Page 13 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

“I’m securing lost property.”

“You could text him.”

“I don’t have his number.”

“You could call his company.”

“I am not calling a construction company to report a missing pocket screwdriver.”

“It’s a multi-tool.”

“Whose side are you on?”

She considers that. “The universe’s.”

I should have expected that answer from her. I close the drawer harder than necessary and return to the pastry case. The morning rush has left three empty spaces where caramel apple muffins once stood, and the remaining batch is disappearing faster than I expected.

Jake bought three pastries during two visits. Four, technically, if I count the cinnamon roll allegedly intended for someone else. Which I do. Sales are sales.

I arrange the last six muffins into a tighter display, turning each one so the caramel drizzle faces forward. A bakery case should look abundant even when inventory is running low. It is one of the many small rules I live by.

Loralee begins rearranging the lemon bars. I watch her move one from the center to the far left.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“The energy was stagnant.”

“The rows were straight though.”

“That may be the problem.”

“The straight rows are not the problem.” I advise.

Loralee moves another lemon bar. I move it back.

She sighs. “You make it very difficult for abundance to flow.”

“Abundance may flow between the clearly marked price cards.”

The bell over the front door rings. Both of us look toward it. My stomach performs a small, ridiculous flutter before I see the woman entering. It’s not Jake.

The new customer is in her late twenties, with honey-blond hair pulled into a high ponytail and a quick smile. She wears jeans, ankle boots, and a black T-shirt withTHE FOUNDRYprinted across the front.

I recognize the name of Forge Creek’s bar and grill, although I have not made it there yet. Since opening Sweet Treats, my evenings consist mostly of reviewing receipts, cleaning equipment, and wondering how butter can cost that much without arriving in a chauffeured limousine.

“I heard the caramel apple muffins were to die for. Do you have any?” she asks.

“I have six.”

“Then I need four before somebody from the mill comes in to buy them.”

I reach for a bakery box. “That sounds like experience talking.”

“I bartend near men who believe baked goods are a competitive sport.”

“Construction crews can be that way.”

Her gaze moves toward the muddy prints I have not completely erased near the door.