Page 8 of Bread By the Grim
“So?” I repeat, feeling lost.
She smiles. “Should we get started?”
“Uh–it’s a little late for donuts, and I’m not dressed.”
She shrugs. “I came to work. Point me in thedirection of things, and I can at least get some basics prepped for you.”
“I, uh...sure.”
Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles as she moves past me to get to her luggage. “Sorry, I just need to get past you.” I turn, trying to press myself against the wall as the smell of vanilla rushes over me again. I get that itchy-achy feeling down my spine—the one that happens right before I shift. I close my eyes and breathe slowly. I’m not angry. I’m not upset. Why does her scent make me want to shift so badly? What the fuck is wrong with me?
Chapter 5
Phil
Grim takes the stairs two at a time, rushing out of the room like it’s on fire after promising to meet me back in the kitchen in ten minutes.
Bernice had told me he was an introvert set in his ways, so I’m sure Doux and I have totally thrown a wrench into whatever he had planned for the day. I set up a litter box, a food bowl, and a water bowl for my little asshole and head upstairs.
“Bye, Doux,” I call out as I walk up the steps, but Doux has already claimed the center of the bed for his first nap of the day and is curled up like a giant furry shrimp.
I slowly push open the door at the top of the steps only to find myself in a very empty kitchen. Grim’s nowhere to be seen, but several bowls are already out covered with dish towels, and theindustrial-sized mixer is on but not running. I wander up to the front and grab a paper menu to see what he offers on a daily basis, hoping to get an idea of what he’ll be making today.
“Sorry, that won’t be much help,” Grim’s deep voice says, as he appears at my side.
I turn to meet his eyes, and he takes a step back.
“Oh?”
He takes smaller, what I’m sure he thinks are less obvious, steps back from me until he’s parallel to the kitchen doors. “Yeah, I had to make so many changes with Bernice gone.”
“It seems like a lot to put on just one employee.”
He sighs. “I’m realizing that now.”
“And there’s no way for you to get up early and take over her duties?”
He looks away. “I have…it’s a…a medical condition...” he mumbles.
Immediately, I feel guilty for being so nosey. “Oh, sorry. Not trying to pry.”
He shakes his head and motions for me to follow him to the back. “Bernice used to do all the donuts and pastries and then would sell them to the breakfast crowd while I got the bread ready for the lunch crowd.”
“So what do you do now?”
“Open a little later. Offer a lot less.”
I follow him back into the kitchen, where he immediately heads to the bowls he left out on thecounter. Inside, there're dozens and dozens of smaller balls of dough to make mini-sub rolls for the lunch crowd. He points out the different varieties. In addition to the “normal” sourdough, plain white bread, and plain wheat, he has a house special, a bread infused with Italian herbs and garlic, and a jalapeño-cheese bread. They’ll sit and rise for a little longer before being placed on baking sheets and put in the oven.
Then he pulls out a binder he’s made for the new hire full of his recipes—each one carefully placed in a page protector.
“You and Bernice would make all of this every day?” I ask, marveling at the book as I flip through it.
“No, not everything, but I wanted the person who took over for her to have everything available in case anything came up.”
The binder is tabbed. It has sections for donuts, pastries, bread, pies, and cakes.
“Oh, you sell cakes, too? Do you sell the fancy ones for special occasions?”
