“Jesus!” Muffins shot off the tray in a desperate attempt to escape, landing on the floor. Joe gazed down at the little scattered breads, lips pursed. “I dropped my muffins.”
“Man, I’m so sorry.” Tom quickly got to cleaning up the mess. “I’ll help you bake some more.” He tried not to laugh at the truly leery expression on Joe’s face. As if Tom had suggested they secretly use his baked goods as a means to smuggle illegal contraband out of the country.
After a quick shake of his head to snap himself out of it, Joe smacked Tom’s hand away. “Stop sneaking up on me like that, and maybe I’ll let you help. Hopefully, the extent of your culinary prowess is better than Donnie’s.”
Having collected what was left of the rogue baked goods, Joe stood and Tom followed him over to the large wooden table in the center of the kitchen where Joe replaced his food gloves with new ones.
“I take it the kid’s not the greatest cook,” Tom said. Not that he was any kind of expert himself. Or was he? Something told him he did okay, but wasn’t really any kind of chef. He loved food as much as the next guy, but the thought of sweating away over a hot stove didn’t appeal to him.
“Have you ever seen bread spontaneously combust?” Joe asked casually. Tom shook his head. “Well, I have. I tell you, it’s heartbreaking. I’m still trying to figure out how he did it.”
Tom laughed, leaning his elbows on the table only to get a light smack on the arm.
“I prepare food on here. Go wash up to your elbows. And stop with the face.”
Rubbing his arm as if it was sore, Tom’s brows rose inquisitively. “What face?”
“That face.” Joe pushed the tip of his index finger against the end of Tom’s nose, his eyes narrowed. “The puppy face.”
“I have a puppy face?” Somehow he was pretty sure puppy was not a term often associated with him. Tom tried not to let too much of his amusement show. Joe would probably whack him again. He cleared his throat and nodded very somberly. “I’ll uh, keep that in mind.”
Deciding it was best to let Joe get on with whatever he was doing, Tom did as Joe asked and washed. When he was done, he pulled a stool over to the end of the table, content to just watch until he was given something specific to do. He noticed the multitude of ingredients scattered about. He would never have guessed it took all that to make a pie. There was flour, brown sugar, lemon juice, a collection of little bottles that appeared to be extracts, smaller containers with powders of which Tom could distinctly smell cinnamon—a scent he was coming to associate with Joe and loving more every minute. There were scores of different sized ceramic bowls and wooden utensils. To one side of Joe was a piecrust he must have made while Tom was asleep, and in front of him a big bowl of red fruitiness.
“What’s that?” Tom asked curiously.
“This is the filling for my cherry pie.” Joe’s smile lit the room, and Tom smiled too. Though lately, he seemed to always find himself smiling. It felt… nice.
“Is that your favorite?”
Joe stared at him. “How’d you know that?”
“You have a big, sappy grin on your face.”
“As opposed to the big, sappy one on yours?” Joe snorted, mixing his cherry filling. “I offer three different pies a day. Today is Thursday, so it’s cherry, chocolate cream, and blackberry. Fridays is lemon, banana cream, and peanut butter. Saturdays it’s caramel with pecan, strawberry, and key lime. Sundays we’re closed. Mondays we have pecan, cranberry with apple, and blueberry. Tuesdays it’s apple, lemon meringue, and peach. Wednesdays we have apple and cinnamon, coconut cream, and pear. All the pies for today have already been made and are being eaten as we speak. This is for later. As soon as I’m done, we’ll go downstairs and have some breakfast.”
“Wow.” It was all Tom could think of to say. The man was amazing. “How long have you been up?”
“Since four thirty. I slept in a little,” Joe replied, his cheeks going a little rosy.
“Jesus, there’s a four thirty?” Tom asked, only half joking. “Wait, that’s sleeping in for you?”
Joe rolled his eyes. “Yes, there is a four thirty. If I woke up at nine every morning, I wouldn’t have any customers. It’s sleeping in for me Monday through Friday. Saturday we open up later. I’m usually up before five. Sundays I sleep in until seven or eight.”
“I don’t always sleep in until nine,” Tom stated, feeling somewhat affronted. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew that, but he was somehow sure. “Unless I’m out really late. I don’t really keep regular hours. Besides, it’s not as if my routine has been normal lately.”
“Tom, not everyone likes mornings. It’s nothing to get defensive about,” Joe went on, adding a pinch of something to the bowl of cherry filling and looking as calm as could be. Meanwhile, Tom frowned.
“I wouldn’t feel defensive even if I didn’t like mornings, but as it happens, I do like mornings, very much,” Tom huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.