Page 39 of Finally Moore

I let out a giant sigh of relief. “Oh, yeah… this is personal, not work.”

He remains silent, clearly not satisfied with my answer.

“It’s for the Christmas coffee rings. My family makes a bunch and gives them out each year. My kitchen can’t exactly handle the volume, so I do all my prepping and cooking at work.” It’s not a lie. My grandma could hardly handle the few dozen she’d make in her home kitchen. Mom added to that list when she included one for all the business owners in town, in addition to close friends, so now it’s double that.

“Makes sense.” Logan continues to eye me with suspicion. “So then, why do you look so guilty?”

“I’m not guilty,” I say, once again a little too high-pitched. I clear my throat. “I’m not. It’s my business. I can use the kitchen as I wish.”

Logan leans in, searching for the lie hidden between the truth. Bastard is like a bloodhound for self-condemnation. Pulling back, he smiles. “Need help?”

“Help?” I parrot, and he nods to the large bushel of apples. “Oh, yeah, help… if you have time.”

“Well, since it looks like you already pulled today’s bread to rise, have muffins in the oven, and the doughnuts iced—yeah, I have some time.”

I shrug. Old habits die hard. “Here, you peel and core, and I’ll get started on the filling.”

I take the already prepped apples, slice them up, and add them to my giant commercial kettle. When I was little, my grandma had this big twelve-quart kettle that hardly fit on her stovetop with the overhead range. She’d pack that bad boy to the brim with apples, and it would make enough filling for about six to eight rings. She’d have to repeat the process several times, in batches. But now, thanks to technology, I only need to do it once. While there are a few things I won’t ever change about how her rings are made, that is one convenience I’m thankful for.

Logan takes a slice of apple and plops it into his mouth. He hums his satisfaction. “What kind are these?”

“Jonathan,” I inform him.

“Really? I didn’t think people grew those anymore.” He grabs another slice. “My grandma used to bake with them all the time.”

“Mine too,” I say. He’s right. Jonathan apples don’t bode well in high volumes and have become increasingly hard to find. Fortunately for me, I have a guy. “Eli still grows 'em. He likes them for his cider blend. Besides him, there are a few others who are adamant about using them in their classic recipes.”

“I take it you’re one of those few.”

I shrug. “What can I say? I’ve tried other varieties, but none of them come close to the real thing. These little guys are perfectly tart and balance out the sweetness.”

“I get it.” Logan nods. “There are just some things you don’t change.”

“Exactly,” I tell him as our hands stay on task. The hour flies by as we talk about different foods and recipes. It’s impressive, hearing about how this kid’s mind processes flavors and comes up with new combinations.

“Oh, Scott,” Gia interrupts with a mocking tone, and I have the sudden feeling that she’s about to ruin what was turning out to be a good morning. “You have a customer.”

Great, I’m guessing my not-so-soon-to-be mother-in-law has come to share some new words of wisdom with me.

“I’ll only be a minute,” I tell Logan. I notice he’s almost done with the peeling and coring. “But if I’m not back in time, here’s the recipe.” I grab the folded piece of paper from the locked cupboard. Before handing it to him, I pull my hand back, hoping he understands my seriousness. “Do not deviate whatsoever.”

“Sure thing, chef.”

He tries to snatch the paper from my fingers, but I continue to hold it just out of reach. “And this is top secret.” He rolls his eyes, so I add, “No joke.”

“Fine, I won’t change it or steal it… I promise.” He holds up a pinky.

I ignore the gesture and give him the card. Taking a calming breath, I wash up and prepare myself for whatever new hell is waiting for me at the front of the store. When I finally walk out to greet her, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I was only half-right. There is a Valentine woman standing by the front counter, but she also happens to be the one I’ve been aching to see.

“Hey.” I step closer, lean forward, and rest an arm between us. “You look amazing.”

Scarlett blushes as she glances down at the drink she’s holding. “Thank you,” she says, but doesn’t sound so sure about that. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just—”

“You’re not bothering me.” I smile. “What’s up?”

“Oh… um… you weren’t there when I woke up. So I wanted to check in, wasn’t sure if something came up.”

“Sorry about that. Force of habit. It seems I can’t sleep in, so I figured I’d stop by the shop and get a head start on making Christmas rings for everyone.”

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