Page 94 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
The shirt slips off one shoulder, and I am only a man with a pulse trying not to drag her back to the bed. She knows. Of course she knows. The smile that flashes across her face is wicked and sweet.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?” she asks innocently.
“Like I’m uncivilized. You know exactly what you look like in that shirt.”
She laughs, and it’s bright and unguarded, and suddenly there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep that sound.
“I don’t,” she teases. “Tell me.”
She rests her elbow on the table, her chin in her palm, a wicked grin on her face.
“Oh, you really wanna know?” I ask.
“I really do,” she says.
She squeals when I make my move, quickly pulling her out of the chair and into my arms.
I crush my lips to hers as I walk out of the kitchen.
“What about the food?” she says on a moan.
“It’ll be there tomorrow,” I say and head for the stairs.
Chapter Thirty One
Paige
By the time the bell over the door gives its last cheerful jingle and the woman with the polka-dot umbrella disappears into the fading light, my whole body exhales like I’ve been holding my breath for fourteen hours straight.
Because I have.
I flip the little wooden sign to CLOSED, slide the deadbolt, and just stand there with my palms on the cool glass, forehead pressed to the pane.
Outside, Main Street does its summer evening thing—slow cars, groups of tourists walking down the street. Inside, SweetConfessions smells like sugar and butter and espresso and cleaner. It smells like the life I begged the universe for, and my feet still ache so bad I could cry.
Mom made me sit twice today. “For the baby,” she said, which is how she wins arguments forever now.
She cornered me with a plate—half a sandwich, a few grapes, an oatmeal cookie I didn’t have the heart to refuse—and actually stood over me while I chewed.
Dad took a victory lap around the room talking to strangers as if he were running for office. Jason texted me a selfie with a client between sets and three flexed bicep emojis. I sent him a picture of the case at 11:00 a.m. when it was already half empty. He wrote back: HELL YES.
Now it’s just me and the fridges and the soft tick of cooling metal. The glass cases are mostly bare—two straggler snickerdoodles, one lone blueberry scone I’ll take home to Dad. Everything else is crumbs and fingerprints and a shine I scrubbed into the shelves during the last lull.
I do the closing routine without thinking. Milk jugs back into the walk-in. Syrup pumps into the dishwasher tray. Steam wand purged and wiped, group heads backflushed, portafilters polished until my face bends in their bottoms like a funhouse mirror.
I wipe the chalkboard menu down one last time—my handwriting is getting neater with practice—and rewrite tomorrow’s specials: Caramel pecan sticky buns (limited).
Lemon bars. Blueberry muffins. Honey lavender shortbread. I draw a crooked heart next to iced coffee and immediately erase it because I can’t decide if it’s adorable or desperate.
‘Hiring’, I write in small letters in the corner, then circle it. Because I can’t hold off anymore. Not after today. Not after yesterday. Not after the way my mom’s knees creaked when she crouched to grab a dropped napkin, and my dad’s back popped when he hauled a trash bag out.
They would come every day if I let them. I can’t let them.
Temps, I add beneath it. Seasonal.
“Must love butter and early mornings,” I whisper, testing the line out loud, and feel the ghost of a grin tug at my mouth. I jot a few more requirements on the pad by the register.
