Page 29 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

“I’m not always asking to be fixed,” she says.

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Not completely.”

That earns a quiet laugh.

I lean back against the bench. “But I can try.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The river moves below us, catching the last of the evening light.

Ava brushes crumbs from her fingers. One remains near the corner of her mouth. I reach for it before thinking better of the impulse. My thumb passes lightly over her skin. She stills and so do I.

Her brown eyes drop briefly to my mouth, then return to mine. I could lean forward. I think she might let me. Then, her phone rings.

Ava exhales and looks at the screen. “Kayla.”

“Convenient.”

“She probably remembered something important.”

“She has terrible timing.”

Ava answers the call, but she smiles while doing it. When she finishes, we walk back toward our vehicles.

“Four minutes,” she says.

“What?”

“You listened for almost four minutes before trying to fix my life.”

“I can do better.. I didn’t realize I was on a time clock.”

“Five next time?”

“I’ll aim for six.”

She opens her driver’s door, then pauses. “There’s going to be a next time?”

I meet her gaze across the top of the door.

“I’m counting on it.”

Ava climbs into her vehicle with color rising in her cheeks. I watch her drive away and finally admit what has been obvious since the second cinnamon roll. The pastries are no longer the reason I keep returning to Sweet Treats. They are only the excuse.

Chapter 7

Ava

By Wednesday afternoon, Sweet Treats looks less like a bakery and more like a cinnamon-scented command center. My event proposal is approved, the deposit is paid, and two hundred and twenty pastries now exist as columns, ingredient calculations, baking schedules, and color-coded notes spread across the counter. Every available shelf holds flour, brown sugar, muffin liners, or boxes waiting to be assembled.

I should feel completely in control, but my left eye twitches. Loralee notices.

I point at her before she can speak. “Not one word.”

She lifts both hands and continues labeling bags of streusel. The front door opens, bringing in a gust of cool air and Jake Dalton. He wipes his boots without being reminded. There’s something very attractive about seeing this big brute of a man take extra care not to bring in dirt with him.