I shoot a look to the back. The oven blinks ready, and I excuse myself to walk back. The second sheet of cinnamon rolls is at that perfect, slightly jiggly proof. I slide them in, set the timer, and grab a pan of strawberry hand pies to rotate down to the front case.
Jason materializes beside me with an empty bin. “Trash?”
“Trash,” I say, and we do a quick dance around one another. He bumps my shoulder with his forearm as he goes.
“You’re a menace,” I say without heat.
“You love me,” he shoots back, then calls over his shoulder, “Mom, you want me to restock napkins or the dishes?”
“Do both,” Mom says.
I walk back to the front to see the line hasn’t gone down at all.
“Two hot chocolates and a small decaf latte,” Dad relays. “Extra marshmallows for the twins.”
“On it,” I say, already pulling cups. “Dad, can you check the water jug on the pastry table? If it’s low, swap it.”
“Consider it done,” he says, and does a quick double-point at the young twins like they’re sharing a secret. “Marshmallow mountain coming your way,” he tells them.
The milk steamer hisses in my ear. I swirl the decaf shot, inhale, and my body recoils for one wild second before the ginger does its job. I pour, latte art that isn’t quite there yet. The hot chocolates get a marshmallow avalanche that would make any other kid jealous.
“Next!” I call, and a woman slides up, breathless, cheeks pink.
“Do you have any more of the blackberry galettes?” she asks, eyes bright in that way that says she’s waited in line forever solely for this.
“Yes,” Mom says, cool as a surgeon, already lifting the tray. “We just made a second pan.”
The woman exhales like she’s been holding her breath for six months. “Bless you. Two, please.”
“Two it is,” Mom says. “And something to drink?”
“Whatever you recommend,” she says, wide open to suggestion.
“Lavender lemonade,” I say without thinking, and Mom points at me like she was going to say the same thing.
“Lavender lemonade,” the woman repeats, sounding delighted by the idea alone.
I drop ice into a cup, pour lemon and syrup, top with soda water, stir with a quick flick. The straw catches a lavender bud and releases a soft hit of scent that makes me want one too. She takesa sip right at the counter and sighs, then presses the cup to her cheek. “Oh my God,” she says. “How are you real?”
“Good genetics,” I say, handing her a napkin with a smile and biting back the urge to put a hand to my stomach like I’m sneaking a high five at the six-and-a-half-week-old star in there. Focus, Paige. “And if you’re up for it today, go to The Wandering Pint for lunch, get a Hoffman Heritage half off.”
“I just might!” the woman says brightly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a white ribbon flash in someone’s hand as they shoulder the door open, and then they veer toward The Wandering Pint. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about Ben. There’s time for that later.
“Paige.” Mom sets a hand on my wrist, the lightest touch. “Water.”
“I’m fine,” I start to say, then realize how dry my mouth is. She presses a cold bottle into my palm anyway; the same way she used to slide a glass across the table when I was sick and couldn’t keep anything down. I take a gulp. The cold is a shock that feels like a reset.
An elderly man in a knit cap steps up, accompanied by a white-haired woman whose glasses are attached to a chain around her neck. “Are you the owner?” he asks, and his voice has that old Paducah lilt I love.
“I am,” I say, and my chest does that embarrassing swell I can’t control. “I’m Paige. Welcome to Sweet Confessions.”
“We used to go to Marlene’s,” the woman says, eyes going shiny like the glaze on my lemon cookies. “Every Wednesday. I was afraid nothing would smell like that again.”
“I loved Marlene’s,” I say, and my own voice tilts. “We’re trying to do right by that memory.”
The man nods solemnly. “Well.” He gestures to the case. “We’ll need to assess.”
