By the time he reached the bakery for his morning coffee, the serving area was packed. Logan reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet while he waited for the crowd to thin. The aromas of butter, bread, cinnamon and coffee beans competed for his senses. There were a handful of grade schoolers in plaid uniform jumpers grubbing up the glass display case, pointing to various cookies and getting underfoot. He saw one of their mothers dig down deep into her purse for a bottle of Purell, eyeing her daughter’s hands as she traced the glass with her fingers. Logan tamped down the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth; he knew the woman running the counter kept the front immaculate, and he saw her coming in from the back, carrying out another broad rack of croissants and muffins, smothering a sigh at the handprints on her case.
He preferred Boston, but DC was growing on him, slowly but surely. He frequented little holes in the wall like this one since he transferred to his branch. Logan didn’t want a barista scribbling his name on a cup and loudly mangling it, anyway, in front of a line of strangers, and Starbucks’ brew was too bitter for his taste. He discovered this place when the front receptionist called off sick; Mac stopped Logan on his way back from the conference room and handed him the company card.
“Can you stop by the bakery and pick up the birthday cake? Jeanne-Marie was supposed to, but she just texted me and said she feels like ‘ten pounds of crap in a five-pound sack.’”
“Probably don’t want her picking up the cake, then.”
“Really don’t.” Logan took the company gold card and tucked it into his pocket.
“Which place is it?”
“Crumb Snatchers on Ninth.”
Logan huffed at the name. He hadn’t been expecting much. It wasn’t far from the office once he Google Mapped the directions. The bakery was situated on an unimpressive block, close to the metro entrance. The front windows hosted tempting cakes frosted in garish colors that were too pretty to eat, and the fragrance of freshly brewed French roast invited him inside. There were a few patrons enjoying the Post at small tables, seating in iron-backed chairs. A girl with a glossy black pixie cut popped her gum from behind the cash register and grinned at him.
“Hey. Can I help you with anything?”
“I’m here to pick up a cake. For Jeanne-Marie?”
Her face lit up. “Sweet. It’s all ready. I’ll grab it from the back.”
“Before you do that, sweetheart, could I get a cup of that coffee?”
“Good call.” Her tone was encouraging.
“Smells amazing.”
“You won’t be sorry. Trust me.” Her movements were quick and efficient, and she had a barely contained energy that told him that she drank a lot of the product, herself. Just as she dispensed it from the carafe and reached for a lid, he heard a rich, lilting alto from the kitchen door.
“Can you help me in the back when you finish with him?”
Logan argued with himself for a moment that no one could look good enough to live up to how sexy she sounded. He tore his eyes away from the counter server preparing his coffee and treated himself to the sight of the woman before him. She stood wiping her floury hands on her apron and was slightly disheveled. Logan was struck dumb by her self-deprecating smile, and by those luminous, intelligent blue eyes.
“Yeah, boss,” her server assured her as she slid a protective recycled sleeve over his cup. “Gimme a sec. He’s picking up a cake, too.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. What name was it under, again?” She wandered the rest of the way to the counter, and Logan noticed that she towered over him. She checked a spindle of order slips set off to the side.
“Jeanne-Marie,” he replied. She slipped through the slips, then smiled up at him again, brandishing the correct one.
“It’ll be right out.”
“Take your time.” His voice sounded odd to his own ears. But she smiled at him again, and he watched the sway of her hips as she retreated back into the kitchen. She was shrink-wrapped into a pair of distressed jeans and a t-shirt with the bakery name on it. Her hair spilled down her back in a mound of micro-braids, pulled back with a tortoiseshell clip. Just watching her made his hands itch, and he shoved them into his pockets while the server set his cup down before him.
“Cream and sugar’s over there. We’ve got a few different syrups, too, if you like it fancy.”
“I’m not much of a fancy guy,” he admitted.
“Didn’t think so, somehow. You look like the kind of guy who likes his coffee strong enough to strip paint off a barn.”
“I want my coffee to get up, get the spoon, and stir itself,” he countered.
“Then you’ll love our French roast,” the baker boasted as she brought out a large, pink cardboard box. The lid of it was propped open as she set it on the counter for him to examine. “How’s that look?”
He only spared the impeccable buttercream roses and writing the briefest glance before he stared into her face. “Beautiful,” he told her. “A real work of art.”
She flicked her eyes away for a moment, then shone that smile on him again. “Glad you like it. Tell Mac I said ‘Happy Birthday.’ And many more.”
He left the store reluctantly but started a routine that included a detour to Crumb Snatchers every morning, like clockwork, as soon as he emerged from the metro escalators. Some of Ororo’s patrons “ he prized her name out of her one morning while she made him a sandwich on one of her croissants “ showed up at the crack of dawn to get her fresh rolls. Logan was fine with being blunt about what he wanted, but he wasn’t interested in making her think he was a stalker.
So, he stopped in for coffee. And he watched her charm her customers with her smile and her gorgeous laugh. Her apron was killing him. It couldn’t quite hide those lush curves. His hands wanted to untie the strings and tug it off, letting those tiny braids rain down over her shoulders. Her waist was slender, defying her profession of handling fattening sweets all day. Sometimes he ordered the macaroons, which were on the bottom rack of her case; if he caught a glimpse down the neckline of her shirt when she bent down, then, oh well. These things happened.
Before long, Ororo Munroe would be the only thing in her bakery that Logan hadn’t tasted.
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