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Torrent of Memories
I don’t wantto change the subject away from what Preston does for his mom, but I’ve had enough conversations in my life to know if I don’t he’ll start to pick up on my interest, so I change it anyway. “Want some help over there?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I’m good, honey. You just enjoy your coffee.”
“I don’t mind.” I used to help my mom all the time. “I’m good at icing things.”
His large shoulders bounce as he chuckles, but he doesn’t turn around, just says distractedly, “Now don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“Okay, fine,” I shoot back with tsk, feigning disappointment. Go in for another sip. “I can only handle one Mitchell boy at a time anyway.”
He snorts. “I don’t doubt it.”
A noise interrupts our conversation—boots tromping up the front stairs, and I go still, heat swallowing me. Like someone is about to catch me with my hand in the cupcake jar…
Or in a filing cabinet.
I shake it off and straighten my shoulders. Preston invited me. And this isn’t so much snooping as it is me needing a break from everyone in the other house.
The door swings wide with no knock. “I’m here!” the visitor says, his Spanish accent thick. The light pouring in behind him reduces him to a round, faceless silhouette. When he shuts the door, I see a short man dressed in black, his round middle pressing against his massive belt buckle so hard I seriously consider getting out of the line of fire.
Preston turns. “Ferny!” he says, lifting the icing bag. “Not quite ready yet, my man.”
“Dude.” He runs a hand over his balding head. A sigh. “I’m already running late.”
Preston shrugs and continues decorating. “Sorry. They’ll just have to wait.”
He grumbles and goes back outside. Once the door shuts behind him, I say, “Your drug runner?”
“Yeah,” he muses. His icing bag farts unceremoniously.
I try not to giggle.
“That was the bag,” he explains.
“Oh, sure.”
He chuckles. Shoots me a brief look. “Where did my brother find you again?”
“The bar.”
“Right. Your restaurant.” Something like that. “I think I like you.”
I take an indulgent sip of coffee, then say with a smile, “I think I like you too.” And I do. Not that he’ll like me for long, unfortunately.
We fall quiet again and my eyes roam as he works. He keeps it neat in here, or I guess the butlers or maids do. “This isn’t silly, you know,” I reassure him.
“What isn’t?” He turns to me as he refills the bag with icing. “Making cupcakes?”
“It’s actually pretty admirable.” Baking is a science, Mom always says, one I’ve never even attempted.
He doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. Probably because he’s not used to compliments from the women in his life. Jokes and insults? Yes. Encouragement? Not unless it serves their interests. And it breaks my heart a little.
“And you have a natural talent for it,” I continue.
“Thank you,” he says awkwardly, and continues decorating.
My phone buzzes with an alert and I take it out of my pocket to look. It’s just Instagram, so I swipe it away and notice the time; it’s almost nine o’clock and I have some showering and dressing to do. I down the rest of my coffee and slide off the stool. “I’ve gotta split,” I say. “Thank you for breakfast.”
