| |
Chapter One
CeCe LaRue was wrist-deep in a mound of bread dough when she heard her cell phone ring. Mumbling a few choice profanities, she lifted her hands and attempted to answer the phone with her elbow. Max’s smiling face beamed from the taunting device. After one more attempt at elbow poking, the phone went silent. “Come on,” she groaned, knowing the reason her boss was calling.
“He’s calling off again, isn’t he?” Evan Lawson asked from the doorway. He shrugged off his jacket and dusted a few snowflakes from his blond curls. Walking over to the table, he picked up her phone just as Max called again. “Hey, Max,” he answered, watching CeCe roll her eyes from her spot at the table. She tried to push her hair back with her forearm and ended up covering her nose in flour. “Yep, it looks like sour dough this time.”
CeCe could hear both men laugh at her morning routine. It wasn’t her fault she wanted the diner to have fresh bread every morning. “Put him on speaker,” she ordered while thrusting her hands back into the blob of dough.
Evan shrugged and didn’t put the phone on speaker. “Sure thing. We’ll get everything ready to go. See you soon.” He disconnected and put her phone back on the table. Evan’s blue gaze finally met CeCe’s, and he smiled. The guy had an unnerving ability to disarm her with just one of his goofy grins. Darn him.
“I could have taken that, you know.” She huffed, turning her face down to her work.
Undeterred, Evan walked over to the sink and washed his hands. Within a minute, he donned an apron and started cracking eggs for the breakfast rush. “I know, but watching you flail around entertains me,” he said, smiling through his egg cracking.
“Ugh.” CeCe grumbled as she formed loaves of bread and covered them in a towel to rise. No matter her mood, CeCe trusted the bread-making process. Life was complicated, but she knew that flour, yeast, water, and salt made terrific bread every time. “What’s his excuse this time?”
Evan pulled down a few frying pans from above the stove and lined them up by the grill. “Does he need an excuse? He’s been with Ginny every waking moment since Christmas.” There was no malice or accusation in Evan’s tone; the kid was a born romantic.
Their boss, and friend, had finally gotten his ex-wife back over the holidays. While it was certainly heartwarming, it threw their usually predictable boss off his game and into the arms of love. Sure, Max was still devoted to the diner, but he’d found the work-life balance he’d been missing for years.
“No. You’re right. He doesn’t need an excuse.” CeCe wiped her hands clean on a towel and started icing a tray of cinnamon rolls. The rolls were still warm, and the cream cheese icing oozed into the cinnamon swirls. Like clockwork, Evan joined her side and leaned in for a closer look. His eyes practically sparkled as she handed him the pallet knife. “You can have the rest, but don’t eat it near the counter.”
Evan scoffed, but took the proffered knife. “I’m not a kid. I know not to drool over the customer’s food.” He took his prize and backed away to the sink in the corner. CeCe attempted to ignore the sinful noises Evan made as he licked the knife clean.
Pulling at the collar of her tunic, CeCe tried to cool herself down. “Must be the ovens,” she muttered as she ambled into the walk-in fridge for the rest of the breakfast ingredients. As she opened the door with an armful of trays, Evan was there to take them. He reached out and took the load without even a grunt, carefully placing everything on the counter. “Thanks,” CeCe said as she handed him the second round of trays.
Following a familiar routine, the pair stood side by side at the counter and chopped, mixed, and prepped what they needed for breakfast. CeCe used to do this routine with Max, but Evan had been taking more of an interest in cooking over the last year.
CeCe had been at the diner for nearly four years, the longest she’d ever been at one job. She was weeks away from her thirtieth birthday, and she wasn’t too proud to say it was getting to her. Time never meant much to CeCe, who traveled around the Midwest finding kitchens where she could use her pastry chef diploma. A stint in Chicago, and a stop in Ohio’s three-C’s, and CeCe had somehow found her peace in the small Ohio town of Buckeye Falls.
The peace of their morning prep work was interrupted when Helen, their waitress, barged in through the backdoor. “Did you see?” she practically shouted as she ran over to the counter, the local paper clutched in her meaty hand.
Evan hurriedly moved a bowl of eggs to the side so Helen could thrust the paper onto the counter and slapped her hand over the headline. “What’s up?” Evan asked, craning his neck to see what all the fuss was about. Helen was usually more sour than excitable.
“He’s coming to Buckeye Falls this summer for a food competition,” Helen exclaimed; her excitement was contagious until CeCe finally saw the ‘he’ in question.
Glancing down at the paper, CeCe felt her hands go clammy as she dropped her whisk. It clattered across the floor and landed next to Evan’s sneakered feet. Without saying a word, he retrieved it and tossed it in the sink. He pulled another whisk from the utensil holder and tried handing it to CeCe, but she was lost in a slew of emotions.