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

hoping to leave it at that.
    â€œOh,” Lorena said. She thought for a moment. “Well, that’s good. He’s very handsome.”
    Carlos turned from the sink with a smirk.
    â€œI’ll let him know he has admirers,” I said.
    I rolled out the dough for ham and cheese croissants and worked on getting a grip. Away from Jake’s blue-green gaze and heart-crushing dimples, it was a little easier to take stock of the situation and get my bearings. Jake Logan , I reminded myself as I twisted the dough into perfect crescents, is very much part and parcel of that world you hated in high school and have been avoiding ever since . I realized I had no idea what Jake had been doing in the six years since graduating from Dartmouth. Maybe he does community outreach , I thought hopefully. Or maybe he’s a pediatric resident! He had that man-child vibe that probably made kids love him. Plus, that would explain the irregular schedule and casual attire. Or maybe he just hangs out all day, using hundred-dollar bills as coasters for his scotch tumblers. This, I had to admit, seemed equally possible.
    As my shift neared its end, I went over the day’s remaining tasks with Lorena, hung my apron on a hook by the kitchen door, and gave myself a surreptitious once-over in the full-length mirror Ernesto had mounted on the inside of the bathroom door. All in all, the situation could have been worse. My dark tangle of hair was pulled back from my face and I was wearing a paper-thin black T-shirt and jeans that showed off my hourglass figure—hips made for baking , not birthing, was my line of choice. My petite frame probably carried ten or fifteen more pounds than it should have (who was counting?), but the extra weight gave me boobs and an ass. So I had that going for me. Besides, everyone knows that a skinny baker is not to be trusted. And who was I to discourage anyone’s trust?
    I thanked whatever spirit had prompted me to dab on a little under-eye makeup and mascara at the crack of dawn before work that morning. There were times, I knew, when I looked like a complete and utter wreck by the end of my shift; by some minor miracle, this afternoon was not one of them.
    â€œHave fun,” Carlos called loudly as I pushed open the door to the shop. Lorena giggled.
    I ignored both of them, half expecting Jake to be gone. But there he was, leaning against the window, studying his phone. I felt self-conscious under Ernesto’s intrigued eye, so I suggested we walk to a nearby taqueria that served enormous burritos and thick-as-tar coffee.
    â€œYou had me at burrito,” said Jake, holding the door open.
    At El Farolito, we sat at a tiny bright yellow table and took turns sprinkling hot sauce over our plates. Merengue music, as exuberantly frothy and light as its confectionary namesake, meringue, pumped out of the speakers, interrupted every so often by the same DJ who had been on the station since I was a kid. It was the station my mom always had on while we rushed around the carriage house getting ready in the early hours of the day. Like her embroidered turquoise and orange blouses or the purple hand-knit sweater with its zigzag pattern and zipper, merengue music was one of the things Mom never lost her affection for in all her years away from Ecuador. The music in the carriage house was a stark contrast to the concertos that would spill out and swell up against the walls of the St. Clairs’ courtyard when we opened their kitchen door each morning. Actually, I kind of liked that classical music, too. Once Lolly and Tad were out of the house, my mother would flip the stereo to the Latin music station. Sometimes, if the soulful guitar chords of an Ecuadorean pasillo came over the radio, I’d catch her swaying slightly at the sink, her eyes almost closed. Only then would I see a hint of the dark ocean of homesickness that must have churned inside of her.
    When I saw my mom’s face cloud over