Read Online How to Eat a Cupcake by Meg Donohue - Free Book Online Page A

seeing Julia day in and day out for ten months be worth it? She’s only around until May when she’ll get married and move on to her next dilettantish distraction, I told myself. You just need to make it until May.
    Around noon, Ernesto popped his head back into the kitchen. “Oh, An-nie,” he called, singsong. “You have a vis-i-tor.” He wagged his thick black eyebrows up and down. Lorena and Carlos glanced at me and I shrugged.
    I wiped my hands against my apron—after all those years, I still could not manage to don an apron without feeling like my mother (a complicated feeling, to put it mildly)—and walked through the door of the kitchen into the shop. The five tables were all occupied and a few people lingered at the counter, awaiting their coffees and covertly tapping their feet to the Latin pop that Ernesto pumped through speakers from his iPod. It was the usual Wednesday Mission crowd: laptops, tattoos, and messenger bags. And there, leaning against the window in a Polo, jeans, and flip-flops, was Jake Logan. On cue, my silly little heart began to thwap around in my chest as though it were hoping to break out and bounce over into Jake’s arms. Traitor , I thought, giving my heart a few imaginary rat-tat-tat backhand-forehand slaps. I ran my hand over the top of my head and down the length of my ponytail. I’d later see that I’d imparted a fine film of flour like a skunk’s stripe down the center of my hair.
    â€œHey,” I said, making my way around the counter to greet him. “What are you doing here?”
    Jake looked up and grinned. “I’m here to see you, of course.” He kissed my cheek, his hand resting on my shoulder. “Mmm, you smell good.”
    It felt odd to have Jake kissing me as though we were really truly grown-ups and not just slightly more pulled together (Jake) and curvier (me) versions of our high school selves. I noticed Ernesto watching us and shot him my best go-about-your-business-or-suffer-my-unending-wrath glare.
    â€œDo you live nearby?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”
    â€œNope, I live in North Beach. Never heard of this place until you mentioned it the other night at the St. Clairs’. I thought I’d swing by and see what all the fuss is about.”
    â€œNot much fuss, I’m afraid. Some coffee, some sweets. This might in fact be the most fuss-free destination in the city. Sorry to disappoint you.”
    â€œNow that I think about it,” Jake said, shrugging and grinning simultaneously, “fuss is overrated. Want to grab a coffee? Catch up? Can you leave?”
    I laughed, gesturing at the enormous espresso machine behind the counter. “You just walked into what is, essentially, a coffee shop and asked if I want to grab coffee somewhere else. We’re clear on that, right?”
    â€œWell, I’d ask if you wanted to grab a drink, but I don’t know where you stand on the midday cocktail.”
    â€œFair enough. I won’t be finished for another hour though. Can you come back?”
    â€œI’ll wait.”
    I looked at him. I was still having some trouble adding up the pieces. Jake Logan—yes, the guy’s first and last name seemed eternally bound in my head—had arrived unannounced at my place of work just to see me. If he were any other guy, I would have found his actions to be a bit too much, a bit stalkerish. But that would have been an Adult Annie reaction. Teenage Annie was internally screaming something along the lines of: Oh. My. God. Jake. Logan. Is. Waiting. For. Meeeeeeee!!!
    Back in the kitchen, Lorena smiled at me.
    â€œHow do you know him?” she asked, eyes bright with the promise of gossip. Lorena, ever eager for my stories of the incestuous dating world of young bakers and chefs, swallowed gossip whole like the calcium pills she took to make her bones stronger.
    â€œHe’s not a baker,” I said,