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Authors: Christina Mandelski
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article in Gourmet , and I’m 71
going to ask him to sign it. He’s a doll.”
She smiles goofily and blushes. Great, lady. Go for it.
“Mr. Wells, his food very good.” Mr. Roz feels the need to add to the conversation. He looks at me and winks. “Nice guy, too.”
“Oh, do you know him?” the other old lady asks. Good Lord. Get a life, people. Mr. Roz laughs and nods, winks at me again. He won’t tell them that they are in the presence of the great Chef Wells’s daughter. That would send them into a tizzy.
The women giggle obnoxiously while their husbands talk Michigan football. Some tourists should come with a warning: may induce vomiting.
I give them their change as the front bell rings. A glance toward the door reveals Ethan Murphy standing inside, the sun shining behind his wavy blond hair. He looks like a rock star onstage. Everyone who turns to look at him does a double take. He’s the kind of guy who can do that—get everyone’s attention. There are four people ahead of him, and I can barely focus on their orders.
When he’s the second person in line, we make eye contact. I try to look natural, but a tingle is spreading from my neck up to my ears.
“Hey.” He lifts his hand real cool-like.
I raise mine back and try to concentrate on Mrs. Douglas, who was my piano teacher for a short, miserable period of time.
72
“I’m sorry, we’re out of lemon poppy seed,” I say to her.
“But can’t you look in the back, Sheridan? You probably have some back there, don’t you?” Yes, she’s that annoying.
“I go look.” Mr. Roz thankfully steps in, and Mrs. Douglas moves to the side. And so there he is, Ethan, in front of me. My knees wobble behind the case. Get a grip, Sheridan .
“Hi,” I say. “Ethan, right?” Oh, that was smooth.
“Yeah.” One second of eye contact and my face goes nu-clear. “Cake Girl, right?”
I scrunch up my nose and laugh.
“You ready for the French test?” he asks. I didn’t think he knew I was in that class. He sits in the back with a few other upperclassmen.
“Oui,” I reply, trying to be clever. And failing miserably.
“Yeah. Good.” He scratches his head. “That’s funny.”
I am frantically trying to think of something to top the oui , but really don’t want to make things worse. I’d settle for one cool-ish word, preferably in English.
“You want something?” That’s the best I can do.
“Um, yeah.” He’s eyeing the case and rubbing his chin.
“How are those dark-chocolate raspberry muffins? Those are new.”
“They’re amazing.”
“Good.” He smiles. “I’ll take eight.”
“Eight?” I ask, lost in his perfect chin, cheeks, eyes, face.
“Yeah. Eight.” His eyes are sparkling, and his mouth opens in a huge grin. “You do sell them by eights?”
73
“Yes. Of course. You can have as many as you want.” Oh god, he’s so cute.
“Well, okay then, eight will work.”
There’s something wrong with me. I can’t think of one intelligent thing to say to him. I can usually hold my own in a social situation. But this is ridiculous. He leans in toward the counter. “All right, then. I’ll take eight.”
“Right.” I snap back into action. “Eight. Got it.”
I bend awkwardly into the glass cabinet, my face throbbing with embarrassment.
The best muffins are at the front of the case, and he is getting the best muffins, so I twist my body like an Olympic gymnast to reach them. Also, from here I can see his midsec-tion. It’s right in front of me. His coat is open, he has one hand in the pocket of his loose, tattered jeans, and I can see a sliver of finely toned ab under his shirt.
I take a deep breath, throw eight muffins into a bag (he did say eight, right?) and extract myself from the case. But as I emerge, my head smacks the top. A dull thud resounds through the bakery.
Ow.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asks from over the counter. Honestly, things are looking a little fuzzy.
Mr. Roz runs over. “My
going to ask him to sign it. He’s a doll.”
She smiles goofily and blushes. Great, lady. Go for it.
“Mr. Wells, his food very good.” Mr. Roz feels the need to add to the conversation. He looks at me and winks. “Nice guy, too.”
“Oh, do you know him?” the other old lady asks. Good Lord. Get a life, people. Mr. Roz laughs and nods, winks at me again. He won’t tell them that they are in the presence of the great Chef Wells’s daughter. That would send them into a tizzy.
The women giggle obnoxiously while their husbands talk Michigan football. Some tourists should come with a warning: may induce vomiting.
I give them their change as the front bell rings. A glance toward the door reveals Ethan Murphy standing inside, the sun shining behind his wavy blond hair. He looks like a rock star onstage. Everyone who turns to look at him does a double take. He’s the kind of guy who can do that—get everyone’s attention. There are four people ahead of him, and I can barely focus on their orders.
When he’s the second person in line, we make eye contact. I try to look natural, but a tingle is spreading from my neck up to my ears.
“Hey.” He lifts his hand real cool-like.
I raise mine back and try to concentrate on Mrs. Douglas, who was my piano teacher for a short, miserable period of time.
72
“I’m sorry, we’re out of lemon poppy seed,” I say to her.
“But can’t you look in the back, Sheridan? You probably have some back there, don’t you?” Yes, she’s that annoying.
“I go look.” Mr. Roz thankfully steps in, and Mrs. Douglas moves to the side. And so there he is, Ethan, in front of me. My knees wobble behind the case. Get a grip, Sheridan .
“Hi,” I say. “Ethan, right?” Oh, that was smooth.
“Yeah.” One second of eye contact and my face goes nu-clear. “Cake Girl, right?”
I scrunch up my nose and laugh.
“You ready for the French test?” he asks. I didn’t think he knew I was in that class. He sits in the back with a few other upperclassmen.
“Oui,” I reply, trying to be clever. And failing miserably.
“Yeah. Good.” He scratches his head. “That’s funny.”
I am frantically trying to think of something to top the oui , but really don’t want to make things worse. I’d settle for one cool-ish word, preferably in English.
“You want something?” That’s the best I can do.
“Um, yeah.” He’s eyeing the case and rubbing his chin.
“How are those dark-chocolate raspberry muffins? Those are new.”
“They’re amazing.”
“Good.” He smiles. “I’ll take eight.”
“Eight?” I ask, lost in his perfect chin, cheeks, eyes, face.
“Yeah. Eight.” His eyes are sparkling, and his mouth opens in a huge grin. “You do sell them by eights?”
73
“Yes. Of course. You can have as many as you want.” Oh god, he’s so cute.
“Well, okay then, eight will work.”
There’s something wrong with me. I can’t think of one intelligent thing to say to him. I can usually hold my own in a social situation. But this is ridiculous. He leans in toward the counter. “All right, then. I’ll take eight.”
“Right.” I snap back into action. “Eight. Got it.”
I bend awkwardly into the glass cabinet, my face throbbing with embarrassment.
The best muffins are at the front of the case, and he is getting the best muffins, so I twist my body like an Olympic gymnast to reach them. Also, from here I can see his midsec-tion. It’s right in front of me. His coat is open, he has one hand in the pocket of his loose, tattered jeans, and I can see a sliver of finely toned ab under his shirt.
I take a deep breath, throw eight muffins into a bag (he did say eight, right?) and extract myself from the case. But as I emerge, my head smacks the top. A dull thud resounds through the bakery.
Ow.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asks from over the counter. Honestly, things are looking a little fuzzy.
Mr. Roz runs over. “My
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