Cinnamon Roll Set Up (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

31. Miles

Chapter 31

Miles

Saturday morning at Dogeared is a non-stop crush of people requiring drinks, books, and pastries, all served up in record time. I don’t mind the distraction today. Staying busy keeps my mind off of Georgia.

Actually, that’s an absolute lie. Georgia never leaves my mind. If I were Arlo, I’d have that song play on repeat all morning just to hammer it home.

I want to know how she’s feeling. If she read my letters. I laid my heart bare in those scribbled words, never thinking she would see them. Now that she has, were they too much for her? Too little? She’s not on the schedule today—will she come in anyway like usual? Sit down in a cozy chair and sketch? Give me some hint of how she’s doing? Or will she need more time to process everything?

I’ve always enjoyed Georgia’s impulsivity, but I don’t think she’ll be impulsive about this.

I want to believe I know how she feels, but her expression when I told her I love her haunts me. She was confused, but also almost pleading for me to take my confession back. Like she didn’t want it to be real. It’s that look on her face that maybe she’d rather I never said anything that sticks with me the most.

“Not that cinnamon roll.” The elderly woman on the other side of the counter makes a face at the roll I’m sliding out of the case for her. “The ones in the back look lumpy. I want the one in the front. On the left. My left.”

I apologize and box up the specific cinnamon roll she wants. She pays, shooting me a last judging look as if to question my cinnamon roll making skills before she leaves.

It’s true. My rolls didn’t turn out as uniform as usual. Possibly due to distraction and dire lack of sleep.

Bailey, a young woman who’s been attending the romance book group for several months, steps forward to peer into the case. “I’ll take one of the lumpy ones.”

A short laugh exhales out of me. “I appreciate it.”

“Oh my gosh, they’re pumpkin cinnamon rolls? I love it. I’ll have to try a recipe like that. Not at work, of course. Don’t worry about competition. We’re not allowed to experiment.”

“Not allowed?” I pass her the boxed cinnamon roll.

She opens it immediately, grabs a fork from the napkin station, and takes a bite. “That’s really good. You get a hint of pumpkin, but it’s not overpowering. But yeah. We have a set baking schedule at the grocery store on rotating days. Surprise, surprise, I’m always scheduled for sheet cake day.”

We’ve never really had a conversation, but that doesn’t seem to deter her.

“And you don’t like sheet cake day?”

“I guess it’s good experience, and my piping lettering has leveled up. It’s just not what I imagined I’d be doing when I got my culinary certification, you know?” She points behind me. “I got an email the romance group’s books are in for next month.”

“Right.” I find her copy and ring her up, wheels turning. If Georgia were here and heard even half of this conversation, I know exactly what she would do next. “Are you looking for a different job?”

Bailey hands me her card to pay. “Always. I keep checking job listings, but there’s never anything posted. I’d rather not have to drive down to Georgetown for work, so…I make sheet cake.”

Maybe local places want to hire someone, but they haven’t gotten around to posting their listing. Maybe local places need to hire someone, but they’ve been too stubborn to do it.

Guilty .

“Would you be willing to do register work, too, or just baking?”

She pauses, fork frozen mid-air, staring at me. “Is this a hypothetical? Because working here would be a dream job.”

“It’s not a hypothetical. It’s long overdue. We had an employee quit over two months ago and haven’t replaced her. I do all the baking in-house, and I wouldn’t mind sharing those duties with someone else.”

She bounces on her heels. “I would be willing to work the register. Does that mean I can talk about books with random people?”

“Ideally. Would you like to come in for an official interview?”

“One hundred percent.”

We decide on a date and time, and I mark it on the shop’s calendar. It’s a small step, but Georgia will be thrilled when she finds out.

My first impulse is to text her the good news, but I understand that she needs some space right now. A text—even a happy one telling her I’ve finally taken the advice she’s been giving me for months—could feel like I’m trying to rush her.

“Hey, boss.” Arlo walks in looking more cheerful than he has in weeks. “How was the big night? ”

“You heard about that?” I hadn’t spread news of the awards around much.

“Is Georgia likely to keep something like that quiet?”

I have to smile. “Not at all. I won, surprisingly.”

“Congratulations! That’s impressive. Does this mean we can put out a display of your books now?”

Am I going to keep fighting this? I don’t love the feeling that I’m catering to my own ego…but it’s smart business. And like selling coffee I don’t drink—just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it.

“I guess we probably can.”

“Cool. Are you ready to be fought over in the corn maze?”

At the top of the list of things I don’t like but still should do…

I’d meant to bring up the maze with Georgia last night, but things went sideways before I got around to it. Sitting in that cornfield waiting for a strange woman to find me is the last thing I want to do today, but I can’t back out on a commitment to my mom and aunt. And I want to help out the Cortez family however I can.

Still. The timing couldn’t be worse. As though I need more time alone with my thoughts.

“Nobody’s going to fight over anyone. Wait. Do they do that?”

“It probably depends on who’s in there. Last year, I went with Remi.” He winces but recovers quickly. “All the women were after that new veterinarian with the big Instagram following. They were calling him Hot Doc everywhere, so…yeah, there’s probably some roughhousing going on in the maze.”

I’m not sure what’s worse—the idea that nobody’s fighting over me or the idea that they are.

“Any chance you want to take my place?”

He laughs. And laughs. “No way. I prefer to meet women the old-fashioned way: on an app where they have to reach out first.”

“Are you looking again?”

His smile falls just a touch. “No. I don’t know if I’ll be ready for a while. But when I am, you can bet I won’t be looking for love in a cornfield.”

What are the odds the woman who finds me this afternoon will feel the same way?