearing the cheerful wordsWELCOME TO SWEET TREATS.

It now appears to welcome dirt so he did use it.

“You may want to go back and wipe them again.”

One corner of his mouth shifts, but he does not quite smile. “Good morning to you, too.”

“It was a very good morning until thirty seconds ago.”

He looks around the bakery, taking in the cream-painted walls, restored brick behind the counter, small round tables, glass pastry cases, and the chalkboard menu I spent far too long lettering last night.

His eyes are hazel, I realize. Not plain brown. They catch the light and turn warmer, almost golden, before drifting toward the ceiling.

I keep staring at those eyes as he looks toward the front windows, then the vintage pendant lights.

Most people walk into a bakery and look at the food offerings. This man looks at the building as if he plans to ask it a series of uncomfortable questions.

I move behind the register. “Are you here to buy something, or are you conducting an inspection?”

His eyes snap back to me. For one inconvenient second, I become intensely aware that I twisted my hair into a messy bun before sunrise, my cheeks are hot from the ovens, and thereis probably flour somewhere on my face. There is always flour somewhere on my face. I could attend a formal dinner in a black evening gown and discover a white handprint on my backside before dessert.

“Coffee,” he says.

“Just coffee?”

His gaze shifts to the pastry case. Nobody walks into Sweet Treats at six-oh-three in the morning and orders only coffee while cinnamon rolls are cooling behind the glass. That would be unnatural.

“I might take one of those.” He points toward the largest roll in the front row.

“Our classic cinnamon roll.”