Chapter 13: Olive
Davidson Construction: “You baking those lemon poppyseed muffins this morning?”
It’s 6:30 in the morning and Brooks is texting me again. He knows I bake those muffins every morning. He knows this because he’s been here nearly every day for the last two weeks. Usually, it’s for breakfast. He sits and works at the same table, drinking coffee with half and half, no sugar, and eats a lemon poppyseed muffin. If he’s in a hurry he pops in, grabbing lunch or coffee and a pastry to go.
But it doesn’t matter what time he’s here or how long he stays because he texts me every single time and asks me to have coffee with him.
And I’m a wuss because I always have an excuse. I’m too busy with the bakery, I’m about to leave, or I have a meeting. I’ve almost said yes so many times but I can’t unsee the way he looked at me in horror when he realized who I was. I can’t un-hear him calling our kiss a mistake. It shoots ice through my veins, reminding me why I can’t spend time with him. So I say no. Over and over and over again.
I used to rotate muffin flavors. Lemon poppyseed used to be a Monday special; but ever since Brooks started coming in and asking for them daily, I added them to our daily bake schedule. I’ve told myself that it’s just good business because they sell like crazy, but deep down I just want Brooks to eat those muffins and think of me.
I wonder if he’s having to work out to burn off all those extra muffins. I can just see him hauling lumber around, sweaty and shirtless… Stupid distracting man! Shaking my head and clucking at myself for being so easily sidetracked, I text him back.
Me: Yup.
Davidson Construction: Save me a couple. I’ll see you soon.
Oh god. Soon. Heat pours through my body at the thought. Today is the day his crew starts work on my addition, meaning Brooks will be in the building for hours on end, every day for the next several months.
I know I can’t keep avoiding him. Over the last few weeks, I’ve pushed all of our interactions to email and text, which is perfect because I can’t lose myself in his eyes or breathe in his delicious woodsy scent. But those days are over and I’ll have to figure out how to not drool over the big jackass.
I’m exhausted just thinking about it. I’m already struggling to keep him out of my head. Now I have to spend the next few months working twice as hard to be professional and keep my stupid crush on Brooks to myself.
I spend the next hour finishing desserts for the pastry case. Danishes get glaze, apple turnovers get baked, and I’m just putting the chocolate curls on the mousse when Lilah enters the kitchen. She hangs up her coat and puts on her apron and hurries to the sink to wash her hands.
“Good morning,” I smile at her.
She’s early and there are dark circles under her eyes. I know she was bartending until at least midnight last night but she replies with a cheerful “Morning!” She washes her hands and heads straight to the freezer, pulling out trays of muffins to bake.
“Where’s the fire?” I ask.
“Hot contractor man and his crew are up front demolishing the muffin supply. I figured I should bake another round or we won’t have any left for the regulars.”
“Jesus, seriously? How many of them are there? I baked two dozen extra already.” I expected to sell a little extra with the construction workers hanging around, but I guess I underestimated the muffin demand.
Lilah gives me a pleased smile. “At this rate, you’ll make enough money off the crew to pay for the addition.” Her smile turns a little devious, and she cocks an eyebrow at me adding, “Brooks said he needs to talk to you before they start working.”
“Of course he does,” I mutter. I swear that man is determined to stir me up. I force a smile for Lilah. “I'll be back soon,” I tell her. “Thanks for baking the muffins. Luis is on break. When he comes back can you please tell him we need an extra batch of sandwich rolls for lunch?”
She nods and gets to work, but I know she’s watching me out of the corner of her eye as I hang up my apron and try to settle my nerves. For the millionth time, I curse Brooks for being so attractive. It would be a lot easier to deal with him if I didn’t feel so damn drawn to him.
“Have fun!’ Lilah croons in a sing-song tease. I don’t even look back as I flip her off, making her giggle.
Chin up, shoulders straight, I walk into the dining room like I own the place, which I mother-effing do. Brooks stands at the register in his usual uniform of dark jeans and a dark flannel button down. The soft black material practically begs to be touched. I can’t help but notice the way it sets off his blue eyes and dark beard. Pursing my lips and sighing, I’m already disappointed with myself. What happened to professionalism, Olive?
He looks up at me, and his serious expression melts into an enormous grin. God, his smile is everything. It sends my insides fluttering and my pulse racing. It crosses my mind that I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like that for anyone else… but of course, that’s stupid. I barely know him. I’m sure he smiles at other people all the time. I just don’t see it because I’m too busy hiding from him.
“Morning Olive,” he rumbles in a quiet baritone, holding out a hand for me to shake. His eyes crinkle at the corners, the only tell for the amusement he’s hiding. Hesitating, I eye his huge hand. I know it’s a trap. He shakes my hand every chance he gets so I know exactly what will happen. His hand will envelop mine and the warmth will spread up my arm until I shake him loose. My stupid betrayer of a heart will race long after I manage to get my hand free.
He knows what he’s doing, I can see the challenge in his eyes. It’s a game and I’m not sure I want to play. I can’t win here. If I don’t shake his hand, then I’m the one being unprofessional. I’m admitting he has that influence over me. Or at least, over my body.
I’m not weak and I won’t give in, so I steel myself and take his hand, intending to shake it hard and pull free quickly. Brooks seems to have other ideas because he clasps my hand, holding it in both of his. It’s intimate. Annoyingly so. But I still let that delicious warmth wrap around my hand, soaking it up before trying to take my hand back.
Even as I tug discreetly, I know he will hold on, refusing to let me go. Fine. If he’s going to be a dick about it, he’ll see how much patience I have for this kind of bull shit. I grip his hand as hard as I can, digging my nails in just a bit.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise and I return his look with one of false innocence, batting my lashes at him. “Good morning, Mr. Davidson,” I say sweetly.
He still doesn’t let me go, instead he strokes my wrist with one of his fingers. I think it’s meant to be a soothing gesture, but the reaction it causes in my body is anything but. My breathing stutters and I swear I can feel a finger stroke up my spine.