Page 22 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

I leave the hinge alone … for tonight.

Chapter 5

Ava

Iarrive at Sweet Treats the next morning and immediately turn on the lights above the new display. Yes, I skip the ovens and the coffee station. I simply want a moment alone to admire the display again.

Warm light spills across the reclaimed oak, illuminating the darker marks in the grain. The black metal supports look as if they belong beside the exposed brick, and the carved apple beside the bakery’s name is somehow playful without being cute.

It is perfect. No, not perfect. Jake would probably point out that the wood is scarred, the coloring uneven, and one edge carries a shallow groove that sanding could not erase. It is better than perfect.

I run my fingers over the burned lettering again and tell myself I am admiring the workmanship. That is all.

I am not thinking about the way Jake watched my face while I examined it. I am certainly not thinking about throwing my arms around him, pressing myself against a chest that feels as solid as one of his restored buildings, and then calling the embrace professional gratitude as though either of us believed me.

My cheeks warm even though I am alone. I switch on the ovens.

By six, the bakery smells like caramelized apples, cinnamon, coffee, and warm butter. I fill the display with the morning’s muffins, arranging caramel apple on the middle tier and apple crisp cheesecake across the top. The lower shelf holds cinnamon rolls, their icing still glossy from the heat.

Everything looks elevated and intentional, expensive, even.

I take three photographs for social media, then a fourth from a slightly lower angle. The display transforms the front corner of Sweet Treats from an empty patch of floor into something that belongs in a magazine feature about small-town businesses.

Jake did that. He listened to what I wanted and built something better. The thought of it warms me inside.

The bell over the door rings at six-oh-two. Jake steps inside wearing worn jeans, a black company T-shirt, and the cautious expression of a man entering a room where his boots have already committed an offense.

He stops on the mat and wipes them thoroughly, twice. I look down. A faint trace of mud remains along one heel. Yesterday, I might have reached for the mop before taking his order. Today, I look at the display he built and think, What’s a little mud to clean up? This is either emotional growth or the first sign that I am losing control of my bakery.

“Morning,” he says.

“Good morning.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “You sound cheerful.”

“I am occasionally cheerful.”

“Not with me.”

“I thanked you last night.”

“You called the hug professional gratitude.”

“It was.”

“Then I’m waiting for the personal version.”

My hand tightens around the coffee cup I am preparing.

Jake’s mouth curves. He is teasing me. Quiet, observant, slightly bossy Jake Dalton has apparently decided flirting is now permitted before sunrise.

I place his cup on the counter. “Maple cinnamon.”

“I didn’t order yet.”