Page 4 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

“It’s six in the morning.”

“Joy doesn’t have business hours.”

His gaze catches mine and holds it. That is when I notice the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. He is older than I first guessed. Mid-to-late thirties, perhaps. There are pale scars across one forearm and a small nick near his wrist. His hair is clipped shorter on the sides but thick on top, and a permanent shadow darkens his jaw as if shaving has become a negotiation he refuses to complete.

He looks capable and competent. Exactly like the type of man who would take charge of a situation before anyone invited him to. I have already married that man once.

Admittedly, my ex did not have hazel eyes, impressive forearms, or the sense to appreciate a good muffin. Still, I have learned not to confuse attractive packaging with emotional safety.

The stranger finishes half the muffin and glances toward the front door.

“Your hinge is loose.”

I stop mopping.

“My what?”

“The top hinge on the door. It’s pulling away from the frame.”

I look at the door. It appears perfectly fine.

“It opens and closes.”

“For now.”

I rest both hands on the mop handle. “Do you always assess buildings while eating breakfast?”

“Pretty much.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It’s worse when something is crooked.”

His gaze drifts to the molding beside the display case.

I shift slightly, blocking his view.

“It isn’t crooked.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked at it.”

“It’s off by about half an inch.”

“It has character.”

“It has a bad installation.”

“It is original to the building.”

“No, it isn’t.”

I blink. “How would you know?”

“The milling profile is wrong for the age of the brick. Somebody added it later and didn’t square the corner.”

I look at the molding, then at him. It has bothered me since the day I moved in, but I have refused to acknowledgethe problem because the contractor who renovated the bakery insisted the wall was uneven and nothing could be done without replacing the entire section.