“Why have you never come to the cafe before?” I asked.
He set the knife down, rinsing his hands under the faucet. “I prefer to make coffee at home.”
“We don’t just sell coffee,” I stated.
He dried his hands on a rag, eyeing me. “You don’t say?”
I frowned. “If you don’t like pastries, why’d you use that as part of our agreement?”
“I never said I don’t like pastries.” He draped the hand towel over the handle on the oven, then grabbed the olive oil from the pantry.
“So it’s something against the cafe,” I surmised.
“Didn’t say that either.” He drizzled the oil over the asparagus and shook the sheet to toss them lightly.
“You’re not saying much of anything.” I hated being the only one making conversation right now. It felt like the spotlight was on me, and I could feel my hands getting clammy.
He set the oil down and placed his palms against the counter, looking at me where I sat. When my eyes met his, I noticed his cheeks were slightly red. Was he blushing?
“When’d you start working at the cafe?”
“Three years ago,” I answered.
“Your first job after you moved here?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Why not somewhere else?”
“I like baking,” I reminded him.
“Where’d you grow up?”
“Oregon.”
“Where in Oregon?”
“Portland.”
“Ah.” He finally dropped his eyes from mine, moving his attention to seasoning the asparagus.
“What?” I asked. Did he have something against Portland?
“Is that where you got your love for baking?”
My brow furrowed. “What?” I repeated. How did those two things go hand in hand?
He set the salt down, gesturing a hand at me. “Portland is known for their…coffee culture.” He said the two words like they were foreign on his tongue. “So I assume there’s a lot of cafes there.”
“There is. But no. I got my love for baking from my grandmother.” A swell of emotion hit me in the chest, but I pushed it away. It’d been years since she passed and I still missed her every day.
Callan moved to slide the baking sheet in the oven, then faced me after setting the timer. “Is she still…”
“Around?” I filled in.
His gaze met mine. His cheeks were still flushed, but his expression was soft, like he knew this might be a touchy subject. “Yeah.”
“No.” I cleared the rock in my throat that had suddenly risen with the subject of my grandmother. “No, uh, she passed before Avery was born.” I wished she could have met her. She would’ve loved Avery.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was so soft—so filled with sentiment that you would’ve thought he lost her, too. He moved around the island to take the seat next to me. “So tell me about yourself. Anything.”
“You want to know more about your student's mother?” Shit. I was thankful for the subject change, but that didn’t come out how I wanted it to. Obviously I wanted to talk to him, but how far was too far in the get-to-know-you department?
He shrugged, debating it in his head before facing me on the stool. “I guess I do.”
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
I wish I knew how long it was until dinner. I didn’t know how much longer I could sit here with all his attention on me like this.
His eyes were fixed at a spot on the counter for a moment before he asked, “Who was calling you earlier?”
My eyes widened. That was not the question I was expecting.
“You don’t want to know my favorite color or something?” Avoiding the question altogether was my best option right now.
He glanced at the back door, his shaggy hair mussed up from pulling his hands through it after taking his cowboy hat off at the door. He opened his mouth to respond, but Avery came bursting through the door and I swiveled to face her. Rouge, Lettie and Bailey's Australian Shepherd, was on her heels, his tongue dangling as he panted.
“Mama!”
