Page 7 of The Call of Azure (Unexpected Love #3)

The moment she walked through the door for her initial interview, she’d confidently stepped close, laid her hand lightly on my bicep, and pulled me down so that she could kiss me on the cheek without hesitation or concern over my size or potential role as her future employer.

Apparently, it’s something French folks are prone to doing quite often, and after letting me sputter and try to figure out how I’d managed to lead her on in less than fifteen seconds, she laughed and told me that it’s simply the way she prefers to greet everyone.

She does it with friends and family, and even the occasional regular customer from time to time.

The kissing is simply a part of who she is, and there is no situation in which she would let the world change her.

She’s become my friend over the past few years, and I’ve come to realize that she’s one of the strongest and most confident people I know.

I’m grateful every day for her presence in my shop and in my life.

It took less than five minutes of conversation that first day before I was essentially begging her to work for me.

While I’ve never wanted anything romantic with her, I instantly knew that she was a soul I wanted to keep for as long as possible, even if she is a bit more touchy-feely than I’m used to.

I’ve grown used to her relaxed, everyday contact.

The gentle pats on my arm, the hand on my back as she slips past me behind the cases when we’re busy, even the good morning kiss on the cheek that she always expects me to stoop to receive.

They’ve all become a part of my routine.

Even the bending for cheek kisses is something I do happily these days.

She’s come to mean a great deal to me, and I’m constantly amazed that, for some reason, she’s decided I’m worthy of her kindness and care.

If I’m honest with myself, I’ve come to enjoy her friendly touch.

God knows I haven’t been touched by anyone else in ages, after all.

We work in comfortable silence as we sip our coffee.

I put the first of the day’s creations in to bake, and she pulls chairs down from tabletops and places precut, colorful parchment papers in stacks next to the front display cases.

She doesn’t have to come in at six, but I don’t remind her that she’s welcome to come in later very often anymore.

I reminded her every day for the first year, and she’d laugh and pat my shoulder and tell me that, like me, she needs the time to ease into life gently every day.

I understand that in more ways than she might realize.

Though perhaps she does. I don’t talk much about my past, but as we’ve grown closer, I’ve shared bits and pieces here and there, and she knows more about me than just about anyone else.

James joins us at six forty-five, just as I’m pulling croissants and brownies and tiny apple pies from the ovens.

We open at seven and have only two other employees, one of whom always arrives only moments before we unlock the doors and turn on the lights.

The other comes later in the day. Today, Hazel will appear around eleven to help out with the lunchtime rush and take over for Lilith.

My small crew staggers their shifts so that everyone gets the hours they need, but no one has to work to the point of exhaustion.

They’re a good group, always happy to adjust to the needs of the others if someone needs time off or calls out sick, and I’m grateful for all the ways they support me and my little shop.

I stay in the kitchen once we’ve opened.

The quiet that filled the space during the early morning hours is slowly replaced by the low buzz of chatting and laughter, the steady sound of plates being stacked, silverware being wrapped, display cases being loaded, and the subtle instrumental music that’s always floating around in the background from speakers strategically placed behind plants and on high corner shelves.

I don’t spend much time out front these days.

I probably should; people love meeting the owners of small businesses, but I trust my little team to handle most things for me.

I make stray appearances to slide trays into the display cases here and there, but I largely keep to myself, lost in the sugary tranquility of icing cakes, arranging bread loaves and brownies, and stacking cookies on trays.

Five straight lines per tray. Twelve cookies in each line. Six trays. Six types of cookies.

The ambient noise rises as I work, other voices joining those that have become so familiar to me.

Espresso cups meeting saucers. Forks tinging against ceramic plates.

Laughter and joy and conversations punctuated by short pauses as bear claws and buttered slices of sourdough are enjoyed.

I mix flour and water and salt in large stand mixers and load the dough into new tubs to proof until tomorrow morning.

There is a line stretching out the door, and the tables are full by the time I toss my apron into the laundry hamper just after two p.m. I smile my goodbyes to my team and glance around at the faces that pack the small room.

Some I recognize, some I don’t, but all of them seem happy.

Maybe not happy, but content at least. It’s hard to be truly unhappy in a bakery, even if sometimes the joy found here is only a fleeting respite from real-world worries.

The first few breaths of air not laced with sugar and yeast when I step out onto the sidewalk are startling.

They always are, and it takes me a moment to reorient myself to the world outside of my welcoming brick walls.

The bakery is safe and warm and inviting.

The work is repetitive and focused. One step after the other, the same steps as yesterday, the same steps tomorrow.

There was a time not all that long ago when I felt lost and out of control, like the world surrounding me wasn’t real anymore, and I wasn’t sure how to survive in it after all that I’d seen.

The flour and sugar and salt and water saved me.

They still save me every day. They are calm and consistent and ordered, and I love that. I need that.

Even so, sometimes they can be…too much.

Sometimes the smell of sugar and cinnamon is too strong.

The dough on my hands is too sticky. The constant background noise, while grounding most of the time, can simply become too loud.

There is no rhyme or reason as to why some moments are good and some are bad; it’s simply who I am these days.

Even though I’m largely okay with that, once in a while I need to escape.

That’s okay though, because when even the bakery can’t calm me, the water will.