Page 9 of Autumn be His Wife
Piper
For the first hour, I try my best to be patient. I mean, I don’t want Dusty to know how easy it is for me to start stirring. I don’t think he understands that the chairs in the waiting area aren’t meant for sitting for long periods of time.
People bring in all sorts of animals, and some dogs are more excited than others. Even better, some of the owners encourage me to pet them. So, I’m entertained for the most part. However, there’s only so much drooling and kisses I can take.
Soon, my body demands I leave the uncomfortable seats and stretch my legs.
The clinic is small, and it would feel weird to do a few laps around without being a nuisance or a distraction.
Figuring some fresh air would do me good, I leave the clinic. From the looks of it, we’re in the middle of Forest Grove. As long as I’m careful and remember where I walk, I shouldn’t get lost.
I just need to keep track of time. The last thing I want to do is be a pain for Dusty. Even if he encourages me to do what I want, I have a feeling he doesn’t want me to go too far from the clinic.
A crisp autumn chill nips at my exposed cheeks, and the scent of damp earth rises from the pavement.
The dried leaves beneath my sneakers don’t just crunch; they shatter like brittle bones with every step I take down the long, cracked sidewalk.
My breath fogs in the air, a tiny, private cloud. I hop over a small puddle left by yesterday’s rain, its surface reflecting the flat, gray sky.
It’s funny. I didn’t get a lot of time to look around this town. I just started walking, letting my feet carry me, a stranger in a strange place.
Then it hits me. A sweetness so rich and warm it seems to warp the very air. It cuts through the chill, a ribbon of vanilla and baking crust, of sugar and fruit so potent it feels like a physical tug.
One deep lungful is all it takes. My mission—my aimless wandering—is instantly forgotten. Now, there is only the source.
My steps slow as the aroma intensifies, a siren’s call that makes my mouth pool with saliva. I finally stop, tilting my head back to take in the sign swinging gently on wrought-iron hinges.Sweet Temptations.The words are spelled out in looping, sugary pink script.
My stomach gives a violent, hollow clench, a painful reminder that my breakfast was nothing but a cup of coffee. I don’t decide to move; my body does it for me. The brass door handle is cool under my palm. A tiny bell tinkles overhead as I pull the door open and step into a wall of heavenly warmth.
The world outside vanishes. The air itself is thick and edible, tasting of butter and powdered sugar. Colors of pastel pink, dusty rose, and cherry red surround me, but it’s not the cute,diner-esque aesthetic that holds me captive. It’s the cathedral of pies spread out in a gleaming glass display case.
Oh my goodness. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Whole pies with lattice tops woven like golden baskets, their fillings bubbling up between the cracks. Plump blueberries glistening under a glossy, violet glaze. A deep, dark pecan pie that looks sticky and dense.
Before I know it, I’m all but pressing my nose against the cool glass. The fillings—a vibrant crimson cherry, a golden peach—are trying their hardest not to ooze from their delicate shells, the sugar acting as a delicious glue. Just breathing in this deeply feels dangerous, like I’m risking cavities with every inhale.
A deep, aching want coils in my chest. I can almost taste the flaky, buttery crust dissolving on my tongue, the tart-sweet burst of cherry exploding in my mouth.
When was the last time I ate a pastry? One that came fresh from an oven? I can’t remember.
My right hand flexes, and I feel the sad, familiar weight in my pocket. A few crumpled bills left over from buying the bus ticket. The last of my escape fund. Hardly enough for a single slice. The warmth of the shop suddenly feels a little cooler.
The memory of how I got money to begin with makes my stomach clench more with dread than from hunger.
The part-time job stocking shelves, the ache in my back, the money that never stayed in my wallet for more than a day before my uncle’s hand was out. Every skipped meal, every hungry night, was a coin saved for this chance, for this very freedom.
If only I had a few extra dollars.
“Is there something that’s catching your attention?”
The voice is like warm honey, smooth and sweet, pulling me from the bitter past. It comes from just a couple of feet in front of me.
On the other side of the gleaming glass, a woman stands framed by the bounty of pies. She’s small, with eyes the rich, warm brown of dark maple sugar, and a crown of short, springy curls the color of cinnamon-dusted pastry. She’s wiping her hands on her apron, and a faint, kind smile plays on her lips.
“I’m just looking.” Shoving my hands flat out in front of me, there’s no denying the panic in my voice. It’s like I’m making the act of looking feel like a crime.
The woman, Izzy, by her name tag, doesn’t try to hide her amusement. A little snort goes a long way, and before I know it, my face is hot.
“I haven’t seen you around.” Tilting her head, her curls bounce as she drifts to the side. “New to town?”
