Page 83 of Ashes of Us
I forced myself to focus on the mess in front of me. A half-eaten protein bar—Jesus, Morrison—three years of Christmas cards, and finally, a folder labeled "Community Events."
The contract I’d been looking for, the one for the Firefighter’s Charity Breakfast, was on top. I scanned it, checking the date—three weeks away—then froze at the vendor name.
Rise & Shine Bakery.
Shit, of course.
Morrison had booked it six months ago, before anyone had considered I might return to Station 47.
Shit.
I stared at her signature at the bottom of the page. Neat, precise handwriting. She'd probably been excited about this, I imagined. It was a big event, good exposure for the bakery, and a chance to show what she could do for large-scale catering.
With more than three hundred people in attendance, the Firefighter's Charity Breakfast was huge. Families, city officials, press coverage. Canceling now would cost her money and reputation. Still, with me back at the helm of Station 47, was this something Piper still wanted?
Maybe I could call. Or email. Tell her we'd found another vendor, make up some excuse. Let her save face and avoid the whole thing.
But that felt like making another decision for her. Like the old me, always assuming I knew what was best, what she wanted.
No. She deserved the choice.
I checked my watch. 5:30 PM. The bakery closed at six.
Twenty minutes later,I was standing outside Rise & Shine, second-guessing everything. Through the window, I could see her wiping down the display case. Her hair was falling out of its ponytail, little wisps framing her face. One of her employees, some college-aged girl with purple streaks in her hair, was counting the register.
I should leave. This was a bad idea. We'd just found some kind of balance at the coffee shop, some way to exist in the same space without combusting. Why risk it?
But then the girl grabbed her backpack, called something to Piper, and headed for the door. She gave me a curious look as she passed but didn't say anything.
Piper was alone.
If I didn't do this now?—
I knocked before I could talk myself out of it.
She looked up, confused, then saw me.
Her whole body went still.
For a moment, we just stared at each other through the glass. Her hand was still on the counter, holding the cleaning rag. A strand of hair had fallen across her cheek, but she didn't move to brush it away.
Then she walked to the door, her steps slow and measured, like she was giving herself time to decide whether to actually open it.
The lock clicked and the door opened maybe six inches.
"We're closed." Her voice was careful.
"I know. I'm sorry. I just—" I held up the folder I'd brought. "There's something you need to know about. For the bakery."
Her eyes flicked to the folder, then back to my face. She was doing that thing where she pressed her thumb against her index finger when she was anxious. I wondered if she knew she did it.
"Okay." She opened the door wider but didn't step back to let me in. "What is it?"
"The Firefighter's Charity Breakfast. Three weeks from now. Morrison booked your bakery six months ago."
Her mouth opened slightly. "Oh, that. Right.”
"I just found the contract today. Going through his files." I shifted my weight, shoulder aching. "I wanted to… if you need to back out, I get it. We can find another vendor. No penalties, nothing like that. I'll handle it."
