Page 6 of Only for the Season
“Even if I wanted to help you out, I can’t. I have dozens of pies I need to deliver before noon. I don’t have time to bake you a pie.”
She pouts. “But it’s me.”
“Buy some pumpkin pie cookies instead,” the woman in line behind her says.
I wave to Jade. “Are you here to pick up your pecan pie?”
“And about five dozen cookies before Adrian eats me out of house and home. I love my son, but it’s not fair how much he can eat. I so much as peek at a cookie and I gain five pounds.”
“Tell me about it.” My hips could have their own zip codes. “Let me grab your pie while Holly packs up your cookies.”
“What about my pie?” Sloane hollers.
“It’s waiting for you at the grocery store.”
“Their pies don’t taste orgasmic.”
Holly giggles. I slam my hands over her ears. “You need to find a man or woman to satisfy your sexual needs because my pie won’t be helping.”
Holly slaps my hands away. “You’re worse than my mom. I know what an orgasm is for mermaid’s sake. I’m nineteen. I might have had one myself.”
I groan. “Please don’t tell your mom you’re sexually active. She’ll blame me.”
I can’t afford to lose Holly. She’s a great worker. Always arrives on time. Willing to stay late when I need her to. Her friends occasionally show up and she gives them freebies until the display case is empty, but it’s a small price to pay for a good worker.
I grab Jade’s pie from the kitchen. It’s all wrapped up and ready to go.
“Here you go,” I hand her the pie while covertly scanning the bakery for signs of Sloane.
“She’s gone,” Jade says. “Holly read her the riot act for bothering you on a holiday after you’ve been baking all night and she slinked away with her tail between her legs.”
“Okay.”
She narrows her eyes on me. “You were already thinking about ways to bake her a pie, weren’t you?”
I shrug. There’s no sense denying it. I have a problem saying no to my friends. And an even bigger problem with my bank account.
“You should—” She’s cut off when someone screams.
“I saw a rat!”
Jade mumbles goodbye before rushing out of the bakery, leaving me to deal with a hysterical customer.
“There isn’t a rat,” I tell the woman. I don’t know her, so she must be a tourist. All the smugglers know there isn’t a rat in my bakery. But there might be a furry animal.
She points to the corner. “I saw it with my very own eyes.”
I sigh before marching to the display case and grabbing a few Selkie bites. They’re mini cookies made of sea salt and dark chocolate chips. They’re divine. My oversized behind is the proof.
“Viking,” I holler. “I have your favorite.”
He peeks out from behind a chair.
“Oh my word.” The woman clutches her chest. “You have a pet rat.”
“Viking is not a rat. He’s an otter.”
“Like an otter is so much better. I can’t believe I came in here. I’ll be going to the coffee shop on the boardwalk from now on.” She whirls away and scurries out of the bakery.
