Page 15 of Delayed Penalty

“You know, I could use some help in the bakery tomorrow if you’re not busy.” She says it so casually as if she’s not throwing pity work my way because she knows I’m in desperate need of income.

“That so?” I ask, my attention solely on the dishes as I refuse to look over at her so I don’t see the displeasure in her muddy stare.

“Yes. We’re getting quite swamped over there. An extra set of hands would be nice.”

While my father worked on getting his techcompany to where it is now—a roaring success—my mother held down the fort at home, rushing us kids to and from every sports activity, after-school program, and playdate like it was nothing. But what she really wanted to do was open her own bakery. Last year, when she turned fifty-five, she made her dream come true, and B’s Bakes, her final baby, was born. While I have no doubt the businessisdoing well—my mother makes thebestsweets—I also know she doesn’t need my help and is just trying to offer me a job.

And I absolutely love her for it.

“Sure. I mean, if you really need the help.”

I dare a glance her way just in time to see her smile softly. “Even if it means being there at five AM to help prep for the morning rush?”

I swallow back the urge to gag. “Yep. Five AM. Bright and early.”

So, so very early.

Her smile widens, her eyes softening in the corners. “Good. I’m so excited to work with you. It’ll be fun.”

She’s wrong. Nobody has ever thought five AM was fun. I’m already regretting tomorrow.

“Is it always like this?” I ask my mom before taking a long pull off my second iced white chocolate latte of the day.

We’ve been busting our asses since five, and I am beat. There’s no way I won’t have achy shoulders from rolling dough and blisters on my feet from being on them all day.

“Yes,” she says. “Why do you think I make someone else bring dessert when we have these dinners? I need a break.”

I shrug. “I just figured you wanted to make sure your kids still listen to you.”

She laughs. “Well, yeah, that too.” She dips her head toward the creamer on the end of the counter. “Refill those while we’re slow, will you?”

I nod and finish off my coffee before making my way over to the fixings station. The bell over the door goes off just as I gather the carafes between my fingers. I’m not sure how many times it’s sounded this morning, but I do know it’s far too many. I repress my sigh, pasting on a smile and turning toward the door.

“Good morn?—”

The rest of the words don’t come out because Adam Hayes is standing inside my mother’s bakery, and he’s scowling at me just as hard as he was yesterday.

I ignore him, letting my eyes trail down to the littlegirl pressed to his side, her hand tucked tightly into his. Flora’s blue gaze sparks when she sees me, and she lifts her free hand in a soft wave. I return it, ready to ask her how she’s doing, but the perpetual grump doesn’t let me.

“Good morn?” he asks, a dark brow arched, his lips in that same thin line they were pressed into yesterday. “Is that some new hip lingo I missed out on learning?”

I want to tell him we’re likely around the same age, but I doubt my mother would appreciate me smarting off to the customers.

“Ing.Good morning,” I tell him through a forced grin. “Nice to see you again.”

He grunts in response, ignoring me as he approaches the ordering counter.

Damn. And here I thoughtIwas supposed to be the grumpy one today having to get up so early.

As they make their way over, I watch as Flora tugs on his flannel jacket.

“Use your words, Uncle Adam,” she says softly yet somehow sternly.

He looks down at her with crushed brows. “What?”

“That’s what you tell me, right? To use my words?”

I snicker as I set the creamers on the back counter and meet Hayes and Flora at the register to take their order.

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