Page 47 of Working for the Mob

“I’m just …” Art looked away. I could tell the cold finally got to him. His freezing nipples popped through his shirt, while my loins burned. “I’m trying to hold this town together. I don’t need to explain every decision to you.”

“Well, go somewhere else to chop your wood!” I screamed, and ran back inside.

I barely made it two steps through the door before another thwack rang through the house.

???

The next couple weeks flew by. The leaves fell to the ground and the barren trees lined every road.

Every day the line out the door of the café became longer. People showed up early for the coffee and came back in the afternoon for the sandwiches. The oven still hadn’t arrived, so Lucy and I spent most nights finishing up the bread.

Henry frequently came in to ‘check on us’ while we prepped for the lunch rush, but I knew better. He was there to see Lucy. He had even regained enough of his suave around her to talk in complete sentences.

I worked at the café in the mornings, and left with Art before lunch. I completed a quarter of the paperwork in Art’s office, which meant at this rate I might be able to catch up by the end of November.

“I think that it is time to flip the door to closed,” Jamie said on Monday, and I thanked him in my head. The morning rush had hit us hard, and I wanted to get off my feet soon.

However, the dining room needed to be cleaned. Increased traffic meant more trash, crumbs, and stains. If Art came to get me, whatever I didn’t finish would be left to Jamie and Lucy.

Lucy stood at the counter, slicing bread for the lunch sandwiches while Jamie put them together. I didn’t look up at the clink of the door. Only Art came in when the shop was closed.

“This place is a mess,” Art said, and his eyes found me, as if it were my fault.

Every time I saw him, my mind traveled back to that cold weekend morning outside, and stripped him down to his sleeveless white shirt, with his muscular arms that could easily hold me up against the wall.

“Do you want to grab a broom and help out?” I asked, daring him to get his hands dirty.

Without a word, Art threw his duster on a chair and grabbed the broom and pan. I stared at him, mouth open, while he swept the floor. In the gray suit that barely held in his muscular frame, he made sweeping the floor sexy. I watched him until Jamie interrupted my thoughts.

“I think all the new business is coming from you dolls,” Jamie said, and I shook my head to clear my thoughts. Lucy blushed, but kept cutting the bread. “Seriously. If it's not the new coffee or customer service, it has got to be the new bread.”

“And we’re the only place in town selling coffee and lunch,” Art said.

“Where did you learn to bake like this?” Jamie asked, ignoring Art and holding up a loaf of bread. He cracked an end off it. “That crackle––bakers spend their whole lives trying to get their bread to sound like that.”

Lucy turned an even deeper shade of red to color her sheepish grin. “Our mother taught us.”

Jamie shot me a look, as if asking why I hadn’t inherited our mother’s skill as well. I bristled in annoyance, but kept my gaze on Lucy. Finally, he turned back away. “And you’ve been baking ever since?”

“No. Not really … I … I usually bake as a hobby. For birthdays or Thanksgiving. But my last boyfriend told me that I was complete rubbish,” Lucy said.

“The one that kicked you out for wanting to put up your sister?” Jamie asked, his eyebrows narrowed.

Lucy nodded.

“He said that I wasn’t good enough to do anything except smile,” she said. Her face remained the same color as the Phillies paraphernalia on the walls, but her smile disappeared. “On his birthday, I spent all day baking him a triple layer, double chocolate cake with mocha icing and raspberry mousse. It was beautiful. One of the prettiest cakes I had ever baked. I even decorated the top with tiny cherries just the way he likes.”

She stared at the floor and spoke in a small voice. “Then I put on his favorite dress. Blue. Inspired by Jean Patou. Very expensive. And I waited for him to get home. I waited all night. I just sat at the kitchen table staring at that damn cake.

“I thought something happened. Maybe he got in a car crash, ran out of money, or got kicked by a horse or something. When he finally came home, it was well after midnight. I asked where he’d been and he told me that it was none of my business. But I knew. He smelled like whiskey and perfume.

“I showed him the cake. I had plates and forks already laid out for him, but he just grabbed a handful and bit into it like an apple. After one bite, he threw it on the floor, said ‘It’s a bit dry,’ and went to bed.”

I tried to swallow the spit that had left my mouth. I needed to say something. Anything to make her feel okay.

“He was probably right,” she continued. “I am rubbish. I’m not a professional or anything, but––”

I jumped as a slam echoed around the room; Art had thrown his broom to the floor. Lucy let out a squeak. He walked to the counter and stopped directly in front of her.

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