Page 10 of Any Girl But You
Luna wraps an apron around herself and crosses the room to wash her hands. “Ended up going to Black Beach today.”
I glance up from the notepad. “Oh, how was the tourist situation?”
“Terrible.” She grins.
Fair statement. Our town survives on tourist dollars, including my business, but on those rare days off, we all wish the outsiders would disappear for a few hours.
Black Beach used to be one of my favorite spots. Dark-hued sand, lush greenery, rocky cliffs protruding from the earth. Even with tourists scattering every open patch of sand, the place is so peaceful. But it also holds so many,too many, memories. Memories of Josie, what it felt like to be loved, and then have that love ripped from me. Sure, I might be lifting from that fog and entertaining the idea of jumping back into the dating pool, but it’s still in my mind.
The breakup was painful and messy. And for a long time, the scars kept me from trusting others and turned me cold in a way I don’t want to be. Having a high school sweetheart morph into someone I shared my entire twenties with, made me dream of wedding bells and matching rocking chairs when we retired. Is it pathetic that something that ended two years ago still has a faint grip on me? Perhaps. Maybe it’s a tiny bit of self-preservation, keeping me anchored to the past before fully jumping into my future.
Of course, I’m over Josie, the person. In reality, even during our final year together, we slipped into too much comfortability.Each of us took the other for granted, and neither of us tried. But some positives emerged from that murky time. Our breakup fundamentally shifted my relationship brain chemistry, and I definitely know what not to do when I step into my next relationship.
Luna rips a paper towel from the holder, meets me where I’m sitting, and glances at the order slip. “Whoa. This is a huge amount of stuff for tomorrow,” she says, swiping her tongue across her lip ring. “We’re going to be prepping until midnight.”
It’s a good problem to have. And if this keeps up, which I suspect it will, I’m hiring one more person.
We start prepping. The nightly measuring and stirring dance kicks up, with the electric mixer turning into background noise. Luna turns on Alexa to a pop station while the faint smell of flour and softened butter fills the air.
I scrape off the sugar into a container, measure against the food scale, and add to the mix. Next to the actual decorating, watching the food come alive is my favorite part of this job. I glance at Luna, who’s counting out eggs at the counter near the mixer. “Hey, do you remember taking an order for a Quinn Lee on Wednesday?”
She plops the room-temp eggs into a colander one by one. “Quinn Lee? What does she look like?”
What does Quinn Lee look like? I don’t want to think about that right now. She’s the type of woman that takes someone’s breath away. One that you study, wondering if they’re a celebrity or were yanked in from a different era and plopped into present day, like a voluptuous, womanly pin-up model, sprung to life. I avoid Luna’s gaze. “Red hair and freckles.”
Quinn is so much more than red hair and freckles. She reminds me of when I first saw Julia Roberts inPretty Woman, with this sort of red-orange hair, like a how a sunset looks in a wildfire, these bouncing coils bigger than her body that seemedto spring around with total abandonment. And then her eyes… Oh boy. Green, but not just any green. A mix of moss and jade and they sparkled against the sprinkling of freckles. Safe to say Quinn is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.
I focus on measuring the vanilla. “You know Morgan who owns the wedding planner business in town? It’s her girlfriend’s sister.”
“Oh yeah, I remember Quinn. She was super funny. I can’t even remember what we were chatting about, but I started laughing hard enough where Caleb even noticed. We had some kids in here on a field trip at the same time. It was seriously nuts. Mrs. Pinkerton’s dog got loose, and that damn thing was legitimately terrorizing the kids. She really needs to put that thing on a leash.” Luna cracks the last egg and tosses the shell into the compost. “Anyway, yeah, she ordered like what, seven, eight dozen Christmas cookies, right?”
My breath stops. “Yes…Christmascookies. Usually green and red.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Luna turns off the blender and starts whisking baking soda and flour in a side dish. “We even talked about adding a gold glitter bow, but we both agreed the cost of the upgrade wasn’t worth it for her event.”
Stickiness builds in my throat. “You putblueand red on the order form.”
Luna stops whisking and cocks her head. “No…no, I wouldn’t have done that… That doesn’t make sense. Why would I put blue and red?” She races across the room and grabs the order slip. As her eyes skim the paper, she brings her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God…Zoey… With all the Fourth of July parties this year, and the Jones family had just come in for their gender reveal cake… I was so nervous I’d put pink instead of blue that I said blue over and over in my mind… I think I was on autopilot.” Her chin quivers. “I’m so sorry.”
I exhale. Dang it. Quinn was right when she told me her order, and rightfully frustrated, and I essentially kicked her out of my shop. A heat creeps into my lower belly and spreads, but I force a smile. No use making Luna feel any worse than she already does. “It’s okay.”
Luna bites on the inside of her cheek and scans the prep area. “I can stay late tonight and redo her order.”
Although I want to say yes to fix this and do something to feel better about kicking Quinn out of my shop, I shake my head. “No, absolutely not,” I say. “This was an honest mistake. I’m not having you, or me for that matter, work extra hours. It’ll be fine.”
I turn back to the pans and line the sheet with parchment paper. My employee did screw up, but I’ve needed to implement the service-animal-only rule because of Mrs. Pinkerton’s dog for years now, and that’s on me, not Luna. When that devil-on-wheels disguised in white fur and a pink collar gets loose, it’s crazy hectic. No wonder we missed something like this.
Now what? I shift my attention to delicately forming the croissant dough into crescent shapes. Should I call Quinn and apologize?
Although, calling Quinn also doesn’t sit right with me, either. The right thing to do is apologize and maybe re-make her order. But even if I want to, it’d take me hours and I still need to keep my leg elevated. After being on shift the whole day, I’ve pushed my fatigued foot bone to the max.
After all prep is done, and Luna goes home, I stumble up the stairs to my loft above my bakery, and thank the lucky stars, once again, that my crutches are gone. Ten minutes later, I remove my walking boot and clothes and sink into a tub of lavender-scented bubbles and a bucket of Epsom salt. I flick against the iridescent bubbles and let my muscles melt. Gosh, this week has been a lot. And no matter how much I try to let my mind rest along with my limbs, I cannot get the conversationwith Quinn out of my brain, nor the fact that she was justifiably mad at me.
When I tuck myself into bed, the dough scent from my bakery below seeps through the vents. The best part about living above my bakery is that I’m always here if anything is needed. The worst part is that I’m always here. And so, that’s how I find myself at midnight back in my shop, elbow deep in flour, butter, and sugar.
SIX
QUINN
