Page 15 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
* * *
I’m absolutely convinced that Delgado’s sole mission in life is to make mine as difficult as possible. We’re seated in the breakroom, surrounded by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the aroma of leftover takeout. He eyes me with a smirk, taking a hearty bite of his sandwich. "So let me get this straight," he starts, his voice dripping with amusement. "You’re crafting a table. A custom-built, solid wood masterpiece for a woman you’ve exchanged words with what, five times? Maybe six if we're stretching it?"
"Ten," I correct, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Dude. Just ask her out already. This is getting pathetic," he quips, crumbs sprinkling the table as he speaks.
"It’s not like that," I insist, though my words are hollow and I know it.
He snorts, a sound that echoes like a bark. "Sure, it isn’t. That’s why you keep showing up at her bakery like a sugar-starved golden retriever."
"Are you done? Are you so lonely and miserable that you feel the need to harp on my life?"
"Not even close to being done, and your love life is a comedy goldmine right now." For the next ten minutes, he regales me with a list of all the telltale signs that I’m deeper in than I care to admit.
According to Delgado, my tell is the way I smile without realizing it when I talk about her, which is bullshit because I don’t smile. Then there’s the way I apparently hover at the bakery door like a 'nervous teenager hoping for a prom date.' He embellishes his point with air quotes, not once but twice.
"You’re so far gone, man," he chuckles around a mouthful of chips. "You’re practically baking muffins in your dreams. Admit it. You’ve got it bad for the bakery lady."
"I don’t bake," I mutter defensively.
"No, but you build tables. Which is like baking’s manlier, woodier cousin. You’re nesting. Next thing I know, you’ll be knitting her a damn potholder."
I shoot him a glare, but he grins wider, unperturbed. "Let me know when you’re done."
"Nope. This is too much fun," he retorts launching into a tale about the last officer who 'just wanted to help a girl out' and ended up married with three kids and a minivan.
I try to drown out his voice after the third example. Deep down, I suspect he might be onto something. Or am I hoping he is?
* * *
The table is my new excuse to stop by the bakery often.
A damn good one.
I take measurements the next afternoon while Julie shadows me, rattling off details about shelf height and weight capacity like she’s reading off a sacred scroll. I sketch out a plan that night in my garage, then spend the next few hours cutting, sanding, and assembling.
Each time is to check a dimension or ask her preference on finishes, and it becomes more than a check-in. It becomes routine and we talk… a lot. And I like it.
She tells me about her dad, about how he would bake with her on Sunday mornings and how she misses him since he passed away a few years ago. She confesses she’s scared she won’t be able to keep the bakery going without Mrs. Waverly’s advice. I don’t have answers, but I listen.
She listens, too.
She asks about my woodworking and about my time in the military. She never pries, never pushes. Just offers quiet curiosity and when I dodge a question, she lets it go.
The more I’m around her, the more I realize I want to be. Even if it terrifies me.
Tonight, I finished the table, so I load it into the back of my truck and drive it to Seaside Sweets. Julie’s locking up when I pull into the lot. Her eyes go wide when she sees what I’ve brought.
"That’s it?"
"That’s it. Solid maple. Reinforced legs. It should hold a hell of a lot more than flour."
She walks around to the back, running her hand over the smooth surface. "It’s beautiful. You made this?"
"Told you I was handy." My body tightens as her fingers trail along the wood, and I can’t stop myself from wondering what it would feel like to have her hands on me.
"This is more than handy, Marcus. This is… wow. It’s beautiful."
