Page 36 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

“That doesn’t make flickering normal.”

“The electrician who worked on the renovation said the panel could handle the equipment.”

“The same renovation company that installed the molding?”

Her shoulders tighten. “Jake.”

I stop. This is the moment when I would normally begin inspecting. I would check the outlets, locate the panel, and determine whether the ovens and mixer are pulling too much power.

Instead, I ask, “Do you want me to look at it?”

Ava glances toward the ceiling. “Not tonight. I can’t add another problem to my list before the event.”

“It may only be a loose connection.”

“Or it may be expensive.”

“That, too.”

Her expression asks me not to press.

I nod. “After the event.”

“After the event,” she agrees.

I leave Sweet Treats twenty minutes later with two more muffins in a bag and the taste of Ava still on my mouth. As I walk toward my truck, the bakery lights flicker behind me once more.

I promised not to inspect anything without her permission. I intend to keep that promise. But promises become more complicated when the woman you are trying to respect may be working inside a building that is not safe.

Chapter 9

Ava

By Friday evening, every flat surface inside Sweet Treats holds either a pastry, a cooling rack, or one of my increasingly desperate attempts at organization.

The Renewal Celebration is tomorrow. I have baked one hundred and forty-eight muffins, prepared dough for the morning cinnamon rolls, labeled twenty-two boxes, and consumed enough coffee to hear colors.

Loralee left an hour ago after informing me that overworking during a waxing moon attracts chaos. I told her chaos was already here and wearing an apron.

Now I stand alone at the prep table, piping cream cheese into strawberry muffins while trying not to think about the remaining seventy-two pastries on my schedule.

The front door opens.

“We’re closed,” I call without looking up.

“Good. I didn’t come to buy anything.”

I recognize Jake’s voice immediately. My body does, too. I glance toward the doorway and find him carrying two large takeout bags from The Foundry. He has changed out of his work clothes into dark jeans and a charcoal Henley pushed up at the sleeves.

The sight of his forearms should not improve my mood this quickly. I can hardly look away, but don’t want to stare.

“You brought food?”

“You’ve been here since before sunrise.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Yes, I brought food.”