Page 8 of Make a Scene

Without a word, Not-Steve smiled and handed her the drink.

She thought she said thank you, but wasn’t quite sure.

Actual-Steve briefly turned to look behind him. “What was that about?”

“I left my drink on his table. No big deal. Anyway, so you’re an accountant?”

ChapterThree

Retta was staringoff into the distance when Philippa waved her hand in front of her. “You okay?”

Retta shook herself out of the stupor and looked up. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Philippa raised her eyebrows. “You sure? You seem out of it today.”

That was true, and it was the byproduct of falling asleep late after reading fluff pieces about getting left on read. She’d thought she’d hit it off with Steve, but he hadn’t responded to her texts in three days.

One would think after being dumped for her younger cousin, Retta would have built some sort of thick skin, but to her horror, Steve’s passive rejection stung.

“I’m sure,” Retta said to Philippa, giving her an appreciative smile.

As they got into the bulk of the work, they remained quiet, letting the pop music playing from an old radio on a bench at the back of the kitchen lull them into a rhythm.

“Oh,” Philippa said after some time. “Did I tell you guys that I met one of the trainers from next door yesterday?”

Omar stopped rolling the croissant dough and looked up. “No. Tell.”

Retta similarly turned to Philippa. She’d sent a welcome basket over to the gym this morning in hopes it would ingratiate her with the owners when she finally asked them to stop parking in her spots.

“All I’m saying is if I wasn’t so busy to date, I’d be all over him.”

“Yeah, nothing hurts dating or a booty call like having a 9 p.m. bedtime,” Omar said. “Maybe Retta can tell us how she does it.”

Retta jerked her head back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, please. Like we haven’t noticed you rushing off every other day after work,” Philippa said.

“Or coming in with a change of clothes,” Omar said.

“The extra makeup.”

Retta looked between her staff members and said, “Wow, I work with the Feds.”

Cheyenne popped her head in the kitchen. “Hey, Retta?” the young woman whisper-shouted.

“What’s up?”

“Someone’s here to see you.”

She looked up. “Who?”

“Crap, I didn’t ask,” Cheyenne said, biting her lip. “Give me a second.”

“No, it’s fine,” Retta said, wiping her hands on a towel and removing her apron.

It was probably Lincoln, the liaison for one of her ingredient distributors. He said he might be dropping in sometime today. “I’ll be right out.”

Entering the front area of the bakery, she did a quick scan for the familiar face but came up short. Turning to Cheyenne who stood behind the counter, Retta frowned and shrugged.