Page 18 of Our Long Days
Before I talk myself out of it, the bell jingles, and I step inside the bakery. Lemons and strawberries line the pale pink wallpaper, and with brightly colored pom-poms and vibrant pieces of art dotted around, it’s hard not to smile when you enter. A large bouquet of sunflowers sits on the counter.
It’s 8 a.m., so the doors have just opened, but my favorite little baker is nowhere to be seen.
“Hey, Quinn?” I call.
A crash sounds from the back, followed by a man cursing.
“C-coming,” a shrill female voice replies.
Ten seconds later, a disheveled Quinn appears, Graham hot on her heels, two spots of red dotting his cheeks.
Ew.
“Is now a bad time?” I smirk, folding my arms.
Graham looks anywhere but at me.
Bless her heart, Quinn’s a terrible liar. “No, no, take a seat. I’ll bring you over the usual.”
“Oh, can you make it decaf?”
“Sure.” She disappears behind the counter to prepare my drink.
Graham joins me, and we sit at a two-seater table by the window.
“No caffeine?” He eyes me over the rims of his glasses.
“I’m trying out something new.” It’s not a lie, per se. The wait time to see a psychiatrist is long, which is common when you live in a small town. In the meantime, I’ve been reading some online forums about ADHD. Cutting down on caffeine and increasing physical activity were popular.
You won’t catch me at the gym, but this is manageable, even if the withdrawal headaches are killer.
“You’ll survive,” Graham says, catching my pout. He also doesn’t drink caffeine or alcohol. The man has no vices apart from the curvy sunshine woman beaming at him.
It’s then I realize what’s in my hand. I’m not quick enough, and Graham spots the resume before I can flip it over.
“Is your employment history up to date? They do check the accuracy of it.” He reaches for the piece of paper. “Here, let me look it over.”
Snatching it up, I scowl at him. “For the hundredth time, no. I appreciate your help, but I don’t need it.”
“It’s been months, Flo. Why are you being stubborn? There are hours going at the restaurant.”
The paper crinkles in my fist. “I don’t want to work at the restaurant. The three of you are like broken records. I’m a big girl.”
Between him, Patrick, and Booth, I’m halfway to losing my mind. Their constant unsolicited advice, patronizing tones, and pitiful stares are reminders of how epically my plans to get my life on track have failed.
He frowns, debating his next words, when Quinn saunters over with our drinks, saving the day.
“You should get going,” she says to my brother. “You’ve got a meeting at nine.”
He jumps to his feet. “Yes, you’re right.” With a peck on her cheek and a ruffle of my hair, Graham makes for the door.
“Hey, Graham Cracker, your sweater is inside out,” I snicker. Even Quinn joins in.
He doesn’t utter a word; he just tucks his chin to his chest and sprints out of the bakery.
“You’re cruel.” Quinn laughs and takes a sip of her latte. “What are you up to today?”
Do it. Ask the question. What’s the worst that could happen?
