“Solid ten. Tastes like fall in a bite.”
She snorts. “Now you’re just trying to win extra points.”
We move to Blueberry Bliss. She watches me taste, eyes all anticipation.
“Solid pop of berry,” I report. “But crust’s a shade soggy. Nine for fill, eight for flake.”
She makes a show of writing 8.5 and underlining it twice. “Compromise rating — check.”
Three pies in, and we’re bantering like a shortstop and a pitcher between innings. She teases my extremely scientific adjectives (apparently fruity fireworks isn’t normal culinary language). I counter with her unnecessarily detailed decimal system (8.75 on sweet-tart balance? Really?). By the time we reach Salted Caramel Pumpkin, we’re leaning so close our elbows keep nudging. Every brush feels like an electric hello.
I’m about to describe the caramel as buttery rain on a hayride when the bell over the door rings. Addison’s shoulders stiffen before my brain even clocks the new arrival. Reflex has me turning, and there’s Cassandra, waltzing in like she owns the lease on the place.
Her linen shorts have given way to thigh-high suede boots and a baby blue crop sweater that’s definitely not standard fall attire but screams ‘notice me’ in all caps. She spots us, trajectory locking the way a seagull targets boardwalk fries.
“Dylan!” She projects enough volume to make the pastry case glass tremble. “Sweet coincidence.”
Beside me, Addison sets down her fork with surgeon-level care. I lace my fingers together under the table, summoning calm.
“Morning, Cass. We’re mid-pie evaluation for the fire-hall fundraiser. We’re picking the best ones to serve as dessert.”
“Oh, your little firehouse party that Addy here is trying to organize while organizing the biggest wedding of the season. Wouldn’t want to spread yourself too thin there.” Cassandra drifts closer, perfume cloud preceding her. “Still trying to fund those new oxygen thingies?”
“SCBAs,” I correct, keeping my tone even. “They keep the crew breathing.”
“How noble.” She plants herself between our table and the pie flight, resting manicured nails on the edge. “But surely hero hours are better spent on… bigger projects. Like, say, actual construction jobs that pay?”
Addison inhales. I see the moment she chooses professionalism over snark. She lifts her clipboard fractionally, as though the paper could shield us. “Cassandra, did you need to place an order? We need to get back to our tasting.”
“I’ll take Maple Pecan Dream, if Maple Pecan Dream is still available after the charity buffet.” Cassandra chuckles, then flicks her gaze at me. “So, Dylan, still sanding benches for Addy’s bride-zilla? Or has she promoted you from temporary carpenter to full-time lap boy?”
Heat flushes my ears, but I keep my voice level. “When you don’t know what you’re talking about, Cassandra, you don’t say anything.” I glance at Addison, who looks like she’s biting the inside of her cheek.
Cassandra waves dismissively. “Sure, sure. But Addison, sweetie, ever consider hiring actual staff instead of drafting local sports heroes? You’d look so much more… professional.” She leans closer, stage-whispering to me, “Older women can get clingy when they’re juggling deadlines and boy-toys.”
Addison’s pen halts mid-stroke. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the espresso machine’s hiss. Mrs. Lavigne stands frozen by the counter, eyes darting.
“Cassandra,” I say quietly, rising halfway out of my chair. “That was uncalled for.”
She bats her lashes. “Just friendly advice.”
“Don’t,” I cut in before Addison can. “Let’s not pretend that was anything but a cheap shot.”
Addison sets her clipboard down, calm but steady. “An insult wrapped in fake concern.”
I nod, backing her up. “Exactly. We’re here to work, not to relive high school. Maybe just order and skip the drama.”
Cassandra’s smile tightens, but she doesn’t argue.
“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She straightens, tosses her hair. With a sugary smile, she heads to the counter, orders a latte, and leaves in a fragrance tornado.
The bell settles. Addison exhales through her nose, a controlled release. I retake my seat.
“You okay?” I ask.
She smooths a non-existent wrinkle from her sweater sleeve. “I will be. Just mentally hitting ‘delete’ on Cassandra’s opinion and moving on.”
I chuckle, but inside I’m simmering. “Don’t let her get under your skin.”
