I’d gotten the nickname ‘the chaotic baker’ in school which was an apt way to describe me.
Trying to fight it had almost driven me mad, so I’d embraced the chaos and no longer tried to make myself look perfect. My hair was clean, brushed and somewhat tamed when I made it to the front of the house. Makeup was a thing of the past. The closest I got was the tinted strawberry lip balm I swiped across my lips after I’d wiped the flour off my face, or if I had extra time in the morning, I’d brush mascara on to accentuate my large green eyes.
Fiona was leaning on the arch between the kitchen and the front of the house, regarding me with perfectly manicured brows.
Fiona, despite spending her day waiting on people, looked like she could’ve just strutted off a runway or from a Sports Illustrated shoot. Her blonde hair brushed her shoulders with perfect beach waves which never turned frizzy, never stuck up or out of place and always looked intentionally mussed. Her tanned skin was always glowing like she’d just spent a week sunning herself in the Caribbean, even in the dead of winter. She was tall, much taller than my 5'5'' and had curves that seemed to defy physics itself. On top of all that, she had a sweet tooth that should’ve wreaked havoc on those curves but did nothing but improve them.
Even though she was only wearing a plain white tee and worn blue jeans, she wore the simple outfit like it was couture or something.
I liked to think that the hordes of men who frequented the bakery came because of my superior baking skills—which I was sure was part of the reason—but I knew that Fiona was an important ingredient, luring in men outside my target audience. The ones who weren’t likely to be drawn in by chocolate, peanut butter and buttery light croissants—which were the best you could get outside of Paris.
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me about the latest malady?” she asked, folding her toned arms across her ample chest. The black lace of her bra was showing through the thin white material, looking sexy, chic and effortless at the same time.
I could never pull that off. I wanted to pull that off, but I didn’t have the effortless, sexy thing going on. The best I could go for was cute with an anxious edge.
I wore high-waisted pants from Paris. I had them imported because they never wrinkled, fit my pear-shaped body like a dream, were comfortable enough to wear all day, and made me look halfway presentable. My chiffon blouses were the same. Feminine with delicate flower prints on them, the fabric not clinging to my curves like the cheap stuff did.
“I’m sure,” I told Fiona, straightening my shoulders and trying to push away thoughts of a blood clot traveling to my heart or brain. After having this affliction my entire life, you would think I’d be very good at convincing myself I wasn’t dying from a blot clot or some infectious disease. But when it came to this, practice, it seemed, did not make perfect.
I had not become good at convincing myself I was okay, but I’d got pretty damn good at hiding it from the public at large.
Fiona lingered, as though the customers asking about the peanuts weren’t waiting at the counter. Presumably because she knew they wouldn’t be mad, irritated or irate. Fiona had a way of charming even the most difficult of customers. It was impossible to be irritated with the woman with the enchanting accent, electric blue eyes and the warm magnetism that seemed to exude from her very pores.
I had yet to meet someone who was immune to her charms.
“You don’t look sure,” she prodded.
Fiona, who was endlessly patient and caring, did not find this part of my personality to be annoying, weird or off-putting. My ex-fiancé had found it to be all of those things. Which I supposed was the normal reaction. I hated dealing with my own idiosyncrasies; I couldn’t expect anyone else—even the man supposed to love me unconditionally—to want to deal with them.
I let out a sigh, blowing a rogue strand of hair from my face. “I’m sure that the customers would like to know whether the muffins are going to kill them or not,” I told her. “Now, let’s go.”
“You need to get laid.” Fiona pursed her lips as I brushed past her and walked to the front.
Despite spending every single day in this space for the past five years, the impact of the effect the bakery had on me had not dulled. Not in the slightest.
The windows were frosted at the bottom, but the top half showed the beautiful New England coast, which at this point was working toward brooding as we said our last goodbyes to summer. The interior was painted a soft pink, so soft it was inching toward beige, creating a warmth that made me feel cozy even in the dead of winter. The walls were cluttered with mismatched, vintage frames and paintings that I’d picked up at thrift stores. The tables were round, a darker shade of pink. The chairs were velvet, comfy, inviting customers to stay a while. Round pendant lights hung from the ceiling, contrasting with the vibrant green hanging plants that Fiona had managed to keep alive. A pink neon sign reading The Chaotic Baker glowed on the wall.