Page 7 of Working For Her Sweet Treats

She glances at the pastry case. “Did he like the muffin?”

“He seemed to.“

“It contains cinnamon.”

I turn toward her. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Cinnamon draws success, passion, and prosperity.”

“It also makes apple muffins taste better.”

“That, too.”

I carry the mop back toward the utility sink, determined not to watch Jake through the window again. But I’m completely undisciplined. Even if I never get to know that man, I do like looking at him.

He opens the driver’s door of his truck, places the bakery bag carefully on the passenger seat, and climbs behind the wheel. Before pulling away, he takes one of the cinnamon rolls out of the bag.

Loralee peers over my shoulder. “He’ll be back.”

“He likes sugar.”

“He likes the baker.”

“He does not know the baker.”

She gives me the patient look of a woman explaining something obvious to a small child. “That has never stopped a man before.”

The front door shifts in the breeze. A tiny piece of wood near the upper hinge splinters and drops to the floor. Loralee and I stare at it.

I lift my chin. “I can fix that.”

“Whatever you say.”

Her tone suggests she believes the exact opposite.

I retrieve my phone from the office, open the notes app, and addFRONT-DOOR HINGEbeneath the other seventeen items on my maintenance list. Then I add a second note:Buy a larger mat.

Chapter 2

Jake

Ieat the second cinnamon roll before I make it two blocks. This does not mean I lied. At the exact moment I bought it, I intended to give it to someone else. One of the guys at the Jefferson Street project, probably. I have eight men working there today, and any one of them would appreciate a fresh cinnamon roll before spending the next several hours tearing water-damaged plaster out of an old hardware store. Intentions count for something.

The cinnamon roll is still warm when I pull it from the bag at the first red light. I take one bite, tell myself the crew can split the other one, and finish the whole thing before the signal changes.

The caramel apple muffin is already gone. That one never stood a chance.

I turn onto Jefferson and park beside the construction trailer. The three-story brick building in front of me has been standing since 1908, although parts of it appear ready to surrender before lunch.

Scaffolding covers the east side. Half the original windows are boarded while we wait for custom replacements. A section of roof has been peeled back, exposing beams darkened by age and decades of moisture.

Most people look at a building like this and see a money pit. I see what it can become.

The old hardware store will eventually hold two street-level businesses and four apartments upstairs. We have spent three weeks removing bad additions, uncovering original brick, and arguing with a staircase somebody installed during the eighties using more confidence than skill.

It is the kind of project I like best. Complicated enough to require thought. Old enough to have character. Damaged, but not beyond saving.

One of my crew members spots the white Sweet Treats bag in my hand as I approach.