Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 88709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
What if Lottie realized yesterday was a mistake? What if she decided she didn’t want to see me again? Could she have come to the realization we were different people, wanting different things from life and that I was too much to take on?
I tugged on my hair with a low, frustrated groan. Was she avoiding me? Had she purposely not given me her number? I tried to recall if I had asked for it, but nothing came to mind. We had both been caught up in the day and each other, and until she saw her parents’ car, our parting hadn’t been planned.
We had simply forgotten—I was certain of it.
So why wasn’t she here?
Another thought niggled at my brain. Maybe her parents upset her so much she wanted to be alone. There were times I needed solitude, and I shut myself in my room with only my guitar for company. Since she didn’t have my number either, she had no way of letting me know.
That had to be it.
Except, I couldn’t settle until I knew. With a low curse, I grabbed my jacket and yanked it on, shoving my feet into my boots. I slid my phone into my pocket, and the last thing I picked up were the mitts Lottie had knit and given me yesterday.
I had to see her.
I was lucky when I got to Lottie’s building. Another resident was leaving, and I grabbed the door and headed inside. I hurried up the stairs to her floor, too impatient to wait for the old elevator. I had spied lights on in her place as I approached the building, so I assumed she was inside.
I hoped she wouldn’t be angry with me for coming over, but I couldn’t wait anymore.
I knocked on her door, stepping back in surprise when she flung it open. She was wearing a soiled apron, and there was a streak of flour on her flushed cheek. Her hair was gathered in a chaotic bun on the top of her head, tendrils escaping all around her face and neck. Her eyes widened in shock when she saw me, then in a move I hadn’t expected, she launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist and burrowing into my chest.
“Logan,” she breathed out.
I embraced her, feeling the tension drain from my body at the way she relaxed into me. I had made the right decision coming over.
“Lottie,” I murmured. “I was worried.”
She looked up with a frown. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Did what?”
“Lost track of time.”
“I’ve been waiting four hours.”
She pulled away and glanced behind her. “Well, that explains my productivity.” She stepped back into her hall. “You had better come in.”
I followed her inside, hanging up my coat and walking into the kitchen. It smelled like heaven, the air laden with the scent of sugar and spice, heavy with cinnamon and the richness of butter.
There were piles of cookies. All sorts on plates and cooling trays. Some filled, some iced, one large platter so beautifully decorated they needed to be displayed as art, not eaten. On a turntable was a cake Lottie was working on, beautifully iced with intricate details, roses and piping that she was in the middle of creating.
“What on earth?” I asked.
She sighed. “When I get upset, I bake.”
“Your parents upset you this much?”
“Yes.”
I picked up a cookie—one of the iced, beautiful creations and met her gaze. “These are stunning.”
“Try it.”
I frowned, and she shook her head. “I make them to be eaten, Logan. I enjoy the decoration part.”
Not needing any other encouragement, I bit down. The buttery cookie was dense and rich, the icing sweet and smooth on my tongue. “Amazing,” I mumbled.
“I always wanted to be a pastry chef. I love to bake.”
“How do you eat all this and stay so tiny?” I asked.
Lottie picked up her icing bag, beginning more loops and swirls on the cake. “I give to my neighbors and take stuff to the office. If I have a bad day and make a huge batch of simple cookies like gingersnaps or chocolate chip ones, I take them to the homeless shelter.” She wrinkled her nose. “They prefer those to the fancy ones—easier to hand out for people to enjoy.”
I studied her work. “You should follow your dream.”
Her sigh was low and long. “Maybe one day.”
I watched her in silence for a while, simply relieved at being in the same room as her. She was confident and fast, the cake becoming more beautiful by the moment. She busied herself with another pastry bag, and a few moments later, she slipped small roses on top of the cake. I watched in awe at the ease with which she created the pretty cake.
“So, you do this often?” I asked quietly.
“I suppose so. At least once a week and most weekends,” she admitted.