Page 8 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

“Breakfast?”

“No.”

He looks at the bag. I look at the bag.

“Trash,” I clarify.

He gives me a slow nod that says he does not believe me but values his employment.

“East wall is open,” he tells me. “We found more rot under the window framing.”

“Show me.”

The next three hours should be enough to drive a bakery owner with brown eyes and flour on her cheek out of my head. Wrong! They are not.

I inspect the window framing, approve the removal of two more damaged studs, speak with the electrician, and revise the afternoon schedule.

Every few minutes, my mind circles back to Sweet Treats and Ava Bennett glaring at my boots. She talked about her muffins as if she had personally invented apples. I also caught the quick flash of satisfaction she tried to hide after I tasted it.

Ava is attractive when she is irritated. This is unfortunate, because I appear to irritate her without effort.

I have lived in Forge Creek most of my life, and I know nearly every business owner downtown. I knew someone had purchased the old bakery building, but I had not paid much attention to the renovations. My company submitted an estimate before the sale closed. The buyer chose someone cheaper. That happens.

What bothers me is not losing the job. It is seeing the shortcuts now. The loose hinge that should have been repaired. The crooked replacement molding … and more. I only spent fifteen minutes inside the building, and I spotted enough questionable work to keep a crew busy for a week.

Ava either does not know what she bought, or she knows and does not have the money to correct it yet. Neither possibility should be my concern.

At eleven, I tell myself I need coffee. The construction trailer contains a full pot. At eleven-oh-five, I decide the coffee tastes burned and I need something fresh. I drive back to Sweet Treats.

The bakery is busier now. Two tables are occupied, and a line of four customers stretches from the register to the door. I wait a moment to enter and begin wiping my boots on the storefront mat.

The bell rings when I enter. Ava glances up from a box she is filling with muffins. Her gaze drops immediately to my boots.

“I wiped them.”

“Would you like a certificate?”

“I’d settle for coffee.”

Her mouth twitches. That almost-smile feels like winning something.

Ava moves behind the counter swiftly. Her dark hair is still piled on top of her head, but more pieces have escaped around her face. The flour I noticed earlier is gone from her cheek.

While I wait, I look around the bakery again. Not because I am inspecting it. Because there is nowhere else to look.

The space is warm and bright, with the original brick exposed along one wall and old black-and-white photographs of Forge Creek hanging above the tables. Someone has refinished the wood floor, but darker patches remain where counters or shelves once stood. The imperfections make it better. Ava understands that much, at least.

The front door creaks behind me as another customer enters. I look up at the hinge. One screw has pulled farther out of the wood since this morning. Ava catches me staring.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t need to. Your face said it.”

“What did my face say?”

“That you’re about to interfere.”