Chapter Six

The wedding goes off without a hitch, just like James knew it would. Karen even lets him return to work early so that they can iron out venue details and decoration purchases, and he falls back into it with everything he has.

Well, nearly everything, anyway. Karen turns a blind eye to it, for which he’s thankful, but he starts spending more and more time at Matthew’s bakery. It’s not entirely selfish, or course. The bakery has wonderful light and a nice, peaceful atmosphere that makes it easy to work on his designs undisturbed. The coffee is heavenly, too, and Margaret’s easy conversation whenever the line at the front counter drops to nothing makes for a welcome distraction whenever his shoulders start to hurt from the way he’s hunched over. The mystery barista never shows his face again, and Margaret either doesn’t seem to know anything about it or simply doesn’t want to tell him. He doesn’t pry; he wasn’t joking when he told Karen that he didn’t have time for a relationship outside of work.

Matthew doesn’t show his face either, though, although Margaret says that’s because he has a constant stream of work behind the kitchen door. It sounds hellish, the way she describes the heat and the factory line of mixers and cutting boards and proofing drawers that the baker has to deal with on a daily basis. She smooths it over, though, tells him about how dedicated Matthew is to his work and to his customer satisfaction, about how she’s never once seen him put a bad bake out in the main shop, just bake it again and again until he gets it perfect. James takes another bite of his scone and nods appreciatively. Matthew really does sound like a man after his own heart.

Karen meets him outside the subway at half past three, when she’s on her way back from lunch and he’s just barely leaving the office for the first time since that morning. That’s about normal for them, despite everything Karen says about James’ ‘unhealthy attachment’ to the office. She hands over a file and kisses him amiably on the cheek before dashing down the steps, heels clicking on the concrete as she runs to catch the train back.

James turns the folder over in his hands a few times before opening it and immediately sucking in a sharp breath. It’s not an incredibly important wedding, by any means. An upper-middle class couple that wants to spend more money on their reception than they probably should. It’s not his place to comment on it, though, and he really doesn’t care a bit about where they decide to throw their cash. What he does care about, though, is the fact that they expect him to put all of it together in about two-thirds of the time that a wedding this large would usually take. After the buzz and bustle of the last big wedding, James had been hoping for a bit of down time, to focus less on the spectacle of the wedding and more on the events he liked doing; galas and art exhibits and things that didn’t involve two people who were equally as likely to run off and elope as they were to break up and abandon the ceremony after James had put in orders for two thousand pink and white roses.

Instead, he’s stuck with a folder full of demands and very little time to fill them in. At least Karen had left him something to start with, ten digits scrawled hastily on a sticky note stuck to the inside cover of the folder. James fishes his phone out of his pocket with his free hand and dials the number, stuffing the folder into his messenger bag to worry about later as the call goes through.

It rings three times, and then someone picks up the other end of the line, slightly breathless. “Matthew’s bakery, what can I do for you?”

It’s not Margaret. James had figured it wouldn’t be, since he had never seen her answer a phone in the shop before and she usually had her hands too full with coffee and customers to take calls, but somehow, he had overlooked the very real possibility that someone he had never talked to before would answer the phone.

“Is this Matthew?”

“Yes,” is the reply after a second, slightly less out of breath. His voice is husky and a bit strained, and James’ traitorous brain supplies him with a vivid image of the mystery barista on the other end of the line, trying to carry a heavy tray or reach something up high on a shelf. “Who’s calling?”

Right. Business.

“Nicholas Clarke, from Clarke’s events. I think you’ve met my sister?”

There’s a bit of shuffling on the other end of the line, and then a muffled curse in the background, before Matthew answers again.

“Right, nice to hear from you, Mr. Clarke.”

“Nicholas, please.” James pulls a face at having to give out his first name, but he’s heard too many lectures from Karen on professionalism to bother giving his middle name to someone he’ll probably talk to less than three times a month. Besides, it’s probably better that he doesn’t hear James in that low voice, or else he won’t be able to sleep for reasons entirely unrelated to work. He takes a breath and recollects his thoughts, reminding himself that this is a business call and he’s just been faced down with some of the most unreasonable demands that have ever been made of him. “I need samples for a three-tier cake by Friday, if that’s possible,” he says tersely, forcing himself to steer his thoughts back on track. “Karen will be by to try them.”

“I...okay,” says Matthew, audibly caught off guard. James opens his mouth to continue, to thank Matthew or to apologize for the sudden demand on such short notice, but someone coming up the sidewalk next to him takes that moment to bump his shoulder and nearly knock down his bag, and all he has time to do is mutter an aborted thanks and hang up the phone.

He hopes Matthew won’t be too put off. Karen can smooth it over if he is, anyway, and James is a bit too busy gathering his composure to call Matthew back right away.

***

The bakery is crowded when he gets there, and he silently kicks himself for not having the foresight to plan his lunch breaks at a time that he won’t be surrounded by frantic university students. Margaret is up at the front taking orders like a true professional, somehow still managing to make friendly conversation with each person at the counter without making the rest of the line furious. He grabs a seat near the window as soon as the couple sitting in it stand up to leave, trusting Margaret to notice him and come over whenever she’s able to. Flipping open the folder, he sighs and begins to read through the client demands, the beginnings of a headache prodding at his temples as he squints down at the tiny font.

It’s a simple enough job, really, one that he wouldn’t have any trouble going through with if he just had the time for it. Karen’s already taken the offer and the first payment, though, so there’s no backing down from it now. James just hopes that Matthew won’t hate him enough to break ties after this. Karen seems to have taken a liking to him already, and he would hate to have to find another short-notice baker in the middle of a wedding again.

Margaret makes her way over to his table while he’s looking through the color palette options – twelve of them, and he’s not stupid enough to believe that he can pick any one of them without either the bride or groom putting up a fight – and puts a coffee down in front of him before he can even get a hello out.

“You looked stressed,” she says when he looks between her and the coffee, shrugging one shoulder and sliding into the seat across from him. “Work?”

“It always is,” he replies, closing the folder with a sigh and taking a sip of the coffee. He hums appreciatively, and Margaret beams. “Should I be keeping you? It’s a zoo in here today.”

Margaret waves her hand dismissively. “They’re all just here to study and take up space, if anyone needs a drink I’ll hear them telling their friends about it before they even get up from the table.”

James narrows his eyes skeptically, but Margaret seems sure enough, and she knows the regulars far better than he does. He wonders if she sits and chats with customers more when the other barista is working, but she hasn’t been any more forthcoming about him, and James doesn’t really want to press it any further.

Or, he does, but he’s afraid that his ridiculous pseudo-crush (if he can call it that, after talking to the man for two minutes and never seeing him again) will be too obvious and she’ll rat him out.

“Are you single?” she cuts in, derailing his train of thought and sending it spinning wildly off a cliff.

“What?” He can’t possibly have heard her right. “I’m about ten years older than you, you know that, right?”

“Not for me,” she replies quickly, rolling her eyes and leaning her chair back until the front legs lift off the floor. “Just curious.”

“Right, that’s what my sister says whenever she wants to be nosy about my love life. Which, by the way, is basically nonexistent, thanks to all this work I’m always complaining about.”

“That’s fine,” she says, in a way that sounds more like she’s ticking off a mental checklist than reassuring him of anything. “I can work with that.”

“You can... sorry, what?”

She waves him off, setting the front legs of her chair back down and standing up suddenly. “Gotta run,” she says, and James looks back at the counter to see that there’s no one waiting for her. He narrows his eyes again, opening his mouth to call her back, but she breezes off before he can say anything. Taking another sip of his coffee, he sighs and reopens the folder, left with the vague feeling that he’s talked his way into a corner that could prove troublesome.