Or at least the brand he’d remembered her liking was.
Anyway, the collection of spoons and scrapers (not spatulas, because he’d at least learned that minimum piece of information from Molly during their time together), came bundled together like a bouquet of flowers. But apparently the wooden handles were “to die for,” according to the reviews, and he knew she’d appreciate the bright and cheerful display of llamas printed on the silicone head of the scraper.
The wine was just that. Something else she’d appreciate.
A medium-bodied Pinot Noir with fruity tones they’d discovered while wine tasting years before.
Once, it had been her favorite.
Today, he hoped she wouldn’t launch it at his head.
A little after six, Molly came out of the kitchen with a tray in her arms and started filling the case.
Jackson hadn’t consciously moved, but one second, he was in his seat, and the next he was at her side, lifting the tray—the sheet pan—from her arms and holding it so she could arrange the case. And when the sheet was empty, he pushed through into the kitchen, set it on the counter, and retrieved two more trays filled with muffins. Molly murmured “thanks” when he reappeared with them, but otherwise they didn’t speak as she carefully filled the display case with the variety of treats she had managed to whip up in just under two hours.
When he carried the last of the empty pans into the kitchen, he came out to find she’d moved toward the front door, scooping up a newspaper that had been dropped through the slot, and was carefully folding it. With a look rife with different emotions—fear, tentativeness, frustration, hope—in his direction, she had set it on Ronnie’s table.
“Coffee?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll bring it out.”
And she had, along with a banana chocolate chip muffin that had him seeing stars it was so delicious. But then again, she’d probably known that, considering she’d remembered bananas and chocolate were his kryptonite. However, before he could thank her for the food and the coffee—also made exactly as he’d preferred—the morning rush began. Jackson had pretended to keep his eyes on his laptop, but in reality, he’d watched Molly as she worked.
In reality, he couldn’t stop watching her.
Her personality filled the space with comfort, with caring. She had a bright smile and a kind word for everyone who walked through the door, and he knew it wasn’t an act. He knew she did care.
She wanted her customers to have full bellies and satisfied taste buds.
She wanted them to feel comfortable enough to linger.
She was the lifeblood of the space. The reason it was so successful.
So, his eyes might have started on his laptop screen, but they’d drifted up to the counter more often than not.
Which meant his emails piled up.
It almost meant that he couldn’t find the strength to care.
Ronnie, the older man he’d met last month, strode in, stopping at the counter to order, even though Molly clearly knew what he wanted. She’d had it over to him about ten seconds after Ronnie had sat down at the table with a placard of his name on it. The nameplate was new, apparently, and because it adorned the table next to the one Jackson had chosen, Ronnie told him all about how Miss Molly spoiled him and how she was so wonderful.
“There’s a woman who shouldn’t be single,” Ronnie said.
“She’s not,” Jackson blurted.
Rather stupidly. Okay, exceptionally stupidly.
Ronnie’s eyebrows lifted, but just as Jackson was about to blurt out something else, something along the lines of he’d fucked up and was trying to get Molly back, Ronnie nodded, picked up his paper, flicked it open, and said, “Good.” Then he began reading.
Feeling like he should clarify, Jackson opened his mouth. “I—”
“No disrespect, son, but I don’t come into this place to talk. I want to read my paper in peace.”
Jackson’s teeth clicked together.
Hadn’t come in to talk?
This from the man who’d spent the last five minutes waxing poetic about Molly? Who’d talked his ear off during his last visit? Ronnie ignored him, eyes on the paper as he carefully turned the page. Okay, then. Jackson turned back to his computer, clicked to open a random email in his inbox, and started reading—
“My Molly deserves someone who’ll take care of her.”
Jackson glanced over. “Molly can take care of herself.” Ronnie’s brows drew together, but before he could reply, Jackson said. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let her.”
The older man’s face relaxed, and he nodded approvingly. “Good man.”
Jackson’s eyes flicked back to his laptop. “Not sure about that, but I’m trying.”
“That’s about the only thing you can do when you meet a woman like that,” Ronnie said. “You keep trying. You keep giving. You keep caring . . .” He paused, waited for Jackson’s gaze to come back to his. “You keep on caring until they believe they’re worth it.”
He folded the paper and pushed to his feet with a groan.
“Only then will you know that you’ve done your job right.”
Eleven
Molly
She stretched her aching neck, taking a short break from decorating the row of cakes she had spaced out on the tables in the kitchen.
Breakfast had come and gone, lunch was in full swing—the newest chef she’d hired doing a great job of putting together the hot and cold sandwiches and salads that dominated the lunch menu. The only major differences between lunch and dinner were the prices—lunch was cheaper—and the portion size—dinners were larger. Well, that and they’d thrown a seasonal pasta dish on there in the last few months, but that had been her marketing and accounting guru, Shannon’s idea. She’d stumbled across a fresh pasta shop a few blocks over, and when Molly had tasted the offerings, she’d known they would need to feature their pasta.
So now there was fresh, bulk pasta for purchase in the case and a pasta dish on the dinner menu.
That was part of why she loved this city—the nooks and crannies, the hole-in-the-wall restaurants, the food that never failed to make her moan in pleasure.
It fed her soul.
Just like this row of cakes was going to feed the bakery’s bank account.
She stretched again, ignored the ache in her shoulders and neck, and picked up the edible flowers, choosing the prettiest ones and carefully arranging them on each of the white buttercream frosted round cakes.
That done, she gave everything a final inspection, boxed the cakes, and then carried them over to the walk-in. A few seconds to make sure everything was labeled correctly for the pickup that would happen after she left for the day, and she was done.
Well, with the cakes at any rate.
She had to start another batch of soup simmering, bake off the last of her roll dough, and check that her food order was ready to be sent off for delivery the next day.
Then she was done.
Sighing, she dropped her head forward, taking just one more moment to stretch the ache, enjoying the cool air of the walk-in, then straightened and reached for the soup ingredients.
Warm hands on her neck.