Drive Me Wild - Melanie Harlow Page 0,88

Blair, and I didn’t need it.

I already had one hanging in my closet.

Twenty-Two

Blair

I could not have asked for a better start to my new life.

My carriage house apartment was adorable, fully furnished, and perfectly sized for one person. Frannie’s parents, John and Daphne Sawyer, could not have been nicer or more welcoming. The evening I arrived, they insisted I join them for dinner along with Frannie’s family. On Sunday, I was invited to supper again, and I got to meet all five Sawyer sisters, their significant others, and Frannie’s niece and nephews.

They were a huge, loving, noisy bunch, and they made me feel right at home.

But something was missing. I felt like I’d left a piece of me behind.

It wasn’t that I was unhappy—I wasn’t. I just missed him. I wanted to hear how he was doing. Was business picking up at the garage? Were people excited about the anniversary event? Did anyone ask about me? Had they won their old man baseball game?

More importantly, did he ever think of me? Did he lie awake remembering things we’d said and done? Did he regret pushing me away?

Or was he happier being alone?

The unanswerable questions tortured me endlessly.

Thankfully, I had work to distract me, and I threw myself into making a fresh start with everything I had.

The coffee shop opened at seven, and I’d arrive by six, turn on the oven, throw on my apron, put my hair up with a bandana, and get to work. Frannie’s kitchen actually had windows, which was amazing because many kitchens can feel like dungeons.

The morning routine, performed like a ballet while the sun came up, was comforting to me. First, I’d pull the yeast doughs from the cooler. While they were proofing, I’d start the scones. Frannie and I had discussed the menu and decided on two batches of sweet and one savory each day.

While the scones were in the oven, I’d fill the case up front with items made the day before—cakes, shortbread, galette, strata. At this point, I’d often enjoy a quick cup of coffee, inhaling the scent of baking scones and my favorite dark roast with a little cream. Frannie would arrive by seven to greet customers, and I loved hearing them ask who the new baker was and compliment my pastries.

The break didn’t last long, though, because there were cookies to bake, dough to make, questions to answer about specific ingredients because of allergies, and the occasional introduction to a happy customer who wanted to meet me. I was always hustling to keep the cases filled and rarely got a lunch break, but that was okay. Being busy meant less time for my mind to wander toward Bellamy Creek.

By three o’clock, I’d be dead on my feet, and Frannie would try to shoo me home. “Go,” she’d say. “You open, I close. Remember?”

But I didn’t mind staying to help her close up, and we often ended up having one last cup of coffee and chatting at the long marble counter.

I really did love the job, and I was so grateful to Frannie for giving me the opportunity.

But that tug on my heart refused to leave me be.

If only it wasn’t trying to pull me back where I wasn’t wanted.

One afternoon a week after I’d arrived, Frannie poked her head into the kitchen just after closing and smiled. “Hey. You have a visitor.”

“I do?” Immediately I thought of Griffin—he knew where the coffee shop was, after all—but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Still, I brushed some flour from my apron and tightened the bandana knot on the top of my head.

But when I walked out, it was Cheyenne I saw.

“Hey stranger,” she said with a grin.

“Cheyenne!” Excited to see her, I flew around the counter and hugged her. “What a great surprise! It’s so good to see you.”

“You too. How are you?”

“I’m good. Busy.”

“Frannie said things are going well here.”

“She’s amazingly talented,” said Frannie, who was wiping down the glass cases.

My cheeks warmed, and I tucked my hands into my apron pockets. “I really love it here. The shop is great, the people are so nice, and Frannie’s family has been wonderful.”

“She’s like an honorary Sawyer sister already,” joked Frannie. “My dad can’t get enough of her southern comfort strata. I think he’s been in here every day this week for lunch!”

Cheyenne smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

“How’s your family?” I asked.

“Well, my mother still isn’t speaking to me, and Griffin isn’t speaking much to anybody.”

“Why isn’t your mother speaking to