Page 31 of Wants and Needs
“What?” I demand, instantly worried since we don’t have Paco here with us. If we’re in danger, there’s very little I can do on my own to keep London safe?—
“That building there, it says MP. Didn’t Carter tell you about his friend’s bakery? I think that’s it.”
I think back, trying to remember which friend was the baker, and I think Theo told me he was? Carter only told me he’s a sweetheart and that I’d probably relate to him the most.
“Can we get something?” London pleads, still holding on to my arm and looking up at me like a starving puppy.
“Yes, let’s go.”
I don’t even entertain the idea of refusing her, there’s no point.
I keep up with her quicker pace, and have to hold her back to remind her to look both ways before she crosses the street as if she were a toddler and not months close to adulthood.
“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbles before I can berate her. “I need something sweet,” she demands.
And everything smells sweet when we step into the bakery. Even with all the dogs in the fenced-off area in the back part of the establishment, it smells like most bakeries I’ve been to.
I look down at my watch and see it’s four in the afternoon. Being this time of the day, I wouldn’t have thought there’d be so much left, but we can see the amount of sweets on display next to the register is substantial.
The cinnamon rolls look especially enticing, so as we get in line behind an old lady who’s a bit taller than London, I already know what I’m getting to eat.
The smell of recently ground coffee is like a siren call, so I look up to the menu hanging on the wall and see they have oat milk available.
I’ll have to ask which brand, and if it’s not one of the ones I like, then I’ll just take a cold brew to go.
“I say we get something different so we can try more things,” London says, and her smirk tells me she’s excited about the prospect of sweets. “Then we go back to the park and eat them atone of those benches, and then we can stop by Rossi’s for lasagna and take that home to share with everyone.”
It’s been said before, London thinks with her stomach, and she has good thoughts.
“I agree,” I tell her simply, and nod in approval when she orders a piece of the chocolate-on-chocolate cake that looks like it should be illegal.
It takes the girl working behind the register less than a minute to pack up our sweets and hand over our beverages. A lemonade for London—which I don’t think a lot of bakeries offer—because she knows the length of the sermon I’ll give her if she consumes caffeine in front of me.
“We should do this weekly over the summer,” she says happily when we find a bench and start unpacking our food.
I’m about to agree when she takes her first bite, and as soon as she does, her eyes roll to the back of her head and she falls back until she’s practically lying on the bench.
The panic is instant, but when she groans and says, “More,” in a kind of feral growl, I understand she’s being dramatic. Curiosity wins over and I grab my fork then deftly steal a bite of her cake.
I understand she might not have been actingthatdramatically.
“I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” I say when I’ve swallowed.
London snorts and shakes her head.
“Never change, bro.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” I say, confused as to why she’d say that. It only makes her snort again, but then she demands I openmy cinnamon roll and we dive into another marvelous experience.
“We’re definitely doing this every week,” London declares when we’re done and sprawled on the bench.
“I agree,” I tell her softly.
“I kinda want to forget about the lasagna and go back in there,” she mumbles, and I have to snort and look back at the bakery.
That’s when the sign on the building next to it catches my attention.
Sculpt.
