I should seriously run for president.
The door chimes as I step inside the bakery, the scent of sugar now mingling with the aromatics wafting from the four coffees in my hand. With an exhaustive sigh, I set the cardboard carrier on the glass display case, followed by my bag and the design binder.
Dylan perks up from behind the counter when she sees the latter.
“There it is! You know I tore this place apart this weekend looking for that? What the hell, Brooke?”
I flatten my hands on the glass, then hesitantly nudge the binder. “I, uh, did some reorganizing. I hope that’s okay.”
Her face remains expressionless. I take in a shallow breath.
Rule number one of life: Don’t piss off your employer, especially if that employer happens to be Dylan Carroll. She’s been known to go a little slap happy.
Moving closer, she flips back the cover, then a few more pages, running her finger along the edge of the new font. Silently judging, meticulously studying every alteration I’ve made. She halts at the back where the testimonial section begins.
I wipe a hand across my brow, relieved when I don’t feel the sweat I fear I’m releasing.
“Mm.”
I lean closer, staring at her mouth, the small crinkle in her nose. “Mm?”
God, why the hell didn’t I ask permission first? Could she fire me over this?
After what feels like the longest seconds of my life, she looks up at me, narrows her eyes, then smiles. “I love it. Brooke, this is . . . surprisingly thoughtful of you.”
My mouth falls open. Surprisingly? “Hey, I’m thoughtful! I do stuff for other people all the time. Take last week when Ryan wanted that Elsa dress and Reese was on the brink of losing his ever-loving mind looking for it. Who stepped in and saved the day? Huh? Who almost got arrested at Target? You?”
She laughs, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear. “I know. I’m just kidding.”
My spine straightens with pride as I pluck my coffee out of the carrier. “Well, you’re welcome. I’ll take that raise whenever you’re ready.”
She cocks her head with a glare. I take a step back. Easy, Rocky.
The door chimes, followed immediately by Joey’s booming morning voice.
One volume. The man has one volume.
He hooks his thumb over his cashmere covered shoulder in the direction of the window. “Did you see the yoga studio across the street? What is that mess about?”
“Not just yoga,” I correct him. “Hot yoga. Lots of sweaty women with camel toe, being forced into ungodly positions.”
Joey makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Sounds like somebody’s high school years.”
“Yours?” Dylan throws out, resting her hands on her swollen belly. “Didn’t you wear an alarming amount of spandex back then?”
Joey spins the carrier on the display case, tugging out the cup with his name scrolled on the side. “I’ll ignore that jab, since you’re carrying Joey Jr.”
“His name isn’t Joey Jr.”
“What?” Alarmed eyes flick between myself and Dylan. “Okay . . . Joseph? I’m fine with that.”
“I’m afraid not.”
I smile against my cup. “Excellent. We’ve settled on Brookes then? Suck on that, McDermott.”
Joey glares at me over the top of his cup. I glare right back, laughing a little.
Dylan gently sighs. “Sorry. We’re going with Blake. That’s the name we both like.”
“Who’s we?” Joey squawks, his face suddenly two shades redder. “I don’t remember that name being on the table for discussion. And I definitely don’t remember receiving a phone call, asking my opinion before you started getting shit engraved.”
“Why do I need to call you? And engraved? Really, Joey? Who got anything engraved?”
A soft noise comes from the kitchen, followed by the familiar quick tapping of tiny feet on tile.
Joey sweeps his free hand around the shop. “I’m sure there’s something around here with that name already on it. Is it possible to fill out the birth certificate before the birth? Has Reese figured out how to do that?”
“Joey.” Dylan exhales exhaustively. “Fucking relax, all right? You haven’t heard the middle name yet.”
“Momma!”
Ryan comes barreling into the shop, her dirty blonde hair pulled up into two little sprouts on top of her head. Wearing a polka-dot dress and rainbow tights, she bounces up and down behind the counter, her hands grasping at the air.
“Momma, wook! Wook at my pwetty dwess.”
Dylan laughs, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “You look so pretty, baby. Did Daddy let you pick out your clothes?”
“Uh, huh. Wook. My shoes, Momma. I wove dem.”
I risk a glance at Joey, catching the quick work of his finger along his cheek, no doubt catching a tear.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, stepping closer as the tiny voice continues to shout up at her mother.
He hesitates, then gives me a sly smile, mischief dancing in his crystal blue eyes. “Middle name. Did you hear? Suck on that, Wicks.”