Page 19 of Resisting the Grump

I bit back a smile.

“That came out wrong.”

“What can I do for you?” I asked, my imagination flooding with all the filthy things I feared he’d never say.

“I was thinking of coming by the café—”

What?!

“And was wondering when would be a good time?”

I knew it wasn’t a trick question, but I couldn’t decide if I should answer him with numbers or words. “Whenever!” I blurted, my mind reeling. “Whenever you’re hungry, that is.”

“Whenever I’m hungry.”

It sounded so dumb when he repeated it that I squeezed my eyes shut and willed the deafening silence to swallow me up.

“Guess I’ll see you when I see you then.”

“Looking forward to it!” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as certifiable as I felt.

Well, that should do it, I thought when he hung up. I’ll never see him again.

T W E L V E

- Oliver -

Just when I thought the cactus got my point across, I found another present on my doorstep… If you can call a rude note and a gift you don’t want on your stoop a present.

Sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s be friends. Here’s a kit to get you started if you’re still holding out for that pie. Hope it helps with your adult hyperactive disorder.

Frankly, the first two sentences might’ve been a nice touch if they hadn’t been crossed out. And I got a chuckle out of the suggestion that I make my own pie. But her brazen accusation that I had hyperactivity disorder was a low blow. Not that she could know I was a hyperactive kid, but I was sincerely trying to bring this war to a close, and she’d gone out of her way to throw fuel on the fire.

This witch obviously had no idea that I’d spent the previous weekend being force fed the best desserts in the state. So my palate was undoubtedly far too refined to enjoy the contents of a cheap pie kit that she almost certainly tampered with. Besides, if I were going to take up baking, I’d start with something more basic, like slicing frozen sugar cookies.

The thought did occur to me that developing my confectionary skills might be a good way to impress Brownie Babe, but I dismissed the idea immediately. That would be as asinine as flirting with Michael Jordan by trying to prove you were great at basketball. Waste of time. I’d have to impress her in other ways. I doubted it would be with bakery-related banter, though. She was probably up to her crust in sweet talk by the end of the day. Frankly, I’d be lucky if she could stomach any more of it from me.

I arrived just before closing time, and the place was open but not busy. To my surprise, the outside was pretty unassuming, least of all because the narrow shopfront was wedged between a dry cleaner and a phone store. Inside, though, it had serious Candy Land vibes. The ceiling was painted to look like it was crowded with fluffy pink clouds, and the mouthwatering details didn’t end there. From the punny welcome mat to the cupcake clock to the coat hooks behind the door that looked like melting ice cream, every fun feature contributed to a sense of frivolity I hadn’t expected after tasting their seriously delicious desserts.

Once I digested the elaborate décor, I headed towards the counter, passing a woman with two kids and a stroller making an ungodly mess near the front window and a man reading a thriller behind a half-eaten piece of red velvet cake. But as soon as my eyes found the glass cases full of tempting treats flanking the register, I forgot all about the other customers.

In fact, I was so seduced by the shocking abundance of powdered sugar I almost didn’t see the woman bending over on the other side of the counter. Of course, once I noticed her, I couldn’t look away, least of all because I was curious about the tattoo peeking out from beneath the waistband of her dark jeans. It looked like a vine of ivy, the softly shaded leaves trailing away from her spine into a delicate curl. I cleared my throat as soon as I realized I was staring.

She shot upright at the noise and spun around, and when she saw it was me, so many expressions fought for real estate on her face that I regretted sneaking up on her even though it was an accident.

“Oliver Harrington.” She rolled her shoulders back and kicked the cupboard behind her shut without glancing back at it. “Hi.”

“Thought I’d swing by and make use of my loyalty card,” I said, raising it in the air between pinched fingers.

“Well, you’re in the right place,” she said, smoothing her hands over her hips.

My stomach growled as I resisted the urge to let my eyes drift towards the deep neckline of her V-neck shirt, which flattered her curves much more than the oversized tee she was sporting when we met.

“What are you in the mood for?”

Nothing that’s on the menu, I’m sure. “Bit late in the day for coffee.”

“We have a great selection of artisan soda.”

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