Page 8 of Romancing the Clone (Sunrise Cantina #3)

CHAPTER

SEVEN

SIMONE

Ruth-Ann likes me.

As in, likes me likes me.

The realization is startling. All this time, she’s been so damn mean to me, consistently stopping by my stall every day and commenting. I couldn’t figure out why she was so very focused on what I did, and now I’m wondering if this is the equivalent of her pulling on my ponytail to get my attention.

How on Earth did I miss this? I watch her move about in my kitchen, measuring out flour into a big mixing bowl. She won’t look me in the eye, and when she does catch my gaze, she tucks her hair behind her ears and gets a flustered look on her face.

Full and happy, Pluto jumps onto my bed and flops down at my side, purring.

He’s warm and too heavy, but I’m just grateful he’s fed and taken care of.

I pet him and scratch his tiny bud ears as if that can make up for the last few days of neglect.

It’s hard being alone, but it’s even worse when someone—or something—depends on you and you fail them.

Poor Pluto. I’m absurdly glad that Ruth-Ann is here, a surge of overwhelming gratitude threatening to make me cry.

Thank goodness she hasn’t noticed.

“I’m making oat cookies for your cart,” she says, not that I asked. “The grain here has a texture a lot like oat if you don’t get it milled, and it’ll go well with the honey. We can dry out some of the berries with the oven and they’ll be very close to raisins.”

“People hate oatmeal-raisin cookies,” I point out.

“No, they don’t. It’s just that they’re the bottom tier of cookie flavors.

They’re the basic bitch of cookies, the tub of vanilla ice cream at the ice cream shop.

People opt for other flavors when they’re available because oatmeal-raisin isn’t glamorous.

But it’s comfy and reminds people of home and you can get close to the taste with your ingredients here, which is key.

” She finishes measuring out ingredients and then gestures at my fridge. “Do you have any frozen butter?”

I give her a confused look, stroking Pluto’s scaly nose. “Why would I freeze butter?”

Her eyes go wide. “For pie crusts, of course. Also, you’re melting your butter in your cookies and that’s the wrong thing to do. That’s why they look like sloppy puddles. And you want to rest the dough in the fridge overnight so they keep their shape. Who taught you how to bake?”

“No one.”

Ruth-Ann’s braced shoulders go down. “Well, that explains a lot. What made you want to do a baking business then?”

I give her a meek look. “I saw a hole in the market, and I had an ex-girlfriend that baked and talked about it a lot.”

“Oh.” The hair goes behind her ears again, her expression flustered once more. “Okay, well, I can’t hate on that. I mean, I could, but you don’t know what you don’t know. I’m going to make up some batches for today and chill some for tomorrow, and you’ll be able to see the difference.”

“Okay.” I couldn’t help but notice how unsettled and fluttery she got when I mentioned my ex. Kinda cute, really.

She puts her hands on her hips, surveying my tiny kitchen. “The workflow in here is terrible. Do you mind if I rearrange a few things?”

I shake my head. “I don’t mind.”

And then I sneeze. A lot. It makes Pluto jerk awake, but he doesn’t get up.

Ruth-Ann immediately bustles to my side, taking my mug. Her fingers brush over my forehead, feeling my temperature. “You’re hot. Another cup of tea for you, some soup, and then you should nap. Don’t mind me. I’ll work quietly.”

Sleep sounds amazing. Just talking to her has worn me out. Watching her move around my apartment is exhausting. I nod and settle into the blankets, letting her fuss over me, a stranger she doesn’t even like. I’m not even sure I like her myself.

Her hands were nice, though. Soft and cool against my skin.

When I wake up again, Pluto is still plastered to my side, asleep. The sound that awoke me is the creak of the front door as Ruth-Ann pushes my cart inside. “Sorry, did I wake you?” she asks as she sets the pushcart in its spot in my living room.

I yawn and sit up. I’m still groggy, but I don’t feel quite like death any longer. “It’s okay. How did it go?”

“Sold out of everything.” She beams with pride as she approaches my side of the bed and puts her hand on my forehead. “You’re still warm, though. Do you want to go to the doctor?”

I’ve seen the doctor here in Port. He’s an alien and therefore I’ve been avoiding him. “I’m good. I just need to sleep it off.”

“Well, I’m going to heat you up some more soup. You need to eat and drink more water before you go back to sleep.” She bustles away back to the kitchen. “And I need to get started on tomorrow’s baked goods. I’ll make more than I did today, but business was so brisk I bet you sell out again.”

There’s a lot of pride in her words. She’s thrilled at how much she’s helping me.

I don’t point out that I sell out every day, just because people like what I bake even if it’s not perfect.

She doesn’t need to know that, though. Ruth-Ann seems like she needs something to do with herself, and right now I’m her project.

I don’t mind. It’s nice that she takes care of me.

I didn’t realize how much I’d missed having someone else in my life until she put her hands on my forehead.

It’s nice to have someone else tuck blankets around you and tell you to relax. That they’ve got it.

She’s been really kind to me, which is the most surprising part of all.

“Thank you,” I tell her again, stroking Pluto’s thick neck as the cat dozes. “And thank you especially for taking care of Pluto. I feel terrible I haven’t been able to give him attention while I’m sick.”

Ruth-Ann nods. “I’ve heard carinoux will eat you out of house and home. My friend Dora loves her kitten, but she complains about how much he eats all the time.”

That makes me pause. I sit up a little straighter. “Did you say Dora? Blonde Dora?”

She pauses, eyeing me. “Yes? We were captives together. You know her and her mates?”

I nod, surprised at how small the universe is suddenly. “Dora, Bethiah, and Jamef were the ones that rescued me. She’s the one that gave me Pluto.”

“We have a friend in common, then.” Ruth-Ann chops nuts with my largest knife. “I’m surprised we’ve never realized that earlier.”

I’m not all that surprised. We’re all wounded to a certain extent, those of us here on Risda.

It’s hard to connect with people and ask about their past when you know it involves slavery, abuse, and all kinds of other horrible things.

No one got here in a fun way. In a sense, a lot of us are starting over now that we’ve landed someplace safe.

We can write off the past and move forward.

“Dora’s nice,” is all I say when she doesn’t volunteer more about her past with Dora.

She doesn’t ask what I was “rescued” from, and I don’t volunteer it.

Silence falls between us, but it’s not uncomfortable.

I lie back on my pillows and watch her move about the kitchen as she heats the soup and pulls out baking pans.

She doesn’t chatter on about sales as I drink the soup down.

She’s quiet instead, as if she’s used up all her words and is waiting for me to bring up a topic of conversation.

I’m too tired to do that, though. I drink the water she presses on me and lie back again, sleepy.

She slides the first batch of cookies into the oven and then looks over the counter at me. “Going back to sleep?”

“I think so.” My eyes are feeling heavy already.

“You want me to help you shower before you do?”

I remember her shy, awkward expression when I’d said she liked me.

It makes me blush, and I can’t imagine having her undress me while I’m so gross and unkempt and sweaty.

It’d kill any sort of crush she has on me, and for some reason, I’m reluctant to let that happen.

So I close my eyes and shake my head. “I’ll be stinky for another day, if that’s all right. ”

“Why wouldn’t it be all right? You’re the one that’s sick.

” Footsteps echo on the floor and then the side of the bed dips from her weight.

I open my eyes to see her sitting down, my rarely used data pad in her hands.

“I’m putting in my comm number. I’m going to bake a few batches and then head out.

I’ll be by again in the morning, but if you need anything between now and then, you just hit a button, okay? ”

“You don’t have to, you know.” I watch her as she sets the data pad down and then leans over to fluff my pillow. “Bake for me.”

“I know I don’t, but I’m going to anyhow.” Our gazes meet, and I wonder if she’s going to kiss my forehead, but she moves away and I’m oddly sad about it.

I sleep like the dead, and when I wake up, the apartment is dark and empty.

It smells delicious, though. I drag myself from bed and notice the trays on the pastry cart are full.

How did I sleep through all this? I move to the kitchen to get a drink, and there’s a pile of credits neatly stacked on the corner of the counter, along with a small note, scribbled on the back of a disposable plas-napkin.

The oatmeal-raisin was a success! There is dough in the fridge for you to use in the AM. If you or Pluto need anything, send me a comm. — Ruth-Ann

Moving to the fridge, I see it’s full of labeled containers, some of pie dough, some of cookie dough, some cooked sausage for meat pies.

There’s even a container of cooked chicken for Pluto.

She’s set it all up to save me a ton of work, and I feel another rush of gratitude towards my nemesis.

There’s even leftover soup for me. It’s so thoughtful, and again, I’m flummoxed that the person that comes over to my cart to criticize every day has busted her butt for me.

If I had a phone, I’d send her a text message of thanks, but the data pads aren’t set up with any human alphabets.

I’d have to send a voice note, and that feels way too personal.

I’ll just thank her when I see her again.