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“You deserve to be paid for your time,” she said.
“You can give me another muffin.”
“How about I bag up the last three of those and you can take them with you,” she suggested, getting to her feet. “Thank you for getting the lights back on.”
“You’re welcome. Listen, I have a couple of contacts in the salvage business. If I hear about any commercial ovens you can get for a good deal, I’ll let you know.”
“That would be amazing, thank you,” she said, her face brightening as if I’d given her the first hope in years.
Why was I volunteering to go out of my way to help a total stranger? Why had my ambitious baby brother done the same? There was something about her that she didn’t even seem aware of, something that called out to me and made me want to stay near her, talk with her, get to know her.
“Do you have anyone who can help you out?” I asked, knowing it was none of my business. I was thinking a husband, a boyfriend, her parents.
“Yes,” she said staunchly, “Me.”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“Because it was sexist?” She said with a raise of her eyebrow.
“No, because it’s personal.”
“Personally, I’ve been planning this shop since I was about fifteen. Every penny I saved, every crappy kitchen assistant job I took prepping salads and counting the rolls to put into the basket was working up to this. To getting to open my own place. I have always wanted this and when I thought I had enough money for what I’d figured as startup costs, I worked another whole year to make sure I had a cushion saved up. Because new businesses take money and time you never thought you would need.”
“That’s very responsible. It must have been hard to put it on hold like that,” I said.
“Yes and no. Yes, because I wanted it right that second, of course, but not really because I knew it was the practical thing to do, to have extra money saved in case of emergency. In case my appendix exploded, or my freezer shorted out so all my ingredients had to be replaced all at once, stuff like that. Little things that go wrong.”
“An exploding appendix is minor?”
“Compared to this electrical thing, it absolutely is,” she said emphatically.
“If you’ve worked your whole adult life for this, one oven isn’t going to stop you now,” I assured her.
“I know you’re right. It just feels like it could be the end of everything.”
Something in her expression made me pause and look at her face more seriously than I wanted to allow myself. She was pretty, I recognized that immediately even before the lights were back on, but it was more than her looks. Madison Stewart had steel in her, determination and stubbornness. More than that was her energy, the passion she had for her shop, her goals, the fact that she was all in.
What arrested my gaze was the tiny, almost invisible curve of the corners of her mouth that betrayed her pride and satisfaction. I wondered how I could make that small admission of pleasure break through her reserve and get her to smile, broad and genuine and bright as the sun. I wanted to delight her, surprise her, take her in my arms and carry her up a long staircase like we were in an old movie. Romantic ideas and erotic ones filled my mind, all the ways I could please her until that single, stingy ‘exactly’ was replaced by her crying out at the height of ecstasy.
Stunned by that train of thought, I took a drink of my cold coffee to try to calm my body. Instead, I choked on it because the inappropriate fantasy about the client with the electrical problem had short-circuited my ability to swallow liquids. I coughed, gasped, somehow snorted and felt the burn of the coffee in the back of my nose. It was humiliating. I waved her away when she got to her feet and tried to help me. I coughed into a napkin she offered me, my face going red. I felt like I was trying to breathe underwater. When I was able to rasp out an, ‘I’m fine’, she brought me another napkin and took my cup away. Apparently, I couldn’t be trusted with coffee now.
“I really appreciate your help, and I’m sorry that my coffee tried to murder you,” she said playfully.
Madison was making it difficult to stay professional when she was so likable. I cleared my throat again.
“I’m fine. Thanks for not doing the Heimlich for no reason.”
“That doesn’t work for choking on liquid. I’m first aid certified. I took that at the same time as my food safety sanitation course.”
“I thought it was the Boy Scouts who were always prepared,” I said, trying to flirt with her and leave the choking behind us.
“More like a personal philosophy of being prepared for the worst.”
“Like electricians choking in your shop?”
“Yeah, and plumbers. Sometimes the people who set up the Wi-Fi,” she shrugged. “I’m here to make a tourniquet or do CPR as needed.”
“You should put that on the sign instead of Muffins on Maple.”
