Page 328 of The Winslow Brothers

“You didn’t even bring someone today,” Winnie continues to argue. “You don’t see it, but that means something.”

“Why is everyone so focused on who I did or didn’t bring? What the fu—dge does that have to do with anything?” I ask, improvising a “fuck” substitute when my mom gives me a hard glare somewhere in the middle.

The two of them share a look, and then my mom pats me on the arm. “You’re right, honey. It doesn’t matter. Don’t listen to us, okay? You just make yourself happy.”

The quick backpedaling is suspicious, but it’s way better than continuing to sweat through their interrogation, so I don’t question it.

I take a swig of my beer and look around at the blissful baby chaos around me.

What is it, exactly, that would make me happy?

I always thought I was good with the status quo—to keep things the way I have them. But now that I find myself in the situation I’m in with Rachel, I’m starting to wonder if I really know anything at all.

Sunday, February 3rd

Rachel

I tuck the blueberry muffin into the cute pink-and-white baggies Lydia designed and close it with a heart sticker from the roll beside the cash register. Little Rose Bakeshop is always busy on Sundays, but today feels like it’s on another level. Maybe I’m feeling the effects of the rush a little more because I stayed up late finishing the tests for Ty’s class and studying for my own, but then again, I’m not the only one acting crazy.

“That’ll be five dollars,” I tell an older lady in a yellow T-shirt and hand her the already prepared cup of coffee sitting on the back counter and her muffin of choice in the bag I’ve just sealed.

She hands me a five-dollar bill, thankfully making the transaction easily closed with nothing more than a smile. “Thanks for coming in,” I say quickly as she pushes through the crowded space, headed for the door.

I’m about to call on the next customer in line when Lydia waves down my attention from the other end of the counter. I wipe my hands on my pink apron and scoot over to her as quickly as possible.

“Rachel, can you run in the back and get the other batch of red velvet muffins?” my sister asks, smiling at the customer in front of her like she has it all together. Of course, I know this is the sixth tray of red velvet muffins we’ve been through this morning—some kind of freak surge in demand—and truthfully, both she and Lou are on the brink of a breakdown. Years of customer service experience and a sunny personality are the only things keeping her from snapping.

“You bet.” I jump into action, shoving through the swinging door into the back kitchen, and upon sight of me, Lou’s eyes immediately round.

“Don’t tell me. More red velvet?”

I nod cautiously. I don’t want to be responsible for ruining all of the delicious, sweet treats with Lou’s salty tears.

“What’s going on in the city today? Is it a red velvet moon or something?”

I laugh, leaning into the metal bake table Lou’s not using currently. “You know, I bet that’s it. Or a red velvet tide. It’s always the moon or the tide. Or maybe there’s some sort of cultlike thing going on at all the churches in the city. Maybe—”

Lou shoots me a look of desperation so frank, I think it’s going to change the cute little pixie lines of her face permanently. Immediately, I stop what I’m saying and try to redirect my next words toward something more helpful.

“You can do it, Lou. Just keep cranking them out. You’re doing fantastic.”

“Sure. It seems simple.” She blows out a breath. “But with my luck, tomorrow, the moon will probably rotate or something, and I’ll be drowning in something else. Probably more difficult. Like soufflés.”

I shrug helplessly, easing the blow with a smile. “At least death will be tasty?”

She laughs, jerks her head at the tray of muffins in front of me, and then adds, “Take the cookies with you too.”

I agree silently, grabbing both the muffin and cookie trays and shoving the swinging door with my foot to head back out front. My sister is fielding even more rabid red velvet customers, so I set the tray right in front of her and then head to the other end of the glass counter to put the chocolate chip almond cookies in their spot. I’m just settling them into place when a deep, playful voice weaves its way from the other side of the counter to my ears.

“I believe those are for me.”

I look up, a smart answer just on the tip of my tongue—something Lydia has repeatedly asked me to curtail, by the way—but stop short when I see a very specific set of blue eyes staring back at me.

“Ty?”

He looks startled too, his smile jumping off his face, only to be replaced by shock and disbelief. But ultimately, he pulls it together and slides the easy grin back into place. “Hey, Rachel.”

“How was the baby shower?” I ask, and he just keeps grinning, like he’s not the least bit affected by me.

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