“Noted,” I said with a laugh, handing over a fork. I loved watching people enjoy my food. I needed coffee to go with my sweet treat, however. Before I’d finished pouring my cup, half of his cake was gone.
“What do you call this?” he asked, his mouth full. I leaned over and wiped a crumb off his chin with my thumb, brought it to my lips, and licked it off. He looked sad that I’d stolen a crumb.
“Triple Layer Southern Caramel Cake.”
“Now it’s the Chad Bowman Special.”
“Understood,” I answered, and dug into my own slice.
When I’d baked these the night before, I had no idea they’d be such a hit. I’d made four cakes, and these two slices were all that was left. I’d started thinking about other cakes I could make, wondering how Italian Cream Layer Cake would go over. I was used to constantly testing recipes, changing and adapting them, and now I was stuck making the same spaghetti and meatballs recipe that had been on the menu since before I was born. I’d be bored out of my gourd if I didn’t try something new on the menu soon.
I sighed as I tasted the caramel cake. This was an instance when an old recipe was still just as good as the day it was written down. The only thing I’d changed? I added buttermilk for a little extra tang, and used actual vanilla bean instead of just grocery store extract. Same recipe, slightly elevated. I sighed once more, tasting the sweetness of the caramel, the richness of the brown sugar.
“This is good,” I admitted, and Chad nodded in agreement, his mouth full of cake. It was quiet, just the clinking of our forks as we finished our cake.
“So, how are things going with the farmer?” Chad asked, after literally licking the plate clean. I’d done the same thing to the bowl when I made the frosting.
“What farmer?” I asked innocently, taking our plates back to the kitchen so he didn’t see my blushing cheeks.
“What farmer,” he said with a snort. “Aren’t you cute.”
“Oh, that farmer,” I answered. “I assume he’s doing just fine.”
“I heard a rumor he was seen driving away from your house a few nights ago. Care to comment?”
I snapped my dish towel toward him. “Where are these rumors coming from? First the cake, now this.”
“My husband likes to think of himself as a small-town newspaper reporter—very His Girl Friday.” He laughed, pretending to type furiously. “?‘I’m gonna break this story wide open, see?’?”
“I’m the least interesting person to gossip about,” I said, wiping off the crumbs from our snack. Then I grabbed the last few sugar containers from the counter stations and began refilling them from the giant sack.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all. Shy little Roxie Callahan comes home from La-La Land with her ladle in hand to rescue the family diner, and finds something other than a ladle to grab on to at night?” he said, still in his newspaper voice.
“You are so twisted. Were you always this twisted?” I asked, handing him a container of salt and pointing him at the shakers.
“Always. I just hid it under a football helmet back then,” he answered, going to work.
“You sure were cute under that helmet. And without the helmet too.” I sighed, giving him my best eyelash batting.
“True, all true. But enough deflecting—what’s up with the farmer?”
“I’m not deflecting. Hey, look what I found last night!” I said, holding up a canning jar I’d found in the basement. My mom’s canning equipment was sitting around getting dusty since she was away, and I’d brought a few jars in to run through the dishwasher. I was craving early summer green tomato pickles like nobody’s business.
“Deflect all you want—I just need know when you get into his overalls.”
“I seriously doubt Leo wears overalls. Holy crap, do you think Leo wears overalls?”
“Holy crap, are you making moonshine? What’s with all the jars?” he asked as I lined them up all along the counter.
“I’m making pickles, silly.” I laughed.
“You know how to make pickles?”