I hold up a hand. “I can sign for the order.”

“It all needs to go in the fridge.”

“I can make sure that happens.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He drops a key to The Knight Cap in my hand and pulls me in for a shockingly tight hug. “Thank you so much, Blaire. I really owe you big time. I always enjoy seeing you, even when you’re tearing me a new one. I gotta run. Thank you. A million times over.” And he’s off.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter and head back to B&B to start on the icing for today’s cupcakes.

Forty-five minutes later the delivery truck shows up. I’m in the middle of a particularly tricky caramel filling and Paul is on his way out so he accepts the delivery—which I ask him to sign for—and makes sure it’s safely in the fridge before he takes off.

chapter nine

Not the Payback I was Looking For

Blaire

Even though B&B isn’t open on Thanksgiving, I still head into the shop first thing in the morning. I need to frost the cupcakes for my family’s dinner and all my supplies are there. Plus I want to drop off yesterday’s unsold goods at the local soup kitchen, along with any other treats that won’t be fresh by tomorrow. Usually one of their staff comes to pick them up, but they couldn’t make it yesterday and I figured it was easier for me to do the dropping off on the way out of town.

I’m surprised to see Ronan in the back alley outside The Knight Cap. He usually isn’t in until sometime after ten, and it’s barely eight thirty. He’s pacing as he talks on the phone, his tone clipped and annoyed. He’s not wearing his usual plaid-and-jeans uniform, either. Today he’s in a pair of gray sweats and a hoodie, his hair is a mess, again, and he has a serious five-o’clock shadow going on. He’s wearing his glasses, like he rolled out of bed and came straight here. Amazingly, he still manages to look delicious.

“Well what the hell am I supposed to do now?” He spins around and stalks back into The Knight Cap.

Looks like it’s his turn to be in a mood.

I’m about to go back inside, but a tired-looking Lars steps out and sags against the wall, cringing when Ronan’s loud, angry voice filters through the gap in the door.

“What’s going on?”

He startles and holds his finger to his lips. “I’m hiding.”

“Why are you here this early?”

“Because I was supposed to help with food prep and get double pay today, but it looks like that’s not happening.”

Ronan comes busting out into the back alley again and the door nearly hits Lars in the face, but his reaction time is at least decent, because he manages to get out of the way before the steel connects with his nose.

“What the fuck am I going to do?” Ronan grabs his hair and kicks the giant metal trash bin.

I’ve never seen Ronan anything but calm. “Are you okay?” I ask, even though it’s very obvious that he’s definitely not okay.

“No!” He throws his hands in the air. “I’m not fucking okay!”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Unless you can magically thaw twenty-five damn Cornish game hens in the next three hours, then no.”

A sinking feeling hits me. I let Paul sign for the order yesterday and then I got busy with customers. It was nonstop all day. “Oh my God. Is this my fault? Did they go in the freezer instead of the fridge?”

Ronan’s brow furrows. “What? No. The freaking company I ordered from messed it up. I ordered fresh Cornish game hens and they brought me frozen ones and a bunch of cans of damn pie filling instead of pie.”

“Oh no! I hope they’re giving you your money back.” I can’t even imagine what it would do to my bank account if something like that happened to me.

“Yeah, but that’s not going to help me tonight. Now all I have to serve for Thanksgiving is potatoes, stuffing, and freaking vegetables.”

He paces the alley, hands still in his hair. I try not to ogle his tattoos, or the way his jogging pants do a great job of hugging his butt, but it’s a challenge.

“What if we put them in a cold water bath?” I suggest.

“They’re rock solid. It’ll take at least six hours and then we’d still have to prep and cook them. I spent eleven damn hours in a car yesterday so I could be open on Thanksgiving and this is what I get. I should’ve checked last night.” He scrubs his face with both hands. “Lars, you might as well go home. Enjoy the day off.”

“We could do wings or something,” he offers.

“It’s Thanksgiving. People don’t want wings. They want a proper dinner, and we don’t have one. We don’t even have a dessert to serve. There just really isn’t a point.”

“Sorry, Ronan. I know you had big plans for today.”

He waves him off. “It’s fine. It’s not your fault.”

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” Lars takes a step toward the door.

“Yeah. Thanks for coming in early. I know you’d rather be sleeping.”

Lars leaves and Ronan slips his hands in his pockets and drops his head with a sigh.

I feel awful for him. Thanksgiving can be a good opportunity to make money, if you have the food to serve. “Do you need any help with anything?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Nah. Guess I’m gonna sit on the couch and watch football today.”

“Why don’t you come over and I’ll make you a boozy coffee.” I incline my head toward B&B. It’s really the least I can do.

He blows out a breath. “Yeah, sure. Why not? It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

I’d be offended, but I don’t think it’s a personal attack, more that he’s upset about the sudden and unexpected crappy turn his day took.

I make us both special lattes, his spiked with booze, mine not since I have some baking to do. “I need to frost some cupcakes. If you’re interested in hanging around, you can be my taste tester.”

“Uh sure, yeah. I could do that.”

I lead him to the kitchen and set him up with a stool. I pull the naked cupcakes from the fridge so they have time to warm up, don a hairnet—hygiene before vanity—wash my hands and slip out of my heels and into a pair of flats before I get the rest of the ingredients out.

“Do you need any help?”

“Nope. You’re good to just hang out and drink coffee. I’m sorry about the delivery. We had a busy day yesterday and I let Paul accept it. I didn’t even check what it was.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. I didn’t tell you what was supposed to be delivered and I should’ve checked everything last night, but that drive was hell. There was an accident on the way back and it took seven hours instead of four, which is already long enough, you know? I just didn’t plan this as well as I should have. Rookie mistake, I guess.”

“You can always do a post-Thanksgiving dinner this weekend, can’t you? Maybe on Saturday you can do a Cornish game hen special?” I tie my apron and set up the industrial mixer so I can work on the buttercream.