Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“From the game?” I ask, wanting to make sure I’m understanding his question. Now and then, we’re thoughtful with each other, rather than dickheads.
“Yeah, but also just from having had such a good career,” he says earnestly.
Ah. The pressure of time. He’s a little younger than I am, so it’s understandable he’d ask me that. “I do,” I admit.
“How do you handle it?”
I’m not sure my answer will help him. “I bake.”
He laughs, then drags a hand through his hair. “I should have known better.”
I sigh, giving his question more thought. “But I also use positive self-talk, you know?”
He nods, clearly listening, since we’ve all been to the group meetings with team psychologists where they talk about this topic. “I tell myself I’m an excellent hockey player. And then I act like it. I tell myself I can handle the game, the promotion, my family, and then I fucking do it.”
He leans back against the cushy, vegan leather seat like he’s absorbing that. “Makes sense.”
He’s quiet for a beat, blowing out a heavy breath.
“Are you stressed?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m like a Dane.”
I furrow my brow. “What?”
“The Danish people. They’re one of the least stressed people in the world. After Monaco, Lichtenstein, Switzerland, and a few other countries.”
“Okay, but you’re not like a Dane, you are a Dane. Isn’t your family from Denmark?”
“My mom is. But I guess that explains my chill,” he says with a grin, then grabs his headphones.
He shoves them on, then toggles through playlists on his phone till his screen shows an image of rain gently falling on a glass pane.
Huh, maybe that’s his stress relief. I suppose we all have to have something.
Me?
I look up recipes on my tablet. I plan out new things I want to bake. I make a schedule to buy ingredients.
And I imagine Mabel biting into a pretty pink cupcake, frosting catching on the corner of her lips.
I picture her taking a bite of a lemon shortcake and making a sinful sound.
I see her dipping her finger into cake batter and sucking it off.
And I have to smother a groan.
I do not need to get turned on while we’re flying home.
I close my eyes and try not to think of her, but she’s there, in the bakery, wearing only an apron. She’s in my kitchen, sitting on the counter, asking me what my favorite thing to bake is.
She’s letting her hair down at the end of a long day, shaking it out, then asking me to rub her neck. And I do, while I kiss the back of it, then down her body till she’s—
Stop.
Just stop.
But when I open my eyes, Theo’s standing by our row. “Nice game tonight.”
I blink off the filthy thoughts.
“Thanks, man,” I say, then shift gears, stat. “How’s it going with the GM job?”
He raps on the back of the seat in front of Riggs even though it’s made of plastic. “Good. Knock on wood.”
“Glad to hear,” I say as the plane hums quietly while hurtling through the night sky.
“What about you and Afternoon Delight? It’s clearly not distracting you from the game,” he says.
“It’s not,” I say, but then I drop the subject because I don’t want to let on that the bakery’s not the distraction.
His sister is, and she plays on a loop in my mind—a loop that is driving me mad since I don’t do loops. I don’t have obsessions. I don’t lose my head over a woman. I never thought this much about Sarah, not about the women I dated after her, and not even about Eliza. Everything with Eliza was comfortable, compartmentalized, easy.
This? There’s nothing easy about the way I can’t stop thinking about Mabel.
But I made a promise not to go there again, and I’m going to keep that promise the second time around.
Not for Theo. Not because he’s her brother. But for me, and for her, and the dream we’re both chasing together.
I invite her brother to grab the empty seat next to me, and we shoot the breeze the rest of the flight, playing cards, talking shit, and having a good time. That helps, too, with my promise.
The next day, I pick up Charlotte from school, and my mind is fixed firmly on being a dad. When she slides into the car, she says, “I just got an email that our volunteer application for the animal shelter was accepted. The one Mabel told us about. We could do that together soon. Isn’t it going to be great?”
“It sure is,” I say, half wishing she hadn’t brought up Mabel, but half grateful, too, that it’s not my fault this time when my mind wanders to the woman I work with.
Besides, I’m good at what I do. I can handle it all. I can definitely handle it.
21
THAT LITTLE BAKERY