Page 8 of ICED
I keep my voice low. “Sounds like an asshole.”
She doesn’t deny it.
“I moved here to get away from him.”
I nod. “Well, you picked a good spot. It’s full of weirdos. You’ll fit right in.”
She huffs something that’s almost a laugh.
“Seriously. Between me and Dave, my sourdough starter, you’ve already met the weirdest.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Dave?”
“Dave. He’s temperamental. Moody. But he makes damn good bread.”
A real smile now. Small, but there.
The kid tugs her sleeve and whispers something. Maya strokes her hair automatically.
“She likes you,” she says.
“Yeah?” I grin. “I’ve got a way with toddlers. Must be my emotional maturity level.”
She rolls her eyes, but it’s warm. Relaxed, almost. The edge is dulling.
“I should go,” she says eventually. “Get her home before she melts into her puddle boots.”
“Can I walk you back?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”
Just that.
And somehow, it feels like the start of something important.
Even if I don’t know what yet.
CHAPTER FOUR
MAYA
There’s something deeply unfair about how the smell of cinnamon rolls can hit you like an emotional freight train. Especially when you’re elbow-deep in dishwater, running on three hours of sleep and half a granola bar.
I glance toward the kitchen pass, where someone’s set out a tray of fresh pastries for the youth program’s afternoon snack rush. My stomach makes a sound like an angry sea lion. I pretend I didn’t hear it.
“Maya!”
I turn just as Simone, our volunteer coordinator, breezes in with her clipboard and her terrifying levels of energy. “Two of the teens just bailed on snack duty. Any chance you can cover the counter for a bit?”
I wipe my hands on my apron. “Sure.”
It’s not like I was enjoying the meditative experience of scrubbing burnt oatmeal out of a saucepan anyway.
I swap sinks for service, stepping behind the bakery counter. The bell over the centre’s front door jingles as kids start trickling in. The regulars know the drill; grab a snack, sign in, act like they’re not completely starving even though they are.
I slide cinnamon rolls and mini muffins into papernapkins and try not to take it personally when a fourteen-year-old complains we’re out of chocolate chip anything.
“You again,” a voice says, low and warm.
