Chapter Three

Baking is simple enough, really. Matt’s been in the kitchen his whole life, since he was old enough to hold a knife by the handle and not the blade. Some of his earliest memories are standing on a chair next to his mother, dumping a bowl full of chopped apples into a pie filling mixture while she chided him for sneaking bites when her back was turned. The thought of it makes his chest clench, warm and bittersweet. He hasn’t made apple pie in nearly six years, not since the last time he had seen her. Margaret knows better than to ask about it by now.

Now, though, he’s alone in the bakery’s kitchen, chopping pecans while three different mixers run on the counter behind him. Outside the door, he can hear the quiet sounds of the shop, customers coming and going and placing orders while Margaret keeps up a constant stream of bright conversation with whoever is up at the counter. It’s a comforting sound, one that Matt has grown used to in the years since he opened the bakery. The smell of fresh coffee and warm pastries is familiar in a way that soothes the ache that bubbles up in his chest every now and then, when he starts to think a little too much while he kneads dough or slices fruit for fillings.

He’s deep enough into his work that he doesn’t notice when Margaret pokes her head in through the door, and she calls his name a couple times before he registers that she’s trying to get his attention.

“Sorry, what?” he asks, looking up from the counter and hissing out a curse when he accidentally catches the side of his thumb with his knife. Margaret winces, stepping in through the door and pulling open the cabinets to look for bandages.

“I’m taking my fifteen,” she says as she hands over one of the bandages, and Matt bites the inside of his cheek as he rinses off the cut and wraps it carefully. “Do you need me to watch anything back here?”

Matt shakes his head. “That’s all right,” he says, switching off the mixers and covering the bowls in plastic wrap. “Fifteen minutes won’t hurt.” Shucking his apron and hanging it on one of the hooks, he steps out of the door to the main shop and waves at Margaret, who is making her way out the back of the kitchen to sit on the steps outside. The shop is crowded when he takes the register, the tables along the wall all filled with students on their lunch breaks and the bar seats taken save for the two closest to the register.

There’s hardly a line though, and Matt is grateful for the time he gets to catch his breath before the bell chimes and a customer walks in. He’s still arranging the pastries in the display case, putting the freshest ones in the front and the ones baked a few hours before in the back, so he gets a moment’s reprieve before he looks up to greet the customer and promptly swallows his tongue.

He’s nearly as tall as Matt himself, which is saying something, and his eyes are striking ice blue under the fringe of his windswept hair. There’s a hint of five o’clock shadow dusting his sharp jawline despite the fact that it’s barely noon, and he’s got textbook pianist hands, fingers long and delicate as he taps away at his phone. Matt is fairly sure that he looks like an idiot, standing there gaping at a customer instead of taking the order like any normal barista would do. A voice in the back of his head silently curses Margaret for stepping out when she did, she’s far better equipped to handle a devastatingly handsome customer than he is; he just makes the food, he doesn’t talk to people.

“Welcome to Matthew’s, what can I get for you today?” he asks after clearing his throat, and mentally congratulates himself for not choking when the customer looks up and fixes that icy blue stare on him.

“Caramel cappuccino, large, and a slice of pumpkin loaf.” He talks in the way that most businessmen do, which explains the sharp suit he’s wearing, but not the rakish grin that he flashes at Matt for a split second after placing his order. Matt can feel his heart jumping into his throat, and the man’s said all of one sentence to him. Christ, he needs a life.

“Will do. Can I get a name for the order?” Really, it’s a miracle that he manages to say anything at all, with his tongue and his stomach twisting up in knots. He looks down at the register instead, in the hopes that keeping the man out of his direct line of sight will help the frantic thumping of his heart go down just a bit. It works, if only minutely.              

“James,” says the man, handing over a few bills, and Matt busies himself with writing the order on an empty cup and counting out the change so he can keep himself from thinking about how easily James would roll off his tongue.

“I’ll get that right out for you,” he says, forcing his voice to stay light and conversational, and doesn’t let his shoulders slump in relief until James steps away from the counter, leaning against the bar and fiddling with his phone again. Fixing the coffee is easy enough, and he breathes a thank you to Margaret when she steps back into the shop to take over. He does not make a hurried escape back to the kitchen when Margaret takes James’ cup from him, no matter what she says over her shoulder when he pushes open the kitchen door.

When he pokes his head out fifteen minutes later, carrying a tray of freshly baked muffins, James is nowhere to be seen.