Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Viggo licked his bottom lip. “Was that supposed to happen?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I squeaked. “I, um—I should…go.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“Good-bye, donut man.”
I huffed, almost tripping over my feet on the porch steps in my haste to get the fuck out of dodge. I didn’t dare turn back, but I sensed Viggo’s smile and damned if that didn’t do something for me.
“Do you know any fruit facts? ’Cause I do.”
I turned off the mixer, surveying the mess of flour, almond, and blueberries on the prep island. The kitchen was Alberto’s domain during baking hours. However, as the mastermind behind the nontraditional recipes at Dexter’s Donuts, I commandeered the kitchen most afternoons before I coached flag football to test flavors and make sure my creations looked and tasted amazing and worth the premium surcharge. I usually worked alone, but today, Reg’s nine-year-old daughter was my honorary assistant.
Gretchen should have been on the field with her classmates, but…the kid hated sports. No offense taken. Her ambivalence confused her family more than me, to be honest. Her dad had been a stand-out athlete in high school, and her mom and brother both played flag football for their age groups, along with most of her peers.
Not Gretch. She was a quirky kid who didn’t have a ton of friends, and the ones she did have didn’t care about sports either. They liked science, math, and stories that involved shape-shifting dragons in parallel universes. Much to her dad’s chagrin, Gretch had recently taken to wearing capes—like a wizard…or a witch.
I wasn’t a science guy and I was pretty sure I’d forgotten anything other than basic math, and yet on some level, I understood Gretchen. I was a child of divorced parents who’d worked a ton, too. I’d taken refuge in sports, but expectations rose with every win and the pressure had been intense. My outlet had been food. I used to watch shows like Cake Boss and Iron Chef and imagine scenarios where I could be the best at something that would surprise my mom and my friends. I supposed that wish eventually came true, though not exactly the way I’d envisioned.
Unlike my mother, Reg and his ex-wife were in tune with their kids and a thousand percent supportive. They signed Rhys up for karate, baseball, flag football, and hockey while Gretchen joined math club, chess club, and spent one afternoon a week with me concocting outside-the-box donut delights. Today’s was blueberry with a lemon almond glaze, decorated with edible flowers.
“All right. Hit me with a fruit fact.”
Gretchen glanced up at me with big brown eyes. “Watermelons are ninety-two percent water. That’s a lot of water, don’t you think?”
“A ton.” I whistled in astonishment. “I heard humans are made mostly of water, too.”
“How much?”
I should have known that question would be next. “I’m not sure. Maybe sixty percent?”
“I’d check my phone for exact measurements, but my hands are gooey.” She held them up as evidence and giggled at my faux-horrified expression.
“And very…blue. Like a Smurf.”
“What’s a Smurf?”
“What’s a Smurf?” I repeated, truly horrified this time. “Are you pulling my leg?”
Gretch glanced at my leg on cue and shook her head. “Nope.”
It was an old joke, but it made us both laugh.
“Well…Smurfs is a cartoon. The reruns were a staple of my childhood. I loved those little guys. They were all blue, and they lived in a cute little village. The details are fuzzy after that.”
“Oh. The batter is purple. Will the donuts be purple?”
“Yep.” I pulled a batch I’d worked on earlier from a proofing drawer and motioned for Gretchen to wash her hands. “Let’s shape these and get them in the fryer so you can decorate a couple before your mom picks you up.”
“I think Dad’s picking me up today.” Gretchen lowered her voice and continued conspiratorially. “I’m not supposed to know, but Mom’s going on a date tonight.”
“Ah. Okay.” We shaped dough in silence for a few minutes. Curiosity was killing me—however, I would not stoop to gossiping with a nine-year-old.
“His name is Steve. They say they’re just friends, but I can tell she likes him.”
“Uh…that’s good.”
Gretch hummed in agreement. “Do you like anyone?”
Viggo’s grumpy mug instantly flashed to mind. As much as I wanted to downplay that rogue peck on the cheek, I wasn’t prone to doling out kisses to grouchy guys who got my motor running. Quite the opposite. I’d grown up a closeted jock. I hadn’t come out till I was in college, and I could count my male lovers on one hand. Which meant…there was something about the lumberjack.
Not that I’d be sharing that with a nine-year-old.
“No. And I’d rather hear about Steve.” So much for not gossiping.
“He’s really nice. I think he has kids, and that makes it complicated.”
I chuckled lightly at her mature summation, which was probably a direct quote she’d overheard while eavesdropping. “Why?”