Hello everyone! This is the first of a multi-part series loosely based on a years-long crush I had at my first job. TW for dubious consent. Enjoy!
1.
My fingers drum idly on the cold metal top of the refrigerated confection display. The whole thing shines cleanly. It's a slow day in the beginning of August, and my boss is gone fishing. This time of year almost everyone in town goes down to the lake or up to the ocean. The really rich folks have houses right on the water that they spend a couple weeks at. Noelle invited me up to spend the long weekend there with the rest of the gang, but I can barely afford the rent on the tiny bungalow on the edge of the Grishams' property as it is--so here I am. We've had three customers all day and the late afternoon sun is already shining hot and gold and lazy through the windows. I decided to play Cinderella for the day. I spent an hour and a half digging layers of grime out of the grout. But now everything in the bakery is clean as it could be except the bottoms of my sneakers.
I gaze at my reflection in the glass of the display case. I read somewhere that checking your appearance in reflections a lot is a sign of narcissism, or insecurity, or both, but I'm the only thing here that's not made of glass or chrome or sugar. The way my work pants balloon out around me reminds me of one of those Italian clowns.
I hitch some of the fabric of my apron up around my waist and tie it tight. It's better, I guess.
The door beeper rings, snapping me out of my reverie. It's Arnold. Arnold is a handyman, and somewhat of a neighborhood celebrity. You name it, he can fix it. He's probably about forty five and he's worked with his hands for a long time. It shows. His grease stained white t-shirt and cargo pants are baggy, but I can still make out lean, taut muscles in his back and his thick, veiny forearms.
"How are you today, Miss Sara?" He asks. His voice is low and smooth. My smile widens involuntarily at the sound of my name on his lips.
"Bored as hell," I reply candidly. Arnold's one of those customers you can say just about anything to and they won't tattle on you. I roll my eyes heavenwards and flop onto the counter.
"Did you just die of boredom?" He laughs. I nod my head and giggle again. I'm acting foolish, like I do whenever he's around.
I realize I've been laughing for too long and rest my hands awkwardly on the counter, clearing my throat.
"Can I get you something?" I ask, tucking a loose ringlet of hair behind my ear.
He rests his hand next to mine, leaning his weight on the counter. My heart jumps a little bit, and I chastise myself for being so silly. He really is handsome, especially for his age. His jaw is firm, and his eyes glow warmly underneath a strong brow.
"Three snickerdoodles, please."
I raise my eyebrow but punch in his order. Usually, Arnold would get a cup of coffee and a slice of cake before he started his work. Snickerdoodles are not in his normal order rotation.
I hand him his bag. "Snickerdoodles, huh?"
"I already had coffee," he says, stuffing the bag of cookies into one of his large pockets.
"Sounds like you just needed an excuse to come see me," I say. It's half joke, half hope. Arnold seems sort of pure to me. Not quite churchy, but safe.
But then he grins a big grin and I realize he sort of looks like a wolf.
"Maybe I did." His voice is low, conspiratorial. This time my laugh is less of a giggle and more of a nervous, high pitched titter. The oven starts beeping and I'm jolted back into work mode.
"Muffins." I mumble it like it's a curse and excuse myself.
I switch the oven off, swiftly opening the door and grabbing the pan before remembering things that come out of ovens are often quite hot.
"Fuck!" I let go of the pan and a wave of heat, and then freezing cold, passes over me. In slow motion, I watch my beautiful blueberry yogurt muffins tumble to the floor.
"You alright back there?"
"I'm okay," I whimper in response. I feel like an idiot. I've worked here for two years and I forget I need a fucking oven mitt to pull things out of the oven. Christ alive. I realize the timer is still beeping obnoxiously, so I reach up and smack it off with my palm. A thrill of white-hot pain stabs through my hand and radiates up my arm. I make a horrible sound--like a wounded bird. Upon inspection, both of my hands are burned, bad, but the left one is worse than the right. White blisters have already started forming on my palm, which is beet red and seems to have developed a pulse all its own.
"Oh shit."
I jump at the sound of his voice so close.
"You are not supposed to be back here." My tone is joking, but my smile falters. My hands really do hurt. Arnold tuts and squats down next to me.
"Now, how'd you manage to do that?" It's not mean at all, the way he says it, soft and concerned and almost paternal, but still I'm embarrassed.
"I grabbed the muffins and I burned my hands." My eyes are fixed on the ground in front of me. Thirty once-lovely muffins, ruined because I can't keep my head straight.
Arnold laughs a loud, booming laugh that echoes against the walls. "You make it sound like somebody died."
"Somebody might as well have. Mr. Fisher is going to ream me out. He might even fire me. I mean, that's at least fifty dollars worth of product on the floor because I forgot to use oven mitts and I really should know better, and..." I realize I'm babbling. I shrug, defeated.
Arnold sinks down next to me on the floor. He puts one large hand on my shoulder. "I'll buy the muffins." He smiles a little.
"They're on the floor!"
"You don't have to give me the muffins. I'll just buy them."
"Why would you buy muffins you can't have?"
"I'll buy the damn muffins." This time he sounds final, and a little impatient. I glance at him, then my eyes drop back to the floor.
"Thank you," I say. My voice is small. When I look back up, Arnold has pulled his cell phone out.
"What--" he holds one finger up and winks at me. A brief pause, and then someone picks up on the other end.
"Henry!" Arnold's voice is full of that false enthusiasm men give to each other sometimes. With his free hand he takes me by the elbow and gently guides me to the sink and turns the cold tap. Another pause. "Yeah--yeah, I heard you were down fishing with Carl and them. Yup--sorry, I know those fish get jumpy. My apologies but--" Arnold looks at me knowingly and rolls his eyes. I smile sheepishly back at him. The water stings and then soothes my tender palms. Then, with some authority: "I hear you buddy, but listen. I'm down here at the shop with Sara, and she's burned her hands up really bad and--no she ain't drop anything, matter of fact I bought up all those blueberry muffins, I have some family coming in, you know, but I guess she musta been in a hurry to get that oven door closed and I was distracting her, you know how I like to talk." he winks again. "So I was wondering--damn near half the town is out on vacation and all, I don't expect you'll get much more business the rest of the day, so maybe I can take Sara home." There's a pause on the other end. I look up at him, wide-eyed. "Thank you much, sir. Uh-huh. Yep. Alright, I'll let him know. Alright. Uh-huh. Y'all take care."
And with that, he's on his feet.
"Did you just call me out of work?" I call after him, bewildered.
"Uh-huh."
I hear the ding of the front door bell. I sit there trying to figure out how I'll get the mess cleaned up in my current state, mourning my previously spotless grout, and the door dings again. The lock clicks.
"God, I hope that's you," I yell. I get a low chuckle in response, and Arnold walks back through the swinging doors with a first aid kit in his hand. He sets it down on top of the refrigerator. Then, in one fluid motion, he clears the space between us, grabs me under the arms and hoists me to my feet. For a moment, his firm torso is pressed against my back. My breath catches in my throat. Between my legs, I feel a new kind of pulse. My face is hot.
"Alright, darlin'. First things first. Does it hurt too bad?"
"No...yeah, it's pretty bad." Looking at the raw flesh on my palms makes me feel a little queasy.
"Well, that means it's not third degree at least, if you can still feel it." He's at the counter now, rifling around in his kit. He pulls out a squarish brown bottle of iodine, gauze, medical tape, ointment, and a tiny pair of scissors. He glances over at me.
"Sit." He jerks his head toward the small table in the corner of the main floor. I step over the mess of baked goods and perch on the edge of a finished wood chair, palms up. He places everything neatly on the table, then pulls a chair up next to me and unscrews the cap of the brown bottle. I recoil.
