Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Full and happy, Pluto jumps onto my bed and flops down at my side, purring. He’s warm and too heavy, but I’m just grateful he’s fed and taken care of. I pet him and scratch his tiny bud ears as if that can make up for the last few days of neglect. It’s hard being alone, but it’s even worse when someone—or something—depends on you and you fail them. Poor Pluto. I’m absurdly glad that Ruth-Ann is here, a surge of overwhelming gratitude threatening to make me cry.
Thank goodness she hasn’t noticed.
“I’m making oat cookies for your cart,” she says, not that I asked. “The grain here has a texture a lot like oat if you don’t get it milled, and it’ll go well with the honey. We can dry out some of the berries with the oven and they’ll be very close to raisins.”
“People hate oatmeal-raisin cookies,” I point out.
“No, they don’t. It’s just that they’re the bottom tier of cookie flavors. They’re the basic bitch of cookies, the tub of vanilla ice cream at the ice cream shop. People opt for other flavors when they’re available because oatmeal-raisin isn’t glamorous. But it’s comfy and reminds people of home and you can get close to the taste with your ingredients here, which is key.” She finishes measuring out ingredients and then gestures at my fridge. “Do you have any frozen butter?”
I give her a confused look, stroking Pluto’s scaly nose. “Why would I freeze butter?”
Her eyes go wide. “For pie crusts, of course. Also, you’re melting your butter in your cookies and that’s the wrong thing to do. That’s why they look like sloppy puddles. And you want to rest the dough in the fridge overnight so they keep their shape. Who taught you how to bake?”
“No one.”
Ruth-Ann’s braced shoulders go down. “Well, that explains a lot. What made you want to do a baking business then?”
I give her a meek look. “I saw a hole in the market, and I had an ex-girlfriend that baked and talked about it a lot.”
“Oh.” The hair goes behind her ears again, her expression flustered once more. “Okay, well, I can’t hate on that. I mean, I could, but you don’t know what you don’t know. I’m going to make up some batches for today and chill some for tomorrow, and you’ll be able to see the difference.”
“Okay.” I couldn’t help but notice how unsettled and fluttery she got when I mentioned my ex. Kinda cute, really.
She puts her hands on her hips, surveying my tiny kitchen. “The workflow in here is terrible. Do you mind if I rearrange a few things?”
I shake my head. “I don’t mind.”
And then I sneeze. A lot. It makes Pluto jerk awake, but he doesn’t get up.
Ruth-Ann immediately bustles to my side, taking my mug. Her fingers brush over my forehead, feeling my temperature. “You’re hot. Another cup of tea for you, some soup, and then you should nap. Don’t mind me. I’ll work quietly.”
Sleep sounds amazing. Just talking to her has worn me out. Watching her move around my apartment is exhausting. I nod and settle into the blankets, letting her fuss over me, a stranger she doesn’t even like. I’m not even sure I like her myself.
Her hands were nice, though. Soft and cool against my skin.
When I wake up again, Pluto is still plastered to my side, asleep. The sound that awoke me is the creak of the front door as Ruth-Ann pushes my cart inside. “Sorry, did I wake you?” she asks as she sets the pushcart in its spot in my living room.
I yawn and sit up. I’m still groggy, but I don’t feel quite like death any longer. “It’s okay. How did it go?”
“Sold out of everything.” She beams with pride as she approaches my side of the bed and puts her hand on my forehead. “You’re still warm, though. Do you want to go to the doctor?”
I’ve seen the doctor here in Port. He’s an alien and therefore I’ve been avoiding him. “I’m good. I just need to sleep it off.”
“Well, I’m going to heat you up some more soup. You need to eat and drink more water before you go back to sleep.” She bustles away back to the kitchen. “And I need to get started on tomorrow’s baked goods. I’ll make more than I did today, but business was so brisk I bet you sell out again.”
There’s a lot of pride in her words. She’s thrilled at how much she’s helping me. I don’t point out that I sell out every day, just because people like what I bake even if it’s not perfect. She doesn’t need to know that, though. Ruth-Ann seems like she needs something to do with herself, and right now I’m her project. I don’t mind. It’s nice that she takes care of me. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed having someone else in my life until she put her hands on my forehead. It’s nice to have someone else tuck blankets around you and tell you to relax. That they’ve got it.