Page 9 of Ablaze

I stick my tongue out at him. “Not the kind you liked so much, but some fun dog treats, yeah.”

He grins, something I’m noticing he does often, and it’s both sweet and mischievous. “So, have you always been an animal lover?”

I nod. “I find them to be a million times more tolerable and trustworthy than humans.”

Dean lifts his half-filled glass of milk in a toast. “Won’t argue that one. I always wanted a dog, but with my schedule, it would just be too hard.”

“I get that. I don’t know that I can own a dog at this point in my life, either. Maybe one day, though. My parents got a golden retriever when I was a little over one and learning to speak. I vaguely remember him, but apparently, I started calling him Orange. You know, because his coat was orangish. Somehow his name stuck.”

I smile, recalling the baby album Mom had made. And even though my heart pinches and stalls on certain pictures, I still go through it from time to time, lingering on some of those pictures of me and Orange.

“Wow.” Dean’s lips twitch. “Even at such an early age, you showed signs of astounding intellect.”

“Shut up.” I throw a crumb off my plate at him, which he dodges. “I was a year old!”

Dean’s gaze snags on my smile before he averts it back to his glass. “So, is this what you always had in mind for yourself? To run your own business one day?”

I shake my head. “After I started the pet-sitting and gourmet treat business in college, I actually became obsessed with the pet food industry. My absolute dream job would have been to work for Doggone Happy and Healthy, maybe in their operations or production department.”

“The organic pet food company?” Dean asks. “Aren’t they based out of LA?”

I nod. “Yeah, but they’re really selective with who they hire. I’ve applied a few times, but have never gotten an interview.”

He’s about to respond when his front door opens and the sound of someone’s keys jingles through the hall. A woman’s high-pitched voice comes through seconds later. “Babe? Pookster? Tell me you’re ready to go.”

My wide eyes fly to Dean’s, watching the tops of his cheeks warm to a deep pink. “Pookster?” I whisper before placing my fingers on my mouth to hide my smile.

“Shut it, sprinkles!” He mouths back before getting out of his seat to respond to the woman, who sounded more like a squealing chinchilla than a human.

But before he can say anything, her shrill voice resounds again. I swear, I’d rather hear fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. Her heels click on the floor, coming closer to us, and I get off my barstool.

“We promised Becky and Sean we’d meet–” Her words are cut off when she catches my eyes. “Oh, hi!” she squeaks before looking from me to Dean and then back to me. “And who might you be?”

Chapter Four

MALA

“Where do you want this box?”

I look over my shoulder at my brother shuffling into the back room of my bakery with a large box of what I assume are baking goods in his arms. “Actually, could you put them on the island? I’ll have Meg sort them out when she gets in.”

My brother groans, placing the heavy box on the counter behind me. He’s been stopping in on his way to work in the mornings, and since his shifts start early, it gives us time to catch up. “How is she working out?”

I shrug, getting up on my toes to pour butternut squash puree into the mixing bowl and switch on the paddle attachment. “She’s okay, just not the most punctual employee.” I turn back to face him, wiping my hands on my apron. “Yesterday she was over an hour late because her car broke down, and the day before, she said her phone alarm didn’t go off.”

Rohan frowns, taking things out of the box and putting them on the island, disregarding what I said earlier about Meg doing it when she gets in. “You need to hire someone reliable, munch.”

I groan at his use of the nickname he gave me when I was a toddler before I turn to add the wheat flour into my wet ingredients. “She lost her mother last month. I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt instead of adding on to everything she’s already going through. Hopefully, she’ll get her shit together in the next few weeks.”

Once all the ingredients are combined, I stop the machine and scrape the sides. Pulling up the attachment, I take the dough out of the bowl, wrap it with some plastic, and put the entire thing in the fridge. I have plans to make healthy dog treats later this afternoon.

“You aren’t running a charity, munch,” my brother huffs, opening the pantry and dragging out the large flour container from the bottom shelf. He empties the new bag of flour he brought inside the container. “Sometimes you go so far with considering everyone else’s needs that you forget to consider yours. You’re paying her, for crying out loud. Tell her that she either needs to get her ass to work or find another job!”

I sigh, lifting the pan of dog treats I took out of the oven earlier and walking past him toward the doors leading into the bakery. Placing the tray next to the glass pastry shelves with the words “Doggy Dessert” handwritten on a paper cutout above it, I slide the door open and place the bone-shaped biscuits on the other side of the heart-shaped ones.

I officially opened Doggy Bag Café about four months ago–six months since I told Dean about my idea–and it’s been both the most challenging and most satisfying endeavor I’ve ever taken on.

In a short amount of time, I’ve managed to not only purchase all the essential tools and acquire all the necessary licenses, but I’ve created a space that’s exactly how I’d envisioned it–cozy and inviting. With pops of deep orange and fun decals of dog quotes stuck to the walls, a few bone-shaped tables placed strategically around the café, and similar tables and chairs placed around the backyard, the café has become one of my favorite places to be.

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