Even Odds (25 page)

Mouth practically watering, Iris tapped on the glass divider and pointed toward the homey-looking storefront with the redbrick facade and striped awning. “Just drop me off here.”

2 

Owen Hobbs pressed the
rolling pin down and watched the dough curl up around its edges. With a firm, confident push, he flattened out a section, working on instinct to roll out the dough to the exact thickness required for Sugar Rush's signature Danish. He didn't even need to think about his task now that it was under way, his muscles moving automatically from one step to the next, his mind lost in the meditative exertion of baking.

All around him the kitchen hummed. The central air worked nonstop to cool the room, fighting against the ovens with their continuously seeping heat, their duel a low background noise that soothed Owen in the early-morning hours. He'd never been one to listen to music, preferring instead the white noise of the machines themselves. Having the bakery to himself from 4
A.M.
until eight gave him plenty of time to think. This morning, for instance, he was thinking about the wedding cake he'd dropped off yesterday and wondering how it had gone over. It had been a gorgeous concoction, possibly his favorite to date: classic red velvet with cream cheese frosting, decorated in a solar system motif, with the planets wrapping up and around the entire cake and a cascade of fondant stars spilling from the top layer. Apparently the bride was an astronomer. Wedding cakes might be the best part of his job. He liked to think it was because they demanded the highest quality product, his absolute best, but maybe he was really just a romantic. He smiled thinking about the ribbing he would get for that sentiment from his coworkers. To them, he was a hard-ass boss with impossibly high standards and no tolerance for bullshit. They'd never see him as a big old softie at heart.

Of course, he had never given them cause to see him that way. No relationships, no lovers, nothing but work and the occasional work-related social gatherings he hosted to keep his employees happy. His job was enough for him. Between the actual baking and the “everything else” that accompanied running a small business, he was up to his eyeballs in commitments and stress. Just this week, his assistant baker, Juan, had forgotten to update him when they'd gotten an unusually large order of pound cake for an office party, using more eggs and butter than expected and necessitating an emergency supply run to the local Costco instead of getting it direct from their wholesaler, a snafu about which Owen had very clearly conveyed his displeasure. Their main cashier, Sarah, had miscounted the cash for the bank drop and he'd had to redo the entire thing. Small mistakes, but they added up. If he couldn't rely on his staff to be perfect at their jobs, how could he ever hope to have a life outside the business?

As soon as he thought this, though, he felt a twinge of guilt. This bakery had been his dream ever since he'd overachieved with soufflés in ninth-grade home ec and started considering something other than traditional college. Grueling training, exhausting internships, and one prestigious culinary arts degree later, he'd purchased this bakery from his uncle and never looked back. Asking for a life beyond the bakery felt like he was cheating all the hard work he'd done and the sacrifices he'd made to get to where he was.

A subtle shift in the smell emanating from the closest oven let Owen know the croissants were done. He used a towel to slide the hot sheet pan out of the oven and set it aside to cool. The croissants were perfect, half plain and half almond, golden brown on top and light and flaky all the way through. With the croissants resting, he returned to the Danish dough and began slicing it into sections that he could fold up around their different fillings.

An unexpected sound made him pause, the last spoonful of jam shivering above the final unformed pastry. Was that the bell over the door? He thought he'd heard the chime, but that was ridiculous. It was Sunday and just getting light outside. He'd place the weekly order today and would pick it up tomorrow morning, so it wasn't like he was expecting any deliveries. He put the last spoonful of jam in the center of the dough circle and set it aside. Wiping his hands on a clean towel, he pushed open the swinging door between the kitchen and the front of the shop and went to investigate.

A woman was in the shop. A woman who obviously couldn't read the hours posted on the door. She looked up as he entered, her eyes wide. Now that he got a better look at her, she seemed familiar, a patron he'd noticed before. Maybe one of the regulars. He didn't spend much time behind the counter, but he recognized many of the regulars even if he didn't often speak to them. Talking with the customers was the cashiers' job.

Looking at this particular customer, though, he thought maybe he'd been too hasty in passing off customer service duties to the cashiers. She had the look of someone who'd been up all night, her makeup a little worn, her curls tousled, but her overall look was still gorgeous, all sexy pinup girl with cat-eye glasses. She wore a black dress with white polka dots and a red sash, an outfit that wouldn't be out of place in a 1940s calendar. Her white-blond hair had probably been in perfect ringlets at the start of the evening, but now most of them had come at least partially undone. Her whole look was sex-mussed and spoke of a night of revelry, with maybe a little debauchery on the side. Perhaps she'd just come from a wild night of fucking, with some man's hands raking through her hair and leaving it unkempt, perhaps half dressed in the backseat of a car or a public place, her skirt hiked up around her hips and her lipstick kissed away by a lover.

This whole thought occurred in an instant and left him flushed and discombobulated.
Jesus, Owen, you seriously need to get laid
. He cleared his throat. Regardless of what had brought her to his shop, she was here now in the wee hours before opening, and he could at least be polite before sending her off and returning to his Danishes. That politeness didn't include unsolicited sex fantasies. He slung the towel over his shoulder. “Can I help you?”

She smiled, an innocent grin that was at odds with the sultry look of the rest of her ensemble. “I was hoping to get something to eat,” she said.

Curiosity got the better of him. “You're pretty dressed up for not even six on a Sunday morning.”

She looked down at herself, and her pale skin colored as her expression turned sheepish. “I was at a wedding. We stayed out all night.” She came up to the counter, setting her purse down on the empty space. Some kind of red netting was puffing out of the half-closed zipper of the bag. “What about you? Are you always here this early?”

Clearly she had no idea about the hours bakers worked. “Yeah, pretty much. Normally my shift starts at four.”

“Four in the morning? Fuck me.” She winced as soon as the curse left her mouth. “Sorry. No filter. I haven't slept.”

Her grin was adorable. Owen found himself grinning back and approaching the counter without even meaning to step forward. He looked down and poked the red netting peeking out of her purse. “Whatever that is, it's trying to escape.”

“My crinoline.” She waved a hand. “It goes under the dress. I took it off.”

Owen couldn't ignore the hardening under his baker's apron at the thought of this woman taking anything off. But a little voice in the back of his head reminded him that the Danishes would need to go in within the next fifteen minutes or he'd be off schedule, and the olive and rosemary loaves would be done rising soon as well. Even for this lovely unexpected guest, business had to come first. “Can you give me just a minute? I need to put some pastries in the oven.”

“Oh! Sure. Take your time.” She waved her hand as if dismissing him, like she was the one in charge, and his thoughts went to improper places yet again before he could stop them. He ducked into the kitchen before he could give anything away.

It took only five minutes to fold up the Danishes and pop them and the breads into the side-by-side ovens. And hey, if he was rushing his prep to finish a little faster than usual, well, at least his employees weren't there to witness it.

———

Iris looked around at
the empty shop while she waited for the baker to reemerge from the kitchen. Sugar Rush at six on a Sunday morning was a different place from Sugar Rush at a quarter to nine on a weekday. While the display cases held pastries, it was only half of what they usually had out. Under the fluorescent lights, she was sobering up more quickly than she had expected.

The swinging door to the kitchen opened, and the baker stepped out again—undeniably hot, but probably thinking she was certifiable for stumbling into a bakery before it even opened—wiping flour-covered hands on a white towel. She'd been ogling him for the last few months she'd been coming here, but had never actually had more of an interaction with him than the conversation required for a quick business transaction. He'd always been busy, staffing the counter or rushing to stock pastries while the line of customers snaked across the black-and-white tile floor and out the front door onto the street. She didn't even know his name. What she did know, though, was that he looked to be in his early thirties, his dark, wavy hair was just long enough to flip up around the tops of his ears, and his chiseled jawline would be perfect for nibbling on. Iris gave her head a little shake to dislodge that last thought—maybe she was still a little bit drunk after all.

“All right, it's all in the oven.” He scratched his cheek with a forefinger, leaving a trail of flour that he'd missed with the dish towel. “I've seen you here before, right?”

Good, he recognized her, probably from the times she was dressed nicely for work and not looking like she was barely sober after an all-nighter. “Yeah, I live just a few blocks that way.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of her apartment. “I come in here before work sometimes.”

He leaned on the laminate top of the pastry case, giving Iris a close-up of his forearms. She could see the muscle definition, which looked unbearably sexy. Wow, she really hadn't gotten enough sleep. “Where do you work?” he asked.

“PI Games. Players Incorporated. They're a game design company.”

His eyebrows went up. “Really? I just made a wedding cake for the owner. Is that the wedding you were at last night?”

Iris nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, Will. I actually recommended this place to him when they were trying to choose a bakery. I always like your pastries. The cake was delicious, by the way, and freaking gorgeous, with those stars and everything. We'd have eaten all of it if they didn't take the top layer for their anniversary.”

He made a face. “I wish people wouldn't do that. God, freezer-burned cake is terrible. I know it's tradition, but I wish we could start a tradition where you just buy a new cake on your anniversary. The integrity of the ingredients, it's not meant to last a year. It's an offense to bakers everywhere.” He shook his head, looking sincerely distressed, and it was adorable. After a moment, he laughed. “Listen to me. Nobody cares about this. I'm Owen, by the way.” He extended a hand across the countertop. “Owen Hobbs. I'm the owner.”

“Iris Parker.” She took his hand, which was warm and still lightly dusted with flour. “It's nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He held her hand for a moment longer before releasing it. “So what's your poison this morning?” He gestured to the display in front of him. “Are you a sweet or savory person?”

“Sweet, but I have a feeling you're not really open yet.” She raised an eyebrow. “Am I right?”

Owen smiled, open and broad, meeting her gaze. His dark eyes sparkled. “Okay, you got me. I felt bad telling you. But I've got some croissants that just came out of the oven, a pot of coffee still warm, and you got me a wedding cake order. The least I could do is get you breakfast off-hours.”

Iris returned his smile, aware that they had definitely just crossed into flirting territory. “Got any almond croissants?”

“Of course.” He disappeared into the kitchen, then reemerged a moment later with a flaky pastry that smelled of butter and almonds on a plate. “They don't get much fresher than that. How do you take your coffee?”

“Cream and sugar.” Iris watched him when he turned to make her coffee, checking out his shapely behind in those jeans that looked molded to his frame.
Whoa, down, girl
, she reprimanded herself.

He turned back and set the cup of coffee down on the counter. “Does that about do it?”

Iris started digging around in her clutch. “At least let me pay you for this.”

Owen held up a hand. “No way. Consider it a thank-you for the business. Besides, the registers aren't open yet.”

“Okay, if you insist,” she said, then paused. While she was enjoying the conversation, it would be easy to overstay her welcome. “Oh, I should probably take this to go, actually, and let you get back to work.”

He gestured to the open tables. “Too late for that. You're here now. Have a seat. Enjoy your breakfast.”

She took her plate and cup and slid into a chair at one of the tables, aware of Owen watching her. While it wasn't intended to be the way she met the guy, at least the ice was broken now. Perhaps she could salvage this encounter after all. “Do you want to join me?”