Page 8 of Checked Out by the Grinch
Her eyes flick up to mine and I feel the weight of her exhaustion settle between us. “I’m not in a good head space. I mean, my whole life is falling apart.”
“Misery loves company. Why don’t you talk. Unloading can help.” I swear it’s the only time I’ve ever offered my ear to anyone ever.
She stares toward me, bright pink lips parted. “I’d rather hear about you. I could use a distraction.”
I lean back against the booth and sip my coffee slowly. I don’t usually open up, but I can see how a distraction would be good right now, so I start talking. “I grew up here, on the mountain. My parents passed away when I was young in a car accident. I don’t remember much about them. I was a little over three years old when they died. My uncle Pat took guardianship and taught me everything I know. How to fix things, how to keep myself grounded, how to split wood without losing a finger. He’s the reason I went into masonry.”
“Was he a mason?”
“Owned a stonework and restoration company. I started as an apprentice on one of his teams when I was fifteen. Hetaught me how to read a blueprint, how to spot cracks in the foundation, and how to mix mortar. When he retired, I took the business over.” I scrub my hand down over my beard. “I like knowing I can take care of things when they’re falling apart, which brings me to your water heater.”
She sets the mug down slowly. “I don’t want to put you out. You’ve already taken so much time with me.”
I shift in the booth and rest my forearms on the table. “It’s not a big deal. Besides, I have a favor to ask.”
“A favor?” She narrows her brows and leans in. “What kind of favor?”
“The banana bread.”
Her soft lips twitch. “What about it?”
Red and green lights twinkle through the glass window. “My crew is doing a baked goods Christmas exchange thing, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“So, you want banana bread?”
“It’s top notch. My aunt brought it home for us all the time, passed it off as her own.”
A genuine smile lifts her cheeks, and I swear right now that if asking her for banana bread every day for the rest of my life made her smile like this, I’d ask for it again and again.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” I repeat, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’d need about twenty loaves.”
“Twenty loaves?” Her jaw drops before she takes a sip of coffee. “I’ve never had a big order before. I mean, I’ve always wanted one. My dream is to have a little bread truck, but I’ve never really had a true order.”
“Is that too much work? I have no idea how long something like that takes.”
Her eyes are shining again. “That’s not too much. No, I can handle that.”
“Good.” I nod once, firm and deliberate, then reach for my wallet and set it on the table with a quiet thud. “You let me know what you need in terms of supplies and payment, and I’ll make sure you have it upfront.”
“Oh,” her head pulls back as though this part is making her uncomfortable, “I have no idea how much to charge. I’ve never actually done this before. I mean, I brought a few loaves here and there to the bookstore, but I’m pretty sure your aunt and my friends were the only ones that bought. Umm, five bucks a loaf?”
“Five dollars? No, you’re underselling yourself.” I shake my head, lean back in the booth, and scrub my hand down over my jaw. “You’ve got ingredients, time, and effort. That’s worth more than a few bucks.”
I pull out my phone and swipe across the screen, searching for the going rate for banana bread.
“Says here you should be charging close to twenty,” I mutter, tilting the screen toward her. “Plus, I’ll throw in an extra five per loaf since I’m ordering from your artisan bakery and you’re adding all those special things you add.”
Her brows narrow. “Twenty-five dollars a loaf is robbery. My loaves aren’t worth that much. I don’t want people to think I’m greedy.”
“No one’s going to think that, especially not me. I’m paying you twenty-five a loaf,” I say firmly, “and I’m coming over tonight to fix that water heater, right after we finish our coffee.” I open my wallet and slide five hundred dollars toward her. It’s more than I’ve ever paid for bread in my life. I don’t usually carry this kind of money with me, but I stopped at the bank earlier to pick up cash for a supply run tomorrow at a small stone shop west of the mountain. They don’t take cards. Guess I’ll be stopping at the bank again in the morning.
Hell, I’d go right now and order fifty more loaves if it made her life better.
She opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off gently. “No arguments.”
“I appreciate what you’re doing,” her tone is soft and sweet, “but you don’t have to feel bad for me. I’m perfectly capable of finding money and fixing the water heater myself.”
