Page 7 of Never Let You Go

Skye grabs a handful of my hair to pull my head up so she can see how her pedicure is coming along.

“Wait, sweetie, I’m almost done,” I say, applying a coat on her pinky toe with the tip of the brush. She still has a bit of baby fat around the toes, and the nail is tiny.

“Let me see,” she says, frowning. “I love it. Do you think you could do my hands?” she asks, extending her fingers like a diva and wiggling her toes. She’s spending too much time at my cousin’s beauty salon and is clearly picking up on her clients’ mannerisms. It’s cute now, but I need to keep an eye on this before it gets out of control.

“Don’t smudge them, Skye. Be patient.” I use my fake big voice. “I’m not doing them over.”

“How about my hands, Daddy? Wouldn’t the glitter just be the prettiest on my hands?” she insists.

I glance at the time. I’m expecting the new apprentice at any moment. “All right, then. Real quick and promise you won’t move.” I start on her nails just as the bakery phone rings.

I tuck the receiver under my ear while painting Skye’s fingers. The bed-and-breakfast is having a bus tour and wants to add two dozen croissants for the morning and three apple crumbles for tea. I add their order to the four dozen apple cider muffins going to the coffee shop. I hang up, and the phone rings again. I curse under my breath as I pick up. This time, it’s the restaurant at the inn, asking for a special order of low-sodium dinner rolls.

Once I’m done transcribing their orders on our log for tomorrow, I resume my six-year-old daughter’s manicure. “How is your writing coming along?” I ask her.

“Daddy. You know I got an A-plus!”

“Good, because I’m going to need an assistant soon.”

She wiggles in her chair. “Caroline says her mom says every good baker needs a wife.”

“Caroline’s mom talks too much.” And she’s been wanting in my pants for years. “I’m already the best baker in the country.”

“That’s what I told Caroline.”

“You told Caroline her mom talks too much?” I chuckle.

“Noooo.” She giggles. “I told her you’re already the best baker in the whole entire world. But she says her mom said it’s not true.”

“Is that right?”

She pouts. “I hate her.”

“You can’t hate her. She’s your best friend.” I do sort of resent Caroline’s mom right now for saying that, although I know it comes from a good place. A number of people in Emerald Creek are gently nudging me to compete in the TV show, New England’s Best Baker. It would attract a lot of outside shoppers and tourists and benefit all the other shops. I know I’m good enough to hold my own on the show and even win the competition. I just haven’t given it the time, yet. Skye is my priority.

Being a single dad and growing my business is eating up my days and nights. But, as several friends have pointed out to me, winning the competition or even placing well would help my own business a lot. Other bakers who have won it, even in remote places similar to Emerald Creek, experienced an increase in sales, allowing them to hire more help and increase their prices on high-end products. It would bring the bakery to the next level. It’s actually exactly what I need.

It’s just not what I want.

“Well, today, I hate her,” Skye says as I finish her last fingernail. “Thank you, Daddy.” She smiles and purses her lips to give me a kiss. “May I please watch a cartoon, now?”

“Sure, princess,” I say, propping her in front of her favorite show. “Don’t smudge your nail polish, now. That was hard work for me.” I ruffle her unruly hair. “I told you about the apprentice coming to live with us, right? He’ll be here any minute. You stay in front of the TV while I get him settled.”

She’s deep in her show and nods absently. I’ve had little time to prepare her for the arrival of the apprentice. It’s just the two of us, and she’s not comfortable around strangers. The downside of growing up in a small town, I suppose. She knows everyone and everyone knows her.

Getting an apprentice all happened over the last couple of days. The foundation that provided the grant for my bakery called to set up an apprenticeship ASAP. They’re who made my dream of owning this bakery possible, so although I typically put my apprentices through an interview process, this time I didn’t have a say.

Not that it matters that much. Just like I did when I left my family over ten years ago, someone needed a place to land. Maybe someone who needed to get away from some family drama, or who, like me, was just over feeling not wanted and simply felt the urge to do something useful with his hands. Something that expressed love and brought people together.

I only hope the apprentice will be friendly and not as rowdy as I was in my days. All I know about this kid is that he comes from New York City and is arriving today. I offered to pick him up at the bus station but was told it wouldn’t be necessary.

I’m on the phone, again, when the door to the bakery chimes. Our shopkeeper, Willow, is gone by now. We’re sold out of bread, and the lights are dimmed. It has to be the apprentice, so I wrap up my call and head over to take care of him.

I feel like a tsunami is hitting me as I take in the woman standing in the middle of my bakery. A shy smile, big brown eyes, and a mouth that turns my thoughts dirty against my better judgment. I take my time closing the door so I can collect my thoughts. Calm down.

I like women, but damn.

I take a deep breath and follow the pull that takes me to the middle of the room instead of staying safely on my side of the counter.

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