Page 24 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

“We heard there were muffins.”

“There are,” I say.

The men spread out along the display, debating flavors with the seriousness of investors considering an acquisition. Two select caramel apple. Cole chooses apple crisp cheesecake and adds an orange-cinnamon coffee.

By the time I finish ringing up their orders, four more construction workers have entered behind them. Then two women from the insurance office next door. The small morning rush swells into a line stretching to the door.

Loralee arrives ten minutes late, takes one look at the crowd, and ties on her apron without offering a planetary explanation. She moves to the coffee station while I handle the register and pastries.

Jake remains near the display, directing customers toward the flavor cards and answering questions as though he works here.

“Caramel apple is the muffin of the week,” he tells an older man.

“You recommend it?” the man asks.

“I’ve conducted extensive research.”

I bite back a laugh. A customer asks whether the display is original to the bakery. Jake explains the history of the reclaimed oak without taking credit for the design until I interrupt him.

“He built it.”

Several heads turn toward him. Jake looks almost uncomfortable with the attention.

“It was a small job.”

“It was not a small improvement,” I say.

Our eyes meet across the crowded bakery. The moment lasts only a second, but something shifts inside me. Jake is not smiling, yet warmth fills his expression.

Then one of his workers bumps the coffee condiment station, sending a container of wooden stirrers across the floor. Jake immediately grabs the broom from beside the utility-room door.

“Where are your aprons?” he asks.

“You are not wearing one of my aprons.”

I look at the line of customers waiting for me.

“Hooks behind the kitchen door.”

He disappears into the back and returns wearing the only clean spare Loralee did not claim. It is pink. Not pale pink. Bright raspberry pink, withSWEET TREATS—A LITTLE JOY IN EVERY BITEprinted in white script across the chest.

The apron is too small for him. The straps pull tight across his shoulders, and the lower half stops several inches above his knees.

The bakery goes momentarily silent. Cole takes out his phone.

“Don’t,” Jake warns.

The photograph is taken anyway. Jake sweeps the stirrers into a neat pile while several customers laugh and someone near the door announces that the picture is going on the Forge Creek community page.

I should rescue him. Instead, I lean one hip against the counter and enjoy the sight of six-foot-two Jake Dalton calmly sweeping my bakery in a pink apron.

“It suits you,” I say.

He gives me a long look. “I’m adding this to the labor invoice.”

“You refused payment.”

“I’m reconsidering.”