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“Why three dates?” I finally ask Jeremy.
Jeremy flashes another gorgeous lopsided grin. “Because you’ve done three dates’ worth of damage.”
I shake my head, teetering on the brink of refusal. Then I steal a glance at my coworkers, Rita and Sarah, who are nodding, encouraging me to accept Jeremy’s proposal. But something about it feels odd. It’s as if he’s attempting to purchase my company, and that doesn’t sit well with me. I could simply borrow the money from my parents.
Before I can make a decision, Randy interjects in his usual grumbling voice. “Jeremy, that’s enough. Back off my employee! We’re not paying her to socialize.”
I grunt, rolling my eyes. Could he stop being a jerk for five minutes?
“Hey, we’re striking a deal here,” Jeremy counters, maintaining his charismatic smile.
“No deal,” Randy says. “I’ll pay for the damage.”
My insides erupt with indignation. “No way!” I exclaim, shaking my head adamantly. “I’ll take the dates. There’s no way I’m owing you a dime.”
Randy’s jaw drops open.
I don’t care that he’s speechless. The last thing I want is to give him more leverage over me. Owing him money would give him too much power, and that’s exactly why I decide to accept Jeremy’s deal.
* * *
8 Hours Later
Randy only lingered at the front of the shop long enough to become irritated by my interaction with Jeremy. I haven’t seen much of him since the lunch rush and after-work crowds thinned out. It’s not like I’ve been actively looking for him—or perhaps I have. I hate how my chest fills with a swarm of butterflies every time I unexpectedly catch a glimpse of him. I must be crazy, feeling this way about him. My man-picking instincts must be way off.
Thankfully, the café is now closed. Exhausted, I finish wiping down tables. It has been an exceptionally long day. Usually, I rise at 6 a.m. Wednesday morning for a 7 a.m. class. Lately, I’ve been burning the midnight oil, studying and experimenting with new recipes. Baking has always been my forte, but I find cooking over the stove to be more challenging. I work hard because I want my grades to reflect how much I love the culinary arts.
“Hey, Gina!”
I send my tired gaze across the room. Pete, the second-shift baker, stands at the register with his coat on and keys in hand.
“Yeah?” I ask with a yawn.
“Are you closing tonight?”
“Yep.”
He grins, visibly relieved. “Could you do me a favor and prepare the dough for the next few hours? My daughter has an event tonight, and the kid is counting on me being there.”
If history is any indication, Pete already knows my answer. Plus, I’m grinning from ear to ear, thrilled to be asked to do the task I enjoy most.
“Sure, but is Randy around?” I ask, anxiety fluttering in my chest. He would undoubtedly have an issue with me taking extra time to prepare the dough instead of immediately closing the register and getting ready for the morning shift.
I only work in the kitchen on days when Randy isn’t here. When I made my famous blueberry and strawberry stuffed puffs, which have since been added to the menu, Randy was absent for two weeks. If he were around, that would never have happened.
Pete is already heading for the exit when he answers. “I haven’t seen him all day. Can you do it?”
I twist my lips nervously. After agreeing to go on three dates with Randy’s cousin, I don’t want any more trouble with Randy. But there’s no way I can say no, especially when Pete assures me he’ll be back within three hours. Besides, he’s practically out the door already.
* * *
Time flies as I measure ingredients, adding my personal touches to the batch while making dough. When I get into baking mode, there’s no stopping me, and before long, I’m whipping up batter for muffins. Pete must’ve known I would do that, too; he’s lined up the dry ingredients I need on the counter. We both know I make the best raspberry vanilla swirl cro-muffins, which are a cross between a croissant and a muffin.
“You’re still here?” a voice asks.
I jump, startled, immediately recognizing the voice. Then I quickly turn my attention toward the doorway to see Randy.
“Pete has a thing tonight. I’m just helping,” I explain, relieved to have just placed the final batch of muffin tins in the refrigerator. I pull the tie on my apron, loosening it. “I know I’m supposed to close tonight, so I’ll go out and count the register.”
