“Going in?” he barked, nodding at the door that I now realized I was blocking.
“Oh,” I said. “Right.” I pulled the door open, holding it for the man, who grunted in response as he made his way inside. I was about to just close the door and head back to meet my dad when curiosity got the best of me. Also, I could feel the air conditioning from the doorway and smell that wonderful bakery smell—freshly baked bread and buttercream icing. I stepped inside, letting the door slam behind me.
It was cool and darker inside, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust after the brightness of the street. I could see, as things came into focus, two small wooden tables with matching chairs by the windows, and a glass-topped counter that ran almost the width of the shop. Pastries and cookies were displayed beneath it, and behind the counter was a baker’s rack stacked with the bread that I had been able to smell from the street. My stomach grumbled again, and I started thinking that maybe I would get something small, just to tide me over until lunch.
There was nobody behind the counter, and the man in the Phillies cap didn’t seem too pleased about that, as he kept whacking the small silver bell on the counter loudly, in between mutterings about shoddy service. I took a step closer to check out what looked like a raspberry coffee cake, when I noticed, lying on the glass-topped counter, a pencil across it, that morning’s Pocono Record, folded to the crossword section. I took another step closer, trying to see if this person had had any more luck that I had with 19 across. As I leaned over, the man whacked the bell once more, hard, and a voice came from the back.
“Just a moment!” the voice called. “Be right with you.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” the man muttered, turning to me for agreement. But I had frozen in place. It was a voice I recognized. I glanced at the door, wondering if I had enough time to make it out without being spotted. I was thinking that I just might, when the metal door behind the counter swung open and Henry stepped out.
chapter eight
HENRY JUST STARED AT ME, AND I LOOKED BACK INTO HIS GREEN eyes, feeling the sudden urge to break into hysterical laughter, because it was beginning to seem like I couldn’t turn around in Lake Phoenix without running into him. The man looked between us, frowned again, and whacked the bell once more.
This seemed to snap Henry into action. “Sorry about that,” he said quickly, as the man harrumphed. “What can I get you?”
“Been waiting out here,” the man grumbled. Now that he had someone to wait on him, rather than ordering, he appeared to want to use his time to complain about the lack of service.
“Sorry about that,” Henry repeated, with the exact same inflection, and I could feel myself start to smile. To hide this, I bent down to look in the case, where there were rows of small iced cookies, cannoli, and brownies. But only half my attention was on the (admittedly delicious-looking) desserts. I snuck a glance at Henry as he nodded, appearing to listen as the man vented at him. He was wearing a light green T-shirt with his jeans. It had the Borrowed Thyme logo in black across the front and a dusting of flour on one shoulder. I realized I was surprised to see him working there, which was fairly ridiculous, since I clearly knew nothing about him now. But when I’d known him before—and seeing him in the woods had confirmed this—Henry had always seemed most comfortable outside. And on the rare occasions over the last few years when I let my thoughts drift back to Lake Phoenix and the people I’d left up there, I’d always imagined Henry doing something outdoors.
The ding of the register brought me back to the present, as Henry handed the man his change and slid a green bakery box across the counter. “Thanks,” he said, his tone still blandly professional. “Have a nice day.”
“Yeah,” the man grumbled, taking the box and heading out of the shop. It wasn’t until I turned back to the counter that I realized it was just me and Henry, alone in the bakery.
I looked at him, then down at my outfit, wishing for the second time that day that I had pulled myself together a little bit more. But then I dismissed the thought. He’d already seen me straight out of bed, scratched up in the woods. And anyway, it seemed like Henry had some blond girlfriend. Not that I cared about that.
“So,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I think we should stop meeting like this.”
“Do you work here?” I asked, then immediately cursed myself for my stupidity. Of course he worked there. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be standing behind the counter, waiting on irascible Phillies fans. “I mean,” I corrected immediately, trying to make it sound as little like a question as possible, “you work here.”