Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I don’t think he’s wrong, even though part of me wants to ask him a million questions. You’ve really wanted me for seven years? How often did you think about me? And did you feel the same way I did that time we met right here in this firehouse? But the parallels are almost a little too much.
“Let me just clean up, and then we’ll get the letter.”
He grabs the tissue with the condom. “I’ll do the same.”
Nothing like tossing a used prophylactic into the trash to kill the mood.
After I pop into the restroom and freshen up, I smooth a hand over my dress, pick up my apron from the floor, and fold it. I set it on the makeup table—the scene of the crime of passion.
He folds his apron too. Puts it next to mine.
They’re symbols of our new resolve, somehow.
We stand there for a beat, dressed again, hair smoothed over, trying to pretend the last hour didn’t happen. That he doesn’t think of me as his. That I didn’t ask for and get everything I wanted in bed and more. So much more. My heart is still jittery from the way he talked to me, the things he told me, how he opened up. But it’s time to ignore all that.
With a moving-on nod, I head to the kitchen cupboard where we keep the letters and ask, “Ready for another cookie?”
“Ravenous.”
I grab the step stool, but before I can climb it, he sets a hand on my arm. “I can get it.”
“Show off.”
“Well, I’m presuming my ability to reach the top shelves is why you like me.”
“Who said I like you?”
He shoots me a salacious look. “The way you come.”
“Shut up. We said it was a one-time thing.”
“True. But, Mabel, I have to acknowledge that you come so fucking beautifully.” He turns around, reaches for the ceramic container, and leaves me with that dirty, delightful thought, which I know I’ll hold onto for a while.
Once he has the strawberry jar, he hands it to me, and we head to the front of the bakery.
I pull the blinds down. I’m not sure I want any Cozy Valley-ites who happen to be walking by to see us in our closed shop, reading a love letter.
They’re personal. And they’re special, so once I put the jar down, I say, “Hey, want to have a cup of tea? Or a glass of champagne as we read?”
“We have champagne here? Young lady, do you have a liquor license?”
I laugh. “Nope. I got it for you as a little opening day gift.”
“Really?” He sounds like he’s not used to someone giving him things.
“Does no one give you gifts?”
“Does my daughter sneaking stickers onto my water bottle count?”
“Of course that counts,” I say, then open the fridge up front that we use for drinks and grab a demi bottle of champagne.
“How did I miss that?”
“I hid it,” I say.
“Sneak.”
I grab some of the mismatched porcelain cups with delicately painted roses on them, pour two cups, and usher him over to a table by the window.
I lift one. “To Afternoon Delight.”
“To evening delights.” He clinks back, his words sending sparks down my spine.
I’m the evening delight, even though I can’t be one again. Shame. But I shove that wish aside and focus on our partnership and the bakery.
I drink some champagne, and it tastes like winning must feel. It does feel as if we won today. Our receipts seem to agree.
I look around, resetting to friendship once again, then I take out the stack of letters, touching the delicate corners, feeling the soft edges of the old pages. He put the last one—the one we read in the flower and plant shop—back so they’re in their proper order. That’s so very him. Neat and organized.
I flash back to what Russ wrote to Harriet: Save that part just for me.
With that in mind, I unfold the letter the rest of the way and read.
Dear Russ,
You’re right. (You like hearing those words, don’t you?) Things at work are getting a little easier.
Not all the way. Not yet. But better. Thank you for encouraging me when I needed it, and I sure needed it.
Can you believe we saved a kitten from a tree today? It’s the proverbial firefighter cliché. But it really happens, and I’m pretty sure that little silver tabby was grateful.
But what’s not a cliché is this—when it was just us in the kitchen this evening making roast chicken and veggies for dinner, cooking together and talking about the kitten, and where we’d most want to travel, and what’s the one thing that can make the day better, I nearly forgot we were co-workers.
I feel like we’ve connected on another level. A deeper level. And that makes me happy each day as I come into work.
Your friend,