Chapter Eight

James hangs up the phone, shoots off a text to Karen and another to Matthew, and sinks down into his office chair with a drawn-out sigh. The work days are long now, with three weddings and a handful of other events on the table he’s had to work around the clock more nights than he cares to count. It’s not all bad. Some days are easy enough, when all he has to do is go to a venue to set it up or sit in at a bridal shop while a bride or groom to be titters over the difference between salmon and coral pink. Other days, though, he finds himself coming home just one nerve shy of a complete breakdown after a particularly frustrating session of phone tag with an unreliable supplier. He can’t count on his fingers the number of times he’s had to reorder something or drop a supplier in the past week because they didn’t manage to get him what he needed on time or up to standard.

Matthew, though. Matthew is a constant, if no one else. Despite the furious texts in the middle of the night and the snappy, irritated answers he gets whenever he puts in another order, Matthew always manages to deliver spectacular results. The bakes are amazing, the decoration on the wedding cakes is superb, and James is so happy with the results that he can’t even be upset about the volatile quality of their conversations.

“You should try being nicer to him,” Karen says one day, as she drops off the leftover cakes from her most recent tasting session. James is lounging on the couch in pajamas when she lets herself in, the image of lazy comfort if not for the piles of paperwork surrounding him. Karen just wrinkles her nose and throws him a look, clearly unimpressed, but he doesn’t care. She knows how he is when things get busy and she still works with him, which says more for her tolerance level than her dedication to her work.

“I’m nice to him, aren’t I?” James asks, affronted.

Karen rolls her eyes. “Not from what I hear. Last he told me, he was about two texts away from putting his phone in a blender and banning all technology in his shop.

That’s news to James. For as abrasive as he knows he can be, he had never really considered the fact that Matthew could genuinely dislike him, or at least dislike the way he works. His surprise must show on his face, because Karen levels a blank glare at him and crosses her arms over her chest, hip cocked.

“Don’t tell me you actually thought you were being nice,” she says, voice deadpan and carefully measured. James looks up at her sheepishly, hiding his face behind a large bite of angel food cake. Karen groans, clicking her heels against the floor as she walks over, sinking tiredly onto the couch next to him. “James,” she chastises, and her voice is all sour disappointment. “This is exactly why the last bakery walked out on us.”

The thing is, James knows that. He knows that he can be infuriating to work with, that people tire of him and his endless demands, that sooner or later he always has to make new partnerships because the person on the other end gets fed up with him. He knows that.

He’s just never cared until now.

It’s a jarring moment, realizing that he doesn’t want to give Matthew’s up. He’s all but fallen in love with the little bakery, the quiet calm of the late mornings and early evenings, the steady stream of soft jazz and the street view from the window by the table that he’s come to think of as his. Even Matthew has grown on him, from the little they’ve communicated in the past few weeks, and James hasn’t even met the man.

Karen just gives him her sad-slash-sympathetic face, patting his shoulder and leaving to put the cakes in the refrigerator. She knows he doesn’t like to be crowded, especially when he’s in a mood, and James is infinitely thankful for the fact that he was able to start a business with his sister and not some stranger who would force their way past his carefully erected boundaries without thinking twice.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Karen asks after a long moment, returning to the living room and taking her seat on the couch. It doesn’t take James long to think it over. His pause is mostly just for show, and when he nods it’s a hair more enthusiastic than his usual. Karen purses her lips, flicking her gaze away to stare blankly at the wall before she speaks. “You should, I think. He’s a lot like you, actually. You two would probably get along.”

“You’re missing the most important thing, Karen,” James deadpans. Karen looks back at him, one eyebrow raised and her lips set in a tight line.

“And that is?”

James sighs. “I’m pretty sure he hates me.”

Leaning over, Karen smacks the back of his head lightly, James winces, rubbing at the sore spot and glaring at her, but she just shrugs and stares him down. “Has that ever stopped you before?”

***

Margaret isn’t behind the counter when James walks into the bakery, and that alone should be enough to tip him off. Instead, there’s a small placard that reads ‘be back in 5!’ sitting in front of the register, and James stares blankly at it for a moment before taking a seat in his usual table near the window and pulling out his notebook to get a bit of work done. He’s halfway through sketching out a venue design when a cup of coffee clinks down on the table in front of him, in a neat white mug instead of the usual to-go cup, picture-perfect latte art in the foam on top.

James drags his gaze up the arm that set the cup down, and nearly chokes on his tongue when he makes eye contact with the mystery barista from nearly a month before. He’s standing beside the table with a hopeful expression on his face, hazel eyes wide and earnest, a few strands of curly brown hair falling across his forehead. He’s ridiculously tall, and it’s obvious even with the way his shoulders are slumped, bent down a bit to better see James. James has to dig his fingernails into his palm to center himself before he remembers to close his mouth and stop gaping like a fish.              

“Margaret said this one was for you,” the man says, pushing the coffee a bit closer to James, and sure enough, when James looks up Margaret is waving at him from behind the counter. “Can… can I sit down?”

James needs a moment to process those words, but when he finally registers the question, he scrambles to clear his work off the table. “Of course,” he stammers out, shoving his notebook and pens back into his bag and waving the man over.

“I’m Matthew, by the way,” says the man, and James’ world comes to a screeching halt.