PETRA
Friday morning, I rolled out of bed at two-thirty. I was tired. I hated working the two-to-five shift. For such a short amount of time, it really took its toll. Chad needed to hire someone soon, but I didn’t know how to impress upon him the importance of the situation. He just thought he could work me into the ground.
“It must be nice, not thinking about anyone but yourself,” I grumbled. Good grief, I was so tired, I was talking to myself. I climbed into my work clothes and slid into my boots. They weren’t fashion items, but practical shoes, designed to keep my feet dry as I transferred from the car to the store. I never knew what kind of weather I would face, especially in the early hours.
Yawning, I brushed my teeth and combed my hair. It was quarter to three by the time I reached my car. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I buckled up. I needed coffee, but somehow, I had forgotten that morning. I would have to wait until the bakery opened before getting myself a cup. It would be difficult, but I knew once I got moving, I would be all right.
The first few hours of work were always the best. I could put on my music and let myself go. It was the last few hours that were a chore, but by then, there would be plenty of coffee available. That was my secret crutch when I had to work the front counter: I kept a cup of coffee underneath the register. Sipping on it when there were no customers, I managed to keep myself awake.
I arrived at the bakery at almost three on the dot, surprised to find another car in the parking lot. Uneasy, I switched my engine off. What was I supposed to do? I was completely alone and at the mercy of whoever it was. I didn’t think Chad would drag himself out of bed no matter what the issue. None of the other bakers were likely to be around this early, and the customers knew better than to approach me in the middle of the night.
My heart skipped a beat when the door to the other car opened up. A hulking figure came around, closer and closer, to tap on my window. Gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, I looked up into his face. It was difficult to see without the benefit of the headlights. The closest streetlamp was in front of the store.
I held my breath, wondering if this was the end. Relief flooded my body down to my toes when I realized it was Patrick. I climbed out of my car, livid.
“You scared the shit out of me, Pat!” I slapped him hard.
“Hey!” he objected.
“Why didn’t you call me or text me?!” I reached inside the car for my purse, feeling the buzz of adrenaline linger beneath my skin. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Easy.” He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I’m sorry. I should have called. I didn’t think about it.”
“You can’t just go up to a woman in the middle of the night and knock on her window,” I continued, storming away from him toward the bakery’s back door.
Another man got out of Patrick’s car, but I didn’t care. Whoever he was, he was with my brother and thus not a threat. I didn’t even bother to say hello to him, just marched up to the door and unlocked it.
Walking inside, I shook off the night. I flipped the lights on, and suddenly the world was illuminated. The familiar shapes of the baking oven and the stainless-steel counter calmed my nerves. I definitely didn’t need coffee after that rude awakening.
The boys followed me inside, and I got my first look at Patrick’s friend. He was tall and thin. Beneath his jacket, he wore a lose dress shirt without a tie. I could see the beginnings of a tattoo on his chest, just peeking out from behind the fabric. His hair was long and scooped into a man bun behind his head. His eyes were kind although I thought I detected a hint of scoundrel in them.
I guessed that he had been a college athlete. Something about his build made me think he had grown up fit. There was a definite air of wisdom about him. He seemed comfortable in the place even though he had never been there before. I could picture him fitting in easily anywhere, from a corporate board room to a seedy tavern in Las Vegas.
“Who are you?” I asked bluntly.
“Gavin Quincy.” He held out his hand.
I shook it before setting my attention to my shoes. I kept a pair of sneakers in a cubby by the door. Pulling my boots off, I leaned down to slip the sneakers on. I didn’t want to get them wet by wearing them to and from the shop. The boots served their purpose and got me to the bakery with dry feet. They would wait for me until the end of the day when I would change again before I went home.
After sorting out the footwear situation, I grabbed my apron from its peg above the cubbies. Sliding my jacket off, I switched the two garments, wrapping the apron around my waist.
“Petra Knight.” I gave him my name just to be polite.
“I’ve heard great things about your bakery, Petra,” Gavin said.
I glanced up, surprised out of my routine. His voice was warm and supportive. I could easily imagine myself curling up beside him next to a roaring fire. On a ski slope in Aspen or a vineyard in Italy, this man would be equally at home. With him, I imagined myself escaping from the drudgery of everyday life, making new and exciting memories on the shores of foreign lands.
All of a sudden, Patrick faded into the background. I found myself alone with this intriguing stranger. I blushed, trying to remember what I had been doing. It was a quarter after three. I had to pull the ingredients out of the freezer, or they wouldn’t have time to thaw.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, gentler this time.
“I brought Gavin so he could see the shop,” Patrick said.
I looked back at my brother, surprised to find him still standing there.
“We have an investor who might be interested in putting some money into the place,” Gavin said.
“An investor?” I puzzled, leaving the men to their own devices so I could plunge into the walk-in freezer.