Page 26 of Holiday Crush
Vinnie hadn’t been joking. Coaching kids was a lesson in patience and while I thought I was doing okay, I’d been relieved when it was over. Fuck, I’d just started and I already desperately needed a break.
And ideally, a chance to talk to Ivan.
I’d seen him this morning at Rise and Grind, but it was busy and there was no way to casually ask if he’d thought about that kiss after Bingo the other night. Neither of us had acknowledged it, and maybe that was for the best. We could always blame it on the gin.
Not that I regretted the kiss. I didn’t. And something in his smile told me he’d be into continuing where we’d left off.
Or maybe I was guilty of misreading the situation. I was lonely, horny, and I’d never felt more out of sync or directionless in my life. But damn it, being with him felt like a breath of fresh air…my first in a month.
He’d been on my mind all weekend, and I supposed I could have easily scratched that itch by growing a pair and asking if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee or—
Okay, maybe it wasn’t so smart to invite a barista out for coffee. Or anywhere. I had enough uncertainty in my life without creating new issues with the guy who’d sat behind me in Algebra in high school. Besides, my time in Elmwood was limited, and there was no point in fucking it up by ostracizing one of the few classmates I’d liked who’d stuck around.
However, I wasn’t going to share any of that with my mother.
“Earth to Court,” she teased, waving her hand in front of my face. “You’re a million miles away.”
“I was just thinking about…what to choose.” I pointed at the bakery display case and cast a smile her way.
She didn’t buy it. Penny Henderson was an energetic woman in her early sixties with a contagious laugh and a sixth-sense for bullshit.
Mom pushed a lock of honey-blond hair behind her ear and studied me for a beat. “If you say so. In the meantime, will you please help Annie with that bag of flour? She’s going to drop it on her head, spray it everywhere, and ruin the maple cookies I just took out of the oven.”
“The cookies are fine, Penny,” a raspy, cantankerous voice called from the kitchen.
Mom sent me a pleading look and whispered, “Hurry. I can pay in eclairs.”
“You’re on.” I dropped my hockey bag to the floor near the register at the bakery before barging into the kitchen as if I owned the place.
Fact: I didn’t technically own Henderson’s Bakery. However, it had been in my family for well over a century. My great-great-great-great grandfather, give or take a few “greats,” had emigrated to Elmwood from Scotland and sold bread and sweets from a cart on what was now Main Street. The current brick-and-mortar location had been built in the 1920s prior to the Great Depression.
According to family lore, the Hendersons and most of Elmwood had stayed afloat through devastating financial calamity by sharing resources and trading goods. We were known for our pastries, but our number one bestseller, dating back nearly a hundred years, was our famous maple cookie.
It was the fucking bomb. No kidding.
They were shaped like maple leaves (obviously) and sold plain, with a maple-drizzle icing, or dunked-slash-drowned in icing. My mom had been responsible for the mega icing add-on, much to Grandma Henderson’s horror, but they were a hit with kids so they stayed on the menu. I was and always had been a big fan of the drizzle. My older brother loved the dunk, and Dad liked them plain. None of us had a clue how to bake them, though.
Mom was the baker in the family. She’d met my dad when she worked for my grandparents in her teens. They became high school sweethearts and eventually married, had kids, and continued the legacy. Dad did the books, Oren was a financial advisor in Burlington, and me? I was the hockey player who’d promised to learn how to bake Henderson’s signature cookie after I retired.
Meh, I didn’t see that happening. Neither did anyone else. We didn’t discuss who’d take the helm next, but let’s be real, I sucked in the kitchen and my mother knew it.
Yet she’d still asked me to stop by the bakery every day since I’d come home, insisting she could use my help. I couldn’t tell if this was passive-aggressive guilt treatment or if she was just worried about me.
Definitely the latter.
“Annie, you beautiful dragon! I’m here to save the day.”
The eighty-year-old white-haired woman with advanced osteoporosis barked a laugh as she looked up from a giant vat of dough. “Well, if it isn’t Prince Charming. Get over here and give me a hug.”
I obeyed, careful not to squeeze too hard for fear of cracking her bones.
Annie Mellon, or Crabby Annie as she was secretly known by most of the population of Elmwood, was an interesting combo of tiny and frail, yet boisterous, brassy, and ready to give hell at a moment’s notice. She’d worked for my family her whole life and had helped run operations until my mom took over. I used to hang out at the bakery after rink time when I was a kid, begging Annie to let me help stir something or taste something, and ideally reward me with a treat.
“How are you, Annie?”
“I’ve been off work for a month. My arthritis is killing me, my doctor told me to cut back on the smokes, I gashed my thumb on that fucking new industrial bread slicing machine, but otherwise…” She shrugged and the effort lifted her shoulders to her ears. “No complaints. I heard a rumor you were in town, and that’s more interesting by half. What the hell are you doing here?”
I pulled the bag of flour from the shelf, slit it open, and poured it into a bin the way I’d been taught as a kid. “Oh, you know…got tired of the grind and needed an Elmwood fix.”