Bakery life isn’t for the faint-hearted. When your alarm clock blares out like a wild, angry goose long before the sun rises, it’s enough to make you question your life choices.
One day’s routine blurs into another. That’s why it was such a shock when the door chime jingled so early. Why wasn’t that door locked anyway? I popped my head out of the back and saw a vision in torn jeans, tattoos and . . . milkshake?
“Sorry. Some kid on a bike—who shouldn’t have been drinking a milkshake this early anyway—ran into me. Can I use your bathroom?”
I thought about him all day, kicking myself for not asking his name. I had no idea I’d have another chance.
The boss sent me out on a late delivery, said our delivery boy got into some snafu with his bike and was out of commission. The address was a bar a few blocks away, right past Starbucks, so I snuck a frappe en route.
Arms loaded with bags and hand clutching the icy vanilla bean goodness, I had to hip-check the door open. It met with resistance, and the frappe jolted out of my hand, sloshing down my front. The door gave way and as the slush oozed its chilly way through my shirt I saw torn jeans, tattoos and laughing brown eyes.
“Could this be love at frost sight?” He winked. “I’m Casey.”
My stomach fluttered. “Well I won’t give you the cold shoulder. I’m Elle.”