Page 30 of Flake It Til You Make It

Rocco pursed his lips and brushed butter onto his dough.

“But Elaine said you were—”

“Maybe it wasn’t as good for him as it was for me,” Rocco interrupted.God, why had he even said that? He added, in a rush, “And if that’s true, then it’s fine. I don’t mind. I don’thave time to date anyway.”

Rebecca looked skeptical. “When the right person comes along, youmaketime.”

Rocco sprinkled the brown sugar and spice mixture over the buttered dough. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Come on,” Rebecca said. “It’s the ornament party tonight. You’ll really enjoy that. Griff said we’re making little miniature Christmas Falls snow globes. Youneedone, for your first year here.”

And that was the other thing that had taken his bad mood and plunged it off the cliff. Last night, in an attempt to cheer himself up, he’d decided to set up the little tree in his apartment.

Once he’d gotten the lights all strung, he’d started to hang all the ornaments—generic boxes of sets of twelve, red glitter balls and shiny gold bells and evergreen trees—but all Rocco had been able to think of was the tree his parents and he always set up in their restaurant foyer, cramming it in between the host station and the glass-fronted wine storage. It was an absolute mishmash of ornaments. Ones with crooked popsicle sticks that Rocco had made in school, ornaments that regulars brought them from their travels, ornaments from Italy and Scotland and Japan. The tree had told a story. It had weightandhistory. Rocco had always looked at it and knew exactly what it meant.

But last night, he’d looked at his new tree and realized the only story it was telling was that he was far away from home and didn’t know what the fuck he was even doing anymore.

His black mood had only darkened even further.

Maybe he was becoming as overdramatic as the rest of the Moretti clan.

He’d woken up this morning and wished, more than anything, that he could just stay closed today, closely followed by the realization that being an adult and owning a business meant that he had to get up and tend to his responsibilities, even though the desire to pull his blankets over his head and pretend that none of this was happening was painfully strong.

“Rebecca, I know you mean well, but I’mreallynot in the mood for the ornament party.”

“And what?” She raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna just go home, alone, and sit on your couch watchingReal Housewives of Duluth?”

That sounded only marginally better than sitting on his couch staring at his meaningless tree. Or waiting for a text message that wasn’t forthcoming.

What he should really do was meet Taylor and tell him this whole fake dating thing was off. That he’d miscalculated. That he couldn’t do this.

But hewantedto do this. He wanted another date like the one they’d had. He wanted a lot more than one, if he was being very honest with himself.

“I likeReal Housewives of Duluth,” Rocco said stubbornly.

Rebecca grinned. “If therewasaReal Housewives of Duluth, you probably would. Come on, come with me. Make an ornament. Felix over at Milton Falls farm told me you got a tree, acute little one. I bet it needs some kind of ornament that doesn’t come from the big box store.”

It was annoying how perceptive his employee and friend could be. Because she had a point. How was he ever going to be able to replace his horribly generic ornaments with anything more personal if he didn’ttry? “Fine, fine. I’ll go.”

“Excellent.” The doorbell tinkled and Rebecca shot him one last triumphant smile before walking out through the swinging doors to serve their first customer of the day.

Rocco finished rolling up his buns, deftly cut them with a serrated knife, and set them on a tray to do one last quick rise before baking.

By seven, the whole bakery would smell like fresh bread and spices. He’d even risk the heating system by opening the door—it was supposed to be a high of a brisk forty-two today—and hopefully wafting some of those delicious scents down the street.

If that wasn’t inviting, he didn’t know what else to try.

He ducked out from the kitchen and was pleased to see a second person in line, behind the obvious tourist.

“Hey, welcome to Jolly Java,” Rocco said to them, “what can I start making for you?”

For the rest of the morning, Rocco baked chai buns, made coffee and hot chocolate, and even once, he got to make a caramel hot cider—but of course, it wasn’t for Taylor, thoughhe thought about him and the way he’d looked taking that first sip, as he’d made it.

By noon, his mood had improved—along with the visitors. He saw two old regulars, poured thembothpumpkin spice lattes, and even convinced them to each take a chai bun to go, on the house.

“You’re actually smiling again, and looking like you mean it,” Rebecca said, as she cleaned tables and he re-stocked the glass-front case. “Did he text you?”

For a second, Rocco wasn’t sure who she meant—then he remembered. But he was proud that hehadn’tbeen obsessing about Taylor. That was progress, right?

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