Page 9 of ICED
I glance up. Speak of the mountain.
Jacko, Owen, technically, but no one calls him that, is standing in front of the counter as though he didn’t almost run me over yesterday. Like we didn’t end up in a coffee shop with me spilling far too much of my life in between bites of lemon muffin.
“Didn’t expect to see you again until tomorrow,” I say.
He shrugs, looking sheepish. “Thought I’d drop off some stuff. You said you were short on ingredients.”
And there it is, the box he lifts onto the counter like it weighs nothing. Flour, sugar, butter. All brand names, all unopened. There’s even a bag of chocolate chips perched on top like a peace offering.
My chest does this annoying tight-clench thing. I pretend it’s just surprise.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
His eyes meet mine, steady and sincere. No expectations. No agenda. Just a giant-sized, soft-hearted man who bakes and names his sourdough starter.
I clear my throat and nod. “Thanks. Seriously. The kids will be thrilled. We go through muffins like they’re oxygen.”
He smiles, and it’s wide and genuine. “Speaking of… mind if I hang out back for a bit? Not trying to step on toes. Just thought maybe I could mix a few things, stretch the shoulder, keep the dough moving.”
I hesitate. Then nod. “Yeah. Alright. Kitchen’s yours.”
He ducks under the counter with surprising grace for someone built like an industrial fridge and disappears into the kitchen. A minute later, I hear humming. And clattering bowls. And the low, happy murmur of someone talking to the sourdough like it’s a living creature.
Which, I guess, it kind of is.
Simone passes behind me, gives me a loaded look. “Friend of yours?”
“Volunteer,” I reply, too fast.
She raises her eyebrows. “Uh-huh. And you’re blushing because…?”
“Because it’s warm in here. Go sort the dry goods.”
She laughs as she walks off.
The afternoon passes in a blur of teens, noise, and carbs. At one point, I hear Jacko convincing a very sceptical twelve-year-old that sourdough is worth trying. By the end of it, the kid’s got flour on his nose and a mouthful of crust and is declaring it “pretty decent, actually.”
I don’t remember the last time this place felt this light.
When things wind down and the last of the kids filter out, I head into the kitchen. Jacko’s wiping down counters like he’s worked here for years.
“You bake like it’s your job,” I say.
He shrugs. “Kinda is. At least when I’m not getting my shoulder put back together.”
“How’s it feeling today?”
“Looser. Less like it might fall off in my sleep. Mia says I’m ahead of schedule, but she’s also mean, so I don’t trust her.”
I smile. “She’s Dylan’s girlfriend, right? The team captain?”
“Yep. They’re disgustingly in love. It’s awful.”
I laugh, even though part of me twinges at the thought. That used to be something I believed in. That kind of love. Solid. Safe. Something to lean into instead of away from.
He must see something shift in my face, because he quietens.
