Page 30

Cleo

M y hands wouldn't stop smoothing down the black dress, fingers catching on fabric that didn't need fixing.

Seven forty-five in the morning outside Sweet Dreams Bakery, and I was acting like this was my first day of kindergarten instead of a part-time job at a bakery.

The dress was simple—Dex had helped me pick it out last night from the small collection of work-appropriate clothes he'd been quietly adding to my wardrobe.

Nothing fancy, just clean lines and respectful length that said "hire me" instead of "down-and-out girl playing dress-up. "

The nervous flutter in my stomach felt different from the constant churn of anxiety I'd grown used to.

This was good nervous, hopeful nervous—the kind that came with possibility instead of the dread that usually lived under my ribs.

Three weeks since Duke had found me in that parking lot.

Three weeks since my life had taken a turn I still couldn't quite believe was real.

Through the bakery window, Mrs. Kowalski moved behind the counter with practiced efficiency, arranging pastries in the display case like she was setting up dominoes.

Her gray hair was pinned back under a hairnet, flour dusting the front of her apron like snow.

When she looked up and spotted me hovering outside, her whole face transformed with a smile that reached her eyes.

She crossed to the door in quick steps that belied her age, keys jangling in her hand. "Ready for your first day, sweetheart?"

I'd had so few women in my life who looked at me with genuine care—Mom had tried her best, but the grief of being alone had stolen most of her good days before the diabetes took her completely.

"I hope so," I managed, following her inside.

The bakery wrapped around me like a hug made of scent—fresh bread, cinnamon, vanilla. It was the smell of Saturday mornings that existed only in books and movies, of kitchens where mothers actually baked cookies instead of staring at walls, of homes where food meant comfort and safety.

"Don't you worry," Mrs. Kowalski said, already reaching for an apron hanging on hooks by the back room.

She shook it out with a snap that spoke of decades of practice, then gestured for me to turn around.

"You're going to do just fine. Duke speaks very highly of you, and that man doesn't recommend people lightly. "

The apron strings pulled snug around my waist, her hands gentle but efficient as she tied them. The casual care of it—being tended to without question or expectation—made my eyes burn.

"Duke's been very kind," I said, not trusting my voice with more words.

"Kind nothing. Duke Carson doesn't do kind." She patted my shoulder, steering me toward the counter. "He does right by people who deserve it. There's a difference."

The distinction mattered more than she probably knew. Deserving something—that was still a foreign concept. For years, I'd operated on survival mode. The idea that someone like Duke—the president of the Heavy Kings—someone with power and influence, thought I deserved help? It still felt impossible.

"Now," Mrs. Kowalski continued, moving behind the register with the ease of someone who could operate it in their sleep, "morning rush starts in about twenty minutes.

Construction crews first, then the office workers, then the stay-at-home moms with strollers.

Each group has their patterns, their preferences. You'll learn them quick enough."

She showed me the register, the coffee machine, the proper way to use the wax paper for handling pastries. Her instructions were clear and patient, delivered with the kind of teaching that assumed I'd succeed rather than expecting me to fail.

"Most important thing?" She fixed me with eyes that had probably seen every kind of customer in her forty years of running the place.

"Smile like you mean it. People come here for more than sugar and caffeine.

They come for a bright spot in their morning, a little kindness before the world gets its hooks in. "

I could do that. God knew I'd perfected the art of smiling through worse things than serving coffee.

The first customer arrived at eight sharp—a man in paint-splattered clothes who ordered black coffee and three glazed donuts without looking up from his phone. Mrs. Kowalski handled the transaction but had me watch every step, her movements deliberate and educational.

"You'll take the next one," she said, and my stomach did a little flip.

But when the bell chimed again and a woman in scrubs rushed in, I found myself moving without thinking. Coffee first—she looked tired enough to need it immediately. Then her usual, which Mrs. Kowalski whispered was a blueberry muffin, warmed up.

"You're new," the woman observed, but not unkindly.

"First day," I admitted, carefully placing her muffin in a bag.

"Well, welcome to the morning circus." She dropped a dollar in the tip jar. "See you tomorrow."

By the time the morning rush hit full force, I'd found a rhythm. Coffee brewing, pastries bagged, change counted, smiles genuine because for the first time in so long, I had something to smile about. I was contributing. Earning. Building something that might last longer than the next crisis.

When we hit a brief lull around nine-thirty, Mrs. Kowalski nudged me with her elbow. "Natural born bakery girl. Where'd Duke find you?"

The question was casual, but I tensed anyway. My past wasn't something I wanted spread around, even to someone as kind as Mrs. Kowalski. "Around" seemed like the safest answer.

She studied me for a moment, then nodded like that told her everything she needed to know. "Well, wherever you came from, you landed in the right place. We take care of our own here."

Our own. The words settled into my chest like they'd found a home there. I had people now—Dex, Duke, the club, and now Mrs. Kowalski. A network of belonging I'd never dared imagine when I was sleeping in my broken camper, counting down the days until the repo man found me.

The thought of Dex made warmth spread through my chest. He'd been so careful with me last night, helping me choose the dress without making me feel like charity. His hands had been gentle when he'd smoothed the collar, stepping back to look at me with eyes that held pride instead of pity.

"Perfect," he'd said. "Mrs. K's gonna love you."

He'd been right, apparently.

B y lunch time, I felt like I'd been working at Sweet Dreams for years instead of hours.

There was something deeply satisfying about the rhythm of it—the ding of the register, the hiss of the espresso machine, the rustle of paper bags.

Simple tasks that I could master, that had clear beginnings and endings, that made people's days a little brighter.

"Small coffee, two sugars, and a glazed donut," Mr. Peterson said.

“Coming right up.”

“Get the same thing every time. My wife always said I was too predictable.”

"Nothing wrong with knowing what you like," I told him, already boxing up his order.

He gave me a warm smile, then paid with exact change, same as every customer over seventy seemed to do, and shuffled toward a table by the window. The way he smiled at the donut before taking his first bite made my chest warm.

"Three chocolate, two strawberry, and—" The harried mother with three kids hanging off her like ornaments paused, looking desperately between the cupcake display and her youngest, who was making grabby hands at everything. "Oh God, I can't remember what Joshua likes."

"What about a mixed dozen?" I suggested, already reaching for a box. "That way everyone gets their favorites and you have extras for later?"

Relief washed over her face like I'd just offered to babysit for free. "You're a lifesaver. Yes. Perfect. Can you make it pretty? It's for a class party."

I arranged the cupcakes with the same care I used to take with my mom's pills, making sure the colors created a pattern that would photograph well. The mom practically glowed when she saw the final result, and even the kids stopped squirming long enough to "ooh" at the rainbow effect.

"What a great job," the woman said, wrestling her credit card from a wallet that had seen better days. "How long have you worked here?"

"She started this morning," Mrs. Kowalski called from where she was refilling the coffee urns. "Natural talent."

My cheeks burned with pride.

During the lunch rush lull, Mrs. Kowalski leaned against the counter beside me, both of us taking a moment to catch our breath. The display cases needed restocking, but my feet already ached in the sensible flats Dex had insisted on buying me.

"Place hasn’t run this smoothly since before my arthritis got bad."

The praise settled into my bones like warmth. "It's not that hard. Just paying attention to what people need."

"You'd be surprised how many people can't do that." She patted my shoulder, and I tried not to lean into the maternal touch like a starved cat. "Most folks are too wrapped up in their own heads to really see others. But you—you see everything, don't you?"

Too much, sometimes. But in here, surrounded by the comfortable smell of baking bread and the routine of service, that hypervigilance felt like a skill instead of a survival mechanism.

"My Anna would have liked you," Mrs. Kowalski continued, and I knew from this morning's crash course that Anna was her daughter who lived in Denver now. "She had that same way of making everyone feel seen."

The comparison to her daughter sat sweet in my chest. I had a place here.

A purpose. For the first time since Mom died, I was building something instead of just surviving.

Tomorrow, I'd know more customer names, more preferences.

Next week, maybe Mrs. Kowalski would trust me with the register alone. Next month—

The bell above the door chimed at 2:30, and I looked up with a genuine smile, ready to greet another customer, to be another bright spot in someone's afternoon.