of more to come. The girls will be happy if we get a good snowfall before Christmas. They love sledding in Central Park.
I round the red shiny truck to the back door and knock sharply three times.
No sounds of movement from within.
Maybe she’s avoiding me again.
But then she opens the door and I step back in surprise.
“Oh, it’s you.” She wipes her hands on a bright orange dishtowel and considers me with a scowl. “I thought maybe this time you called your momma on me when your cop buddy wasn’t enough.”
“That would be quite the feat for me to accomplish.”
“Why?”
“My mother passed five years ago.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She peers over my head out the door. “It’s fixing to snow. You better—,” she eyeballs me and then comes to a decision, “—come in before you catch your death.”
I step into a gentle heat that smells like vanilla and sugar. I glance around the space. My first thought is warm and cozy. And clean. There’s a double oven on one side with a coffee/tea set up and storage for food and supplies. She’s not wearing her apron and I locate it hanging on the back of the door I came through.
She turns away, wiping down an already clean counter. “What did you want?”
“Just wondering if tomorrow’s special will be as interesting as the one from the other day.”
“I don’t know, you’ll have to find out from your spies.” She turns around, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back against the counter.
“I’ve got some suggestions, actually.”
“This should be good.”
“What about, ‘Guy Chapman has impeccable apple creme cinnamon buns’?”
“Not sure it would sell. You’re lucky all I’ve done is name a cupcake after you, considering what you pulled.”
I shrug it off. “It was just a cop. Would you rather I called the health inspector?”
She turns around to face me, her shoulders tense. “Do your worst. I have all my permits and I follow code to the letter.”
I glance around, frowning in judgment, a move that normally makes people nervous. Scarlett isn’t deterred, and watches me in stony silence.
I try a different tact, taking a step closer in the small space so we’re only a couple feet apart. “You know this is all giving me even more publicity. Thanks for helping me out.”
She scowls. “If it was really helping you out, you wouldn’t be here harassing me.”
“I’m not harassing you. I’m just here to talk to a neighbor. Being neighborly. Maybe I need a cup of sugar.”
“This is intimidation tactics.” She points at me. “I know your methods. And you’re sending your spies over here and sampling my goods.”
“Sampling your goods?” I lift a brow. I only wish I could sample a bite of any part of her. The small taste the other night was not enough.
I freeze at the thought. Where did that come from? I absolutely cannot sample any of her goods, not that she would offer again.
But I can’t stop staring. There’s bit of something on her collarbone, a swipe of flour, and it inexplicably makes me want to bite her, right there. What kind of sound would she make if I did?
“Did you eat it?” she asks, after a too long silence.
I blink. What were we talking about? “Eat what?”
“One of my cupcakes.”
I cross my arms over my chest, mimicking her pose across the small space. “I did.”
Her mouth pops open. “You did?”
“It was too dry. The cayenne in the frosting was okay, but it might be better if you used cardamom instead.”
She turns away, fumbling with a mixer on the counter. “You’re full of it. That cake was perfect.”
I lean over, moving quickly before she turns around again and drop the eggs into the pocket of her apron hanging at the door.
I step back quickly, just before she faces me, except I came back a bit too far and we’re even closer now in the confined space.
“Is anything ever perfect?” It’s all I’ve ever cared about, and yet “perfect” is never quite as fulfilling as it seems like it would be.
She’s staring up at me, her eyes large, pupils dilated. She swallows and I watch the delicate bones of her throat move.
“Why are you here? Did you come over to try and intimidate me?”
“Is it working?”
“No. You’re just making me want to best you even more.”
“What are you going to do? Will you name another cupcake after me?” I want to see her eyes spark again.
“I think the idea of butt-flavored cake has worn out its welcome. I can