Addison’s eyes soften. “Don’t let her get under my skin? She basically called me an unprofessional cougar!”
I nudge the pumpkin pie toward her. “Maybe this pie will make you feel better? Doesn’t fix things, but it doesn’t hurt, either.”
She scoffs but reaches for the pie. “Maybe.” Her smile returns, tentative but bright.
We taste. She announces notes of burnt sugar and nutmeg. We laugh at each other, scribble final scores. Slowly, the tension eases; the bakery warms again.
When the last decimal lands, Addison taps her pen against the clipboard. “Result: All of these options are good contenders, but Maple Pecan Dream stands out.”
I fist-pump softly. “Victory pie legacy continues.”
“Don’t get cocky. We still need a signature cocktail, plus signage and raffle baskets.” She flips to a second sheet bristling with post-its. “Speaking of which, I’ve penciled you in for sign delivery tomorrow at nine.”
“Penciled? That implies negotiation.”
“Okay, fine... inked.”
“I like a woman who uses ink. It implies permanent.” The words slip out before my brain’s filter can veto them. Her cheeks flush the color of the apples painted on the bakery walls.
I clear my throat. “Anyway. I can drop signs after my morning workout.”
Addison nods, busy folding her tasting score sheets. “Perfect. Oh, did you see the weather app? Friday night looks cold. Might need outdoor heaters.”
“I’ll call the rental company.” I jot a reminder in my phone. “Anything else, boss?”
“Don’t start with boss. You’ll feed Cassandra’s lap-boy theory.”
“Okay, going with ‘co-coach.’” I tap the table between us. “Besides, lap boys aren’t actually kept around for their opinions.”
“Good point,” she concedes.
We gather plates, stack them for Mrs. Lavigne, then head out.
“Cassandra was wrong, you know.”
“About what?”
“That this is unprofessional, or clingy, or whatever spin she tried. We’re a team. Teams show up for each other.”
Addison studies me as if weighing truth on pharmacist scales. Finally, she nods. “Okay, Coach. Team it is.”
“High five to seal?” I raise my palm.
She meets it with a slap, fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. Electricity again — no longer a surprise, more like recognition.
Outside, the early fall sun has climbed high enough to cast copper highlights in Addison’s hair. We head toward our cars.
She unlocks the door, then turns, leaning against the frame. “FYI — pumpkin spice lattes launch next week. Could be a pie-plus-coffee pairing in our future.”
“Are you asking me on a caffeinated date?”
“Business meeting,” she corrects, but her grin tips playfully. “Unless you’re scared of aged-up pumpkin flavor and older women with clipboards.”
I step into her space, not touching, just close enough to feel the challenge spark between us. “Bring on the spice, Addison Bennett. I can handle heat.”
For a second, neither of us breathes. Her gaze dips to my mouth, then back up. “Careful, Coach. Maple pecan can go to a man’s head.”
“Only thing going to my head is a second slice tonight — while I draft raffle-basket tags.”
