Mmm. Iamgoing to use the time wisely.
Eighteen
The smell of summer mornings and fresh baked cinnamon rolls is my favorite. When I pull the tray from the oven and set it down on the cooling rack, I inhale deeply. The scent of spices and browned butter fills my senses with joy.
When Shelby told me to do something fun for myself on our time off, I tried dipping into my memories to pull out my father’s more detailed desserts he shared with me, but I drew a blank.
I despise the fact I can’t remember them all. It had been a while since we last baked together. I was only a young teen at the time, but the guilt heavily pounds through me like a hammer to a nail.
As I stand staring at the fresh cinnamon rolls and pour the white blanket of icing over them, realization hit me.
My dad’s recipes.
At our old home in the trailer park, they were still there, and I want them. No. Ineedto havethem. I had nothing of my fathers since my mother donated everything he owned. And what she hadn’t, my stepfather sold for extra cash. I despised the air that manbreathed.
Guess I’m making a trip down memory lane. Since spontaneous is my middle name, I’m leaving. Today.
A noise breaks my thoughts, and I peer out the open window in front of me. Not just any car,mycar, pulls into the driveway, and, adding to my confusion, Logan gets out from the driver's side.
Wait, a damn minute.
Why did he have my car? And how the hell did he get my keys? I check the hook where they normally hang from. Gone.
I take off the pink tie dye apron I borrowed from Lana and fling it onto the table. Just as I’m about to go storming out of the house demanding answers, Lana walks downstairs yawning.
“Do you know why Logan was driving my car?” I ask nervously, tapping my finger on my hip.
Lana inhales the warm buttery scent that takes over the kitchen. “Oh, yeah. Logan asked for your keys while you were still sleeping.”
“And you gave them to him?”
Why would Logan take my car? And for what?
“Yessss,” she drags out. “It’s Logan.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means…” Lana stands over the tray, practically salivating. “I trust Logan with my life. I figured if he wanted to take your car somewhere, he had a good reason. Can I have one of these?”
It makes me uneasy for many reasons. The car I kept secret and used as a getaway vehicle was enough to send a sharp warning through my gut. I’m not sure what I fear, but I don’t like it.
She rips her hungry eyes away from the rolls to me. “Shit. You’re mad. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said yes without your permission.”
No. She shouldn’t have, but this is Lana. My only friend who opened her home to me while I ran from my husband. I can’t be mad at her. And she did slap Mark in the face for me.
“I’m not mad at you, but I do have a bone to pick with our neighbor.”
“So, does this mean I can have a cinnamon roll?”
“Yes!” I shout, stalking down the steps, and without hesitation I bang a fist to Logan’s door.
For the first time since meeting Logan, I don’t give a flying fuck what I look like. My hair’s a mess piled on the top of my head. Flour dust covers my yoga shorts, and the oversized band shirt I bought from the thrift store already has a hole in the sleeve.
I tap my foot, then pound my fist to his door again, and this time, the tall oak wood comes flying open. Logan stands there on the other side, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.
A motherfucking towel.
I fight desperately trying to pry my eyes away, but I’m stuck. Paralyzed.
