Page 30 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

I can’t deny that even the sound of his truck before he parks excites me. And I’m quick to notice that I spend time hunting for the largest caramel apple muffin for him each morning.

His gaze settles on the counter behind me. “How’s production?”

“Excellent.”

Loralee coughs. Jake glances at her.

“Her eye is twitching,” she says.

“Traitor,” she calls out to Loralee.

“I’m concerned about your nervous system,” Loralee says in exasperation.

“My nervous system is busy.”

Jake studies the ingredient bags stacked beside the hallway. “What still needs moving?”

“Nothing.”

A fifty-pound bag of flour chooses that moment to slide sideways and strike the floor with a heavy thud. Jake looks at it. I look at it.

Loralee walks toward the front register. “I’m going to give you two privacy.”

“We don’t need privacy,” I call after her.

“We also don’t need fifty pounds of flour in the doorway,” Jake says, bending and lifting the bag against one shoulder as if it weighs less than a throw pillow.

“Where does this go?”

I could tell him I can manage it. Instead, I hear his voice from the overlook.Problems are easier when they have solutions.Maybe accepting one does not mean I am surrendering my bakery, my independence, or my entire future.

“In the walk-in,” I say. “Below the lower shelf.”

His eyebrows lift. “Do not make me regret asking.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly again,” he says with a smirk.

He carries the flour down the hallway. I follow with two containers of cream cheese that need to be moved to make room for tomorrow’s strawberry batches.

The walk-in cooler is crowded but orderly. Every shelf is labeled, every container dated, and every ingredient positioned according to when I will need it.

Jake lowers the flour and scans the arrangement.

“You alphabetized the extracts.”

“I categorized them by use.”

“Vanilla is under V.”

“That is a coincidence.”

I step inside and place the cream cheese beside the butter. Jake moves deeper into the cooler to shift a crate of apples.

The heavy door swings behind us. It closes with a metallic click. I freeze. Jake turns.

“No.”