Page 9 of Coming Home

Immediately, Ainsley went into business mode, breaking down what needed to be mixed, blended, and kneaded and put into the ovens or fryers. She was grateful to have something to do to keep her so busy.

Or else she’d melt into a puddle just thinking about Jackson Martin.

The next few hours passed quickly. Nine o’clock came and Sheila, who was learning how to bake and mostly worked the counter, brought Ainsley a cup of coffee. Gloria, her other baker who worked the counter during rush hour, joined them.

“Got our marching orders?” Gloria asked.

She put both women to work on the Little League cookie order and muffins. Gus was busy with baking bread and juggling several pies. Ainsley mixed the batter for both birthday cakes and placed the round tins into a different oven.

Then she thought over the goody package for Clancy, asking the two women to bake an extra dozen chocolate-chip cookies. She would put those in a tin, along with a personal chocolate pie for the elderly attorney.

She also needed to put together dessert for tonight’s gathering. Others brought food and drink each time, but it was up to Ainsley to provide dessert, based upon the previous Game Night winner’s choice. Dylan was the latest winner, and he had asked for cupcakes. She would bake a variety today since cupcakes were a big seller on Fridays and Saturdays. Many parents liked them for children’s birthday parties, while others bought them because of their size. Where an entire cake might go stale after a few days, a customer could buy a few cupcakes and eat them in a day or two.

She finished her coffee and put in several tins of cupcakes, having Gloria and Sheila mix up even more varieties. She left them in charge, saying she would be back.

Not believing she did so, Ainsley stole upstairs just to see what she looked like. After being up for over six hours and around the heat in the kitchen, she looked a little bedraggled. Quickly, she brushed her teeth and applied a dab of perfume from a bottle that was almost empty, telling herself she was insane to be doing so. She slipped the plastic band from her hair and brushed it, again putting it back into her usual ponytail. If she showed up downstairs wearing her hair down, her staff would know something was up.

Blotting her face with a tissue, she returned downstairs, checking on one project and then another as tins came out of the ovens. She put together Clancy’s treat basket and set it aside, not sharing with the others that Jackson Martin would be calling to claim it.

She wanted to be the one to give it to him.

Sure enough, she was moving from one thing to another when Sheila stuck her head in and shouted, “Ainsley. Some guy is here wanting a basket he ordered. I don’t have a record of it.”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, retrieving the basket and moving to the front of the bakery, her heart beating so loudly she couldn’t even hear.

Jackson awaited her, no longer the sexy, sweaty mess he had been hours ago. Instead, his hair, which had appeared dark this morning, gleamed with chestnut highlights in the light pouring into the bakery. He wore a crisp, button-down shirt and dark slacks. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscled forearms that made her mouth go dry.

“Hey, Ainsley,” he greeted.

“I have your basket,” she said, setting it on the counter. “Check over it.”

“No need,” he told her, his smile blinding. “I trust you.”

She reached to lift it at the same time he did, their hands brushing against one another. Electricity rippled through her at the touch and she dropped hers, feeling scalded.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, glancing down.

“Thank you for putting this together,” Jackson said. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” she replied quickly, not able to meet his gaze. “Consider it a welcome-home gift.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said, forcing her eyes to meet his moss green ones, not quite certain of the look she saw in them. It was as if he mulled something over a moment—and then made a decision.

“Then let me return the favor,” he said smoothly. “Let me take you to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Oh!” she said, startled by his suggestion. “Um, okay. I guess.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry. I should have asked first if you were seeing anyone. Boy, this is awkward.” His gaze penetrated to her soul. “Are you seeing anyone, Ainsley?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Again, that winning smile that stole her breath. “Good. Is the Old Coast Pub House still in business?”

He named the most expensive restaurant within twenty miles.

“Yes. It’s still around. In Salty Point.”

---