And one early this morning.

She lifts her head and grins back at me, all casual and pleasant, as if nothing unusual happened yesterday. “Hey. Where’s Mason?” Her eyes trail over my shoulder.

Okay. I guess this here is all good. I can probably get rid of those classifieds I swiped from the recycling bin last night.

I sit the coffee carrier on the display case next to Ryan. She swings her legs in the air, her pink ballet slippers catching in the light and sparkling. “He had a class really early today,” I explain, dropping my hand to Ryan’s knee and giving it a light squeeze. “Hey, girlfriend.”

She stops chewing her muffin, looking up at me, her cheeks stuffed with food. “Hi, Aunt Bwooke,” she mumbles, spitting bits of blueberry onto her dress.

“We have that cupcake order that’s going to be picked up at eleven. Five dozen red velvet. Can you get started on them?” Dylan asks in a tone that suggests I do as she says.

Her questions regarding work-related duties are never to be interpreted as questions. They are always commands.

Do these or I will fire you.

Roger that.

I nod and grab my coffee. “Sure.”

“I’ll be back to help you as soon as I get this mess fixed.” She sighs exhaustedly, staring at the back of Ryan’s head as she struggles to work out a knot. “No more letting Daddy braid your hair, baby, okay? He has no idea what he’s doing.”

I wave at Ryan and slip into the back, sidling up to the worktop. I set my coffee down and begin pulling supplies off the shelves.

Mixing bowls. Cupcake tins. A few spoons and spatulas.

Reese enters the kitchen with Drew in the infant carrier, his free hand straightening out his tie.

“I hear you suck at braids. What’s up with that?”

He stops short and gives me a puzzled look.

I laugh and point to the doorway. “Ryan. Your wife is in there untangling her hair. With two girls you really need to step up your game. Watch a YouTube video or something.”

His eyes widen. “They have videos like that on YouTube? Hair braiding tutorials?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.” He looks down at Drew, his hand flattening down his tie. “All right. Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

I watch him exit the kitchen, smiling at the idea of Reese, Mister Serious, hovering over his laptop late at night without Dylan’s knowledge, because knowing him, he will want this to be a surprise. He becomes a hair braiding expert overnight and twists Ryan’s hair into some elaborate pattern, completely flooring his wife.

I can also see him getting extremely frustrated when he can’t figure it out after countless tries and leaving heated comments below the videos, explaining his aggravation.

NumbersGuy: This tutorial is too complex. You need to break this down better and explain your steps as you go through them. No one can follow this. The image quality is also quite terrible. Do better.

Either scenario makes for a funny story.

I retrieve my apron off the wall and slip it over my head, wrapping the long strings around the front of me and tying them together into a loose bow.

A gift from Joey when I first started working here. Right after we first made nice.

I run my fingertips over my embroidered name, remembering how excited I was when I first put this on.

Did I know then that I’d be making a career out of this job? Or how much I’d end up loving it here?

My phone beeps from the back pocket of my jeans, breaking into my little moment of nostalgia. I pull the device out and open up the new text.

Mason: Sorry I had to cancel breakfast.

I go over the message twice. Slowly.

There’s nothing unusual about it. A standard apology, but it reads strange. No sweet introductory greeting. No nickname thrown in, sweetheart or gorgeous or little devil.

I like that one. I like thinking I’m Mason’s greatest temptation. His only sin, he once said.

But this message isn’t his typical style at all. It seems too impersonal for him. Something he might send a stranger, or someone he doesn’t bother to give nicknames to.

What gives?

I quickly type my reply.

Me: That’s okay. How was class?

Mason: Great.

Great . . . that’s it?

Huh.

I stare at the screen, expecting more. More than just one word. I’m certain it’s coming. Maybe a ‘Let’s do breakfast tomorrow instead’, or a ‘Can I have you for lunch?’ to which I will then respond with something overtly sexual, and he will confirm that he does indeed mean lunch in the true meaning of the word, and also the implied innuendo.

‘You eat your strange French toast. I eat you, yeah?’

Warmth spreads low in my belly, until my screen fades to black.

What? Really?

I light up my screen again, confusion pinching my brow.

Well, this is different.

Maybe he’s really busy at the moment? No time to elaborate because . . .

Reasoning settles over me like a thick fog.

Class. He must be starting another class. His typical first one of the day. He can’t text and instruct a class.

Of course. This makes perfect sense. God, Brooke. Use your head.

I convince myself of this completely logical explanation and set my phone on the worktop.

He’ll probably text later, like he usually does. Or stop in at some point.

I smile at the thought.

The front door chimes as I’m setting out my ingredients for the five dozen cupcakes. Movement catches my attention. Joey steps through the doorway wearing dark washed jeans and a bright blue polo. He stares at me, his expression unreadable as he moves across the kitchen.