Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
This morning has been a clusterfuck of epic proportions. It started with the timer going off on the toaster oven and waking my dad. He’s an asshole on a good day, let alone when he’s woken up by something other than his alarm. My usefulness as a human being was called into question. Not the ideal way to start things off.
I lock up my bike and lug my hockey bag into Boones through the back entrance. I feel bad about storing it in the break room, because it takes up so much space, but leaving it outside is begging for it to be stolen.
I key in my employee number to unlock the back door, and it dings, signaling my arrival. A petite, auburn-haired girl pokes her head through the door that connects the kitchen to the bakery. “Hey! You must be Winter.”
I nod. “That’s me.” I started last week, but now that I’m finished training, I no longer need to be scheduled with Tracey Lynn, the manager and daughter of the owner.
“I’m Rose.” She pops a pink bubble as her gaze moves over me, pausing at the hockey bag slung over my shoulder. It’s hard to miss since it’s huge and weighs a good fifty pounds. Her eyes widen when she gets to my bloody knee. “Oh shit. You’re bleeding.” She rolls her eyes. “Which I’m sure you already know. Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine. Some douche in a Jeep almost ran me over.” And then tried to flirt with me. I point to my knee. “Just gonna clean this up real quick and I’ll be right out.”
“Want me to put your hockey bag in the staff room?” she offers.
“It’s heavy,” I warn.
“I’m stronger than I look.” She flexes a thin arm, her biceps popping.
“Thanks. I swear I’m not always this much of a hot mess.” I set the bag on the floor and pull on the handle, but it only comes out halfway. “One of the wheels is broken.”
“You’re fine. It’s quiet right now.” She makes a face when she gets a load of the road rash on my leg. “Yeesh. That looks rough.”
“I’ve had worse. I’ll just be a minute.” I grab the first aid kit from the wall and rush to the bathroom, calling a quick hello to Scottie, who works in the kitchen prepping the apples for fritters, and salads and sandwiches for the lunch rush.
It doesn’t take long to clean and dress the cut on my knee. The road rash is red and ugly, but not a big deal. My elbow could be worse. As a hockey player, I’m used to bruises, scrapes, and even stitches, but starting my shift bleeding isn’t exactly appealing to customers. I slap on bandages to cover the worst of it and push through the door to the bakery at 7:58.
Rose is leaning against the counter, phone in one hand and a coffee in the other, snapping selfies, if I had to guess. Her auburn hair is pulled through the snapback of a red Boones ball cap and twisted into a bun that’s covered with a hairnet.
“Sorry about that. I’m ready to get to work. What can I do?” I run my damp palms over my thighs. I’m all adrenaline this morning.
“Tracey Lynn won’t be in for two more hours, so you can take the eager beaver down a couple of notches.” She drags her eyes away from her phone and motions to the espresso machine. “Make yourself a coffee, or a latte, or a cappuccino. Take a breath. Maybe give yourself a minute to get over almost getting hit by a Jeep.”
The regular drip coffee is free for us, so I pour myself a cup and add a healthy dose of cream and two sugar packets. “It’s been a weird morning.”
The bell on the door tinkles, signaling a new customer. I set my coffee on the counter and turn around.
Standing in a beam of sunlight is the Jeep-driving douche. I didn’t have much of a chance to appreciate his appearance while I was trying not to collide with the side of his vehicle, but he’s hot…and vaguely familiar for reasons I can’t put my finger on.
Now that I can see all of him, it’s hella hard not to admire the view. He’s tall and lean, with dark hair—shaved at the sides, the top long enough to pull back with a hot pink spiral hair tie. His short beard is neatly groomed, and his whiskey-brown eyes are framed with thick lashes the rich girls on the lake pay money for. But it’s the sleeve running the length of his right arm, a vibrant burst of watercolor flowers, that really commands attention. His left arm has more artwork that ends at his elbow. That’s a lot of hours under a needle. On a scale of one to spontaneous orgasm, he’s a bean-flicking dream.