Chapter 11: Olive
I’m only back inside for a couple of minutes before Luis comes strolling into the kitchen. He’s whistling loudly and grinning at me from ear to ear. Oh lord. This can’t be good.
He props his elbows on my workbench, resting his chin on his fists and watches me spin the cake table as I carefully level the buttercream on the top of my cake. I have a dozen more to ice and I’ve wasted half of my morning already, so I try to ignore him. He stands his ground and clears his throat.
“Can you be helped, Luis?”
“Oh, Olive. I think it is you who might need help.” He seems to be on the verge of giggles.
“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I could buttercream a cake in my sleep these days.”
“Oh, Olive. It is not the cake that you need help with.” He’s not going to let this go, I guess. Sighing, I put down my offset spatula, cross my arms, and lean a hip on the counter.
“Fine, I’ll bite. What has you grinning like the fucking Joker?”
Luis feigns a pained expression, holding a hand over his heart. “Oh, you wound me, my little friend!”
“Dude! Spit it out! I have so much work to do and I just want to get this done!”
Luis chuckles. He knows I’m not mad. “You have a visitor in the dining room. I told the girls up front not to put on Bon Jovi or they would get more of a show than they bargained for.”
Oh, fuck me.
“Luis, are you trying to tell me Brooks is out front? And this is the way you want to share that information? You realize I’m your boss, right?”
He laughs and shakes his head as he heads back to his bread corner. “And you would never fire an old man like me.”
“Start the sourdough for tomorrow please!” I slam down my decorating tools and stomp towards the front. And, because I'm a child, I call out a half-assed parting shot. “You're lucky I can't run this bakery without you!”
Luis dumps his bread dough out onto the floured surface, chuckling to himself. This is what happens when you hire someone who is basically family. He knows I would never fire him. Gran would kill me if I did, and I can’t make bread the way he does.
Leaving him, I peek out front to see if he was just messing with me. I’m hoping, no, praying this is a joke. It’s the kind of thing he might do. My hopes are dashed to pieces on the rock hard body sitting in my dining room.
Fuckity fuck. Nope.
It’s only been three days, and Brooks is back in my cafe. I was so sure I wouldn’t have to see him again for weeks. Surely, the embarrassment of stripping in front of me would have been enough to earn me a buffer? His visit can’t be business related because I haven’t even gotten plans back from Della yet. So why is he here?
And why the hell does he have to look so yummy? He's wearing dark jeans and a gray flannel shirt, and those jeans hug his thighs, accentuating how thickly muscled they are. The flannel fits across his broad shoulders and as he moves, I can see the muscles flex under it. Do they make flannel spandex blends now? Because if there’s no stretch in that fabric, I’m worried his arms will just Hulk-rip their way out of the sleeves. Not that I would complain if they did.
His inky blue eyes flash as he types on the laptop in front of him, set off by his stupid dark gray shirt. Whatever he’s working on seems to annoy him because his jaw ticks and the movement sparks a desire to run my hands through his short beard to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
One of his hands leaves the laptop and his fingers slide up and down the handle of the mug absentmindedly. God, the things those fingers could do to my body…
One of my baristas steps out from behind the counter with a coffee carafe. Her eyes are locked on Brooks and she is oblivious to me and everyone else in the cafe as she refills his coffee cup. He barely looks up at her but she hovers over him asking if she can get him anything else. Oh, Jesus Christ. I'd like to shake her and tell her to have some self-respect, but I can’t blame her.
She finally leaves him alone and returns to her post looking a little dejected. Something in me purrs at the way he ignored her flirty advances. Hmph. Stupid, really. Even if he were interested in Allison, it shouldn’t matter. Except it does matter to me and I absolutely hate that I care. I wiggle my jaw to release the tension that’s crept into my neck and is making me grind my teeth.
My phone dings in my pocket with a text message, making me jump. A startling reminder that I’m still hiding in the hallway. Fumbling to unlock my phone, I expect to see a message from one of my sisters but the name on my screen sends fire racing through my bloodstream.
Davidson Construction: “Stop spying on me and come have a coffee instead.”
Me: “I’m not spying. I’m supervising. How did you get my number?”
I peek around the corner again, and Brooks is still looking down at his laptop, typing away. His phone is nowhere to be seen and just when I am sure this is a joke one of my employees is playing on me, he looks straight up at me, a hint of a smile in the corners of his blue eyes. He raises one finger and then plunks a key on his keyboard.
My phone buzzes in my hand, breaking the spell his eyes have put me under. I duck back into the hallway.
Davidson Construction: “Looks like spying from here… I got your number from the forms you filled out. I keep all my clients’ numbers saved on my phone so I can confront them about skulking in the shadows. If you join me for coffee, I can show you some ideas I have for your classroom.”