Page 76 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
They order a small army’s worth of items, and Mom walks them through a pastry tour like it’s a museum. I finish a cappuccino and pass the cups to a guy in a ball cap who says “ma’am” in a way that tells me it’s instinct.
“Two cinnamon rolls, please,” he says, then hesitates. “And… what’s your favorite?”
“The strawberry hand pies are having a really good day,” I say.
“A good day,” he repeats, amused. “All right then.” He adds one to his order.
Behind him, a teenager in a sweatshirt whispers to her friend, “She’s so cool,” and I nearly fumble a coffee scoop.
Cool. Me. Right.
I grin anyway. I might tape that to my mirror later for when I inevitably cry over something small and ridiculous later this evening.
“Paige!” Jason calls, weaving past with a bus tub full of plates. “Guy at table three asked if you do wedding cakes and also if you do weddings, which I think means he wants to marry you or maybe your cinnamon rolls; I told him you’re already in a relationship with yeast.”
“Stop talking to people,” I say, and the nearest table laughs.
The line snakes to the door again just as I pop the lid on a lavender lemonade. I slide it across with a smile that’s starting to numb my face, then pivot to the espresso, wipe the portafilter, tamp, lock, pull. The grinder hums; milk hisses; the bell rings. It’s a symphony, and I’m the frantic conductor trying not to drop my baton.
“Next!” I call, reaching for a fresh pastry box without looking.
“Owner’s discount?” a familiar voice says.
I look up, and my fingers falter on the box for a second. Ben stands on the customer side of the counter in a clean dark tee and a broken-in flannel. He looks as if he hasn’t slept and somehow still manages to be incredibly handsome. It’s frankly annoying.
He taps the little placard by my register—the one that says: Bring your Sweet Confessions box next door for 50% off aHoffman Heritage + free refill, today only—and lifts his brows. “It’s working. Your blue boxes are multiplying on my bar like sea anemones.”
I swallow a laugh. “That’s… a visual.”
“Had four groups come in waving boxes within thirty minutes,” he says, keeping his voice pitched under the room. “We’ve been pouring Heritage steadily. Charlotte says thanks; the tip jar’s filled up twice already.”
“That’s great,” I say, trying to sound like a normal person and not someone who wants to lean over the counter and breathe him in like a complete weirdo. I flick a ribbon flat with my thumb and loop it, loop it, pull. “What can I get you?”
“Whatever’s easiest,” he says, eyes taking in the line, the case, my mother in full flight with a pair of tongs. “Cold brew? Black coffee? I’m not picky.”
“Cold brew,” I decide, because it’s fastest. Ice, pour, quick stir. My stomach does a small flip at the scent of coffee; the ginger chew tucked in my cheek settles it down. I set the cup on the pass. “House-made vanilla?”
“Plain’s good,” he says. His mouth quirks. “I’ll save the vanilla for dessert.” He tips his head toward my mom, who is smiling at a customer. “Think she’ll let me near the case?”
“Better not risk it,” I say.
He leans in and lowers his voice. “How are you?” he asks, so quietly it hides under the hiss of steam. “Have you sat down? Do you need five? Ten?”
For one hot second, panic pops like oil in my chest. My eyes jump to the right, searching for my brother without meaning to. Jason’s at the water station, too busy telling a joke to the twins who came in earlier to pay attention to me. I swallow and keep moving, because my hands need to stay busy.
“I’m fine,” I say, and it comes out steadier than I thought it would. “Mom’s been on me about getting off my feet a few times.”
“Good,” he says. His gaze holds mine for a beat, as if silently assessing for himself whether I’m okay. I break contact and slide a cappuccino across to a woman in scrubs who looks like she desperately needs the caffeine jolt.
Downside to being pregnant, I suppose, that I can’t have a jolt of caffeine myself.
“Let me know if you need anything,” he says, voice still low.
“I will,” I say. The shot finishes, I swirl, pour. He watches my hands while I work. It does something weird to my nerves.
We’re holding a too-long look when a clap lands between his shoulder blades hard enough that I feel it through the counter.
“Benny!” Jason crows, appearing with a bus tub like a magician’s prop. “Look who decided to crawl out of his cave. Haven’t seen you in a while, man. Tonight—hang? We’ll do a nightcap after the Pint closes. I’ve got stories.”
