Page 52 of Forced Knocked-Up Mate

I head out front, setting up the window and getting the shop clean. Around six, I open the doors and serve a few early-morning workers stopping in for breakfast. I’m so busy for a short while that I forget about Peter.

I’m restocking mini donuts when I hear a clatter in the kitchen and realize I haven’t checked on Peter in quite a while. A sense of dread settles in me as I try to picture what I’m going to find in the back.

Bracing myself, I go through the swinging door, expecting to see my kitchen looking like twenty toddlers just had a violent food fight from one end of the room to the other. When I see Peter methodically kneading some dough on a spotless counter, I have to blink a few times to register the scene.

Loaves of fresh bread are set out on the cooling racks. The ovens are running and full of muffins, cakes, and pastries. The counters are clean, the utensils and pans are washed and dried, and all the ingredients have been properly packed away on the shelves.

“Peter?” I ask hesitantly.

He looks up, a frown of frustration on his face. “Hi. Sorry, I haven’t come out the front to help. I decided to try and make pastry, and it’s kicking my ass.”

I chuckle, walking over to check out his efforts. “Pastry kicks everyone’s ass. It’s one of the hardest things to bake. I’m amazed by how much you got done in the last few hours.”

“Yeah, I just followed the chart,” he says, gesturing at the poster above the sink that outlines our basic bakery procedures. “And it was kind of obvious what order I should do everything in. Then I cleaned up as I went along, so it wouldn’t be too much of a job later.”

“That’s great,” I answer, shaking my head a little. “What inspired you to try and make pastry?”

“I had a few bowls with leftover ingredients,” he says, rolling the pastry out into a long, thin sheet. “The mixture seemed to match up pretty closely, so I thought I’d give it a go.”

I take a closer look at what he’s doing. It looks like a slab of perfect shortcrust. I touch it gently, watching it spring back under my finger.

“Are you trying to tell me that you went off-label on a pastry recipe?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he answers, frowning. “Is that okay? I just didn’t want to waste anything.”

I shake my head. “It’s cool. I just don’t think you realize what you’ve done.”

“What?” he asks, annoyed.

His scowl is so defensive, I have to giggle. “No, Peter, you don’t get it. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. Pastry is one of the hardest things to make. Even if you’re really experienced, it’s easy to screw up. You’re telling me you just threw some stuff together and made a perfect shortcrust? I don’t know… I feel like there had to be magic involved.”

He chuckles. “You’re the one with magic. Although, with the way you cast spells, no wonder it doesn’t work.”

My smile falls right off my face. Peter puts his attention back on the pastry as I slink back to the front to serve customers.

So that’s how he really feels.

Luckily, the shop gets busy, and I don’t have time to think. I’m dreading the idea of getting Peter to help at the counter, but thankfully, Sarah and Fiona come in before I have to ask him.

“So?” Fiona asks as we clear out the lunch rush. “How is it going with Prince-Not-So-Charming?”

I snort. “That’s an apt enough way to put it.”

“That bad?” Fiona says, grinning. “He’s out there with a big grin on his face, and the kitchen doesn’t look like it’s been hit by rogue asteroids. I assumed things were getting better.”

“I thought they were, too,” I sigh. “But last time I went in there, he made a crack about my spell-casting skills being extremely poor, so I figure he’s still counting the minutes until he can get away from me.”

“I think it’s still a bit romantic,” Sarah says longingly. “You asked the universe for your true love, and he was delivered right to your back door. It makes me wonder if I should try it.”

“DON’T!” Fiona and I yell at the same time.

“I didn’t think you were a witch, Sarah,” Fiona says.

Sarah shrugs. “I dabble a bit. Ever since I was a kid, if I wished really hard for something, I usually got it.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’ve never understood that phrase better than I do right now.”

“Hey, Lucy?” Peter calls, sticking his head out through the kitchen door. “Rider just texted me. He wants me to come in for a meeting. Can we go soon?”

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