Page 22 of Frosting and Flames

He rubs the back of his neck, looking down. “The kids like it when I bring the engine over to the library.”

The growing line moves forward and I hand a plate of pancakes to Mrs. Foster, who runs the flower shop.

“Do you do that often?”

“About once a month.”

That’s cute. “Do you read the stories?”

He shakes his head quickly. “I let Mrs. Klassen do that.”

“She still does the story times?” She was doing that when we were kids.

“Yep. She told me she’s never going to retire. They’ll have to carry her kicking and screaming from the library.”

I laugh, imagining that. The woman’s maybe a hundred pounds sopping wet, barely over five feet tall. But I know she’d give them hell anyway.

And speaking of, the woman herself joins the line to get pancakes, smiling affectionately at Nick. “Hi, dear. How are you?”

“I’m good,” he answers. “How about you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. The kids are asking when you’ll be back. Do you think you can spare some time for us?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll send you my days off later today.”

Wow. He’s not even on the clock when he does that?

“And Rachel.” She smiles at me. “How’d you like that book I recommended? The one—”

“Oh, it was great,” I interrupt. I’d asked her about any good romances the last time I was at the library, and the one she’d given me was way spicier than I expected. Not that I’m complaining, but it was still surprising coming from her. “I read the rest of the series, too.”

There’s a twinkle in her eye. Maybe she read them, too. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I have a whole list if you want more.”

I keep my smile to myself. I had no idea Mrs. Klassen was into that kind of stuff.

“What was the book?” Nick asks when she moves on.

“Oh, I don’t remember the name of it,” I lie. I don’t need him looking it up and judging me. Kyle always thought it was the height of comedy to make fun of my books.

We continue serving the growing line, but we run into one snag.

Nick can’t flip a pancake to save his life. I ended up flipping his griddle for him during the last batch when he was talking to the boy, and when he tries this time, one ends up on the floor and another folds in half before I stop him, not wanting to waste any more.

“Don’t use your whole hand to flip,” I tell him. “It’s more of a quick flick of the wrist. Like this.” I demonstrate.

He watches me, but takes too long when he tries, and his pancake ends up half on another uncooked one.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, frustrated.

“Here.” I hesitate for a second, holding my hand out until it hovers over his. “Can I show you?”

“Yeah.”

I put my hand over his, ignoring the flare of… something in the pit of my stomach, and guide him through the act. I let go afterward, resisting the urge to wipe my hand on my non-existent apron the way I do when I’m at the bakery. As if I could wipe the imprint of him off of me.

“Thanks,” he says as he does the next one like I showed him. “Guess no one’s ever taught me that before.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling steals over me for a moment before I shake it off and focus on the work. We fall into an easy rhythm as the line keeps moving, most people taking their pancakes and leaving, but a few linger to talk. Not to me, though.

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