Nana May's Preopening Inspection

Hanging by my apron strings, from a zipline, fifty stories above a waterfall of chocolate ganache… yep, that’s the dream I woke up screaming from this morning.

Weeks of twenty-hour days are catching up to me. But my Nana’s baklava is the last recipe to figure out before opening day.

For months, I’ve wracked my brain to remember my time at her hip when I was nine, but for the life of me, I only remember her singing Ella Fitzgerald tunes and stirring her pre-measured ingredients.

Why didn’t I pay more attention?

Now, the recipe I hinged the marketing of my bakery on, I have yet to perfect. It’s why the extra-large thermos of coffee sits beside me, on bottomless refill. It’s the only thing holding my eyes open at two in the afternoon, when I want to crash into my lovely down pillow and sleep for days on end.

I’m sorry, Nana.

Sheet after sheet of picked apart baklava litter the back kitchen, the front counter, and all across my new vintage tiled tables. So far, not a single batch is right. A few are too lemony, one has horribly cracked dough, one too dry, one too sweet… I glare down at the pan cooling in front of me, mentally begging this one to be right.

A glance at my display case shows an assortment of successes: muffins, cookies, homemade pecan pie, peanut butter balls. All the sweets a good southern town could ask for, but if I can’t figure out my nana’s recipe, it’s going to be a personal failure on my part.

You’re the only grandchild… what a disgrace!

The buzzer on the back door interrupts my pity party. It has to be Hannah, the high school student I hired to be part time help at the store. Her training starts this afternoon. I need her efficient on the register and the other basic duties I’ll need help with.

Unfortunately, what I really need is an extra week, a time machine, or a séance to visit the ghost of my grandmother.

Wiping my hands on the “Master Baker” apron I got last Christmas from my bestie, I press the heavy release bar to open the rear door leading to the alley out back. I expect the skinny bookworm I hired weeks ago to be waiting outside, but instead, I’m greeted by a real-life Abercrombie model in a three-piece suit.

The scowl marring his perfect face as he takes in my disheveled appearance sends an embarrassing flush rushing to my face. From my frayed top knot to my flour-covered clothes, none of it seems up to snuff, judging by his slightly upturned lip.

What… afraid I’m going to rub my mess on you, pretty boy?

Cocking my head to the side, I level him with my best intimidating glare, trying to push down the embarrassment I know is turning my face red. “I think you have the wrong building, sir.” Disdain drips into my voice. Since Mr. Perfect here hasn’t stopped eyeing me like I’m a chewed-up piece of gum on his shoe, I take the only defense mechanism I have.

“Miss Moralis, I take it.” It’s not a question, but it raises my eyebrows anyway, especially when he looks over my shoulder, taking in the chaos of baked goods spread across the kitchen behind me.

“You want a cookie?” The sarcasm isn’t intentional, it just slips out, wanting to knock the scowl off this mystery man’s face. His answering smirk lights up his powder-blue eyes, sending heat straight to my core.

“You being facetious? Or do you have a cookie back there for me?”

“No offense, Mister, but I have no idea who you are.” I cross my arms over my chest. “There is absolutely no way you’re getting anywhere close to my cookies.” My hands prop on my hips, blocking the open doorway with my body.

A laugh barks from his lips, low and scratchy, completely at odds with the prim, put-together vibe his appearance suggests. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Moralis, but I’m here for your pre-opening inspection.”

That sentence stops the sass I was about to nail him with over his blatant dismissal of my very yummy cookies. My cheeks heat, thinking about the cookie I would actually like him to taste, but nobody’s got time for that.

“What do you mean, inspection?” I step back, opening the door a bit wider even though I want to slam it in his face. “I have an appointment with Mr. Lee tomorrow for the final walk-through before Grand Opening. I’m not ready today.”

“I can see that,” he grimaces, glancing over my shoulder. “No matter, though, I’m taking over for Granddad and it’s today or nothing.”

Fuming, I try to hold down my traditional Greek temper. “What do you mean? Today or nothing.” I feel all my attraction for this stranger draining away, replaced by an urge to kick him right in the balls.

“Well, Miss Moralis,” he steps inside the back room of my kitchen, his large frame taking up the very tiny hallway and dwarfing me in the process. “It’s Friday. I don’t want to be working on Saturday. Your business opens on Monday… so it is, what it is.”

“But what about Mr. Lee? He’s my landlord. My final walk-through is with Mr. Lee.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I hope to appear tough and not the frazzled, new baker my batter covered clothes suggest.

“My granddad is… out of commission.”

I gasp, “Oh my god, is he ok?” For a second, I forget myself, laying a flour-covered hand on the arm of his designer suit. When his gaze tracks down to his arm, I jerk it back, cringing at the dirty handprint left behind. “Sorry. I-,”

He wipes at his sleeve, turning to stomp further into my kitchen, looking at the mess with disdain. “Are you going to be ready?”

The question is simple—expected even—but I still don’t appreciate it in my current exhausted state.

“I will be. Would you like the tour, or do you want to stand there judging me?”

His eyebrow quirks, but he stays quiet, removing his suit jacket to hang on the back of the countertop stool I use when I’m decorating for long hours. He carefully folds up his shirt sleeves, moving closer to my discarded trays of baked goods.

“What are you doing?” I step up to the counter, ready to get between my creations and this suit if he tries anything funny. When his hand reaches out, cracking off a corner of my most recent batch of baklava, I yelp, unable to stop the sound from escaping. Jerking my hand forward, I try to block his taste, nervous for someone to taste my creation when I haven’t yet perfected the recipe.

“What. Are. You. Doing.” The venom in my voice stops those thick fingers halfway to his mouth. His eyes give no hesitancy as my baklava finishes its path. His full, pink lips bite around its flaky crust, immediately flaring nerves in my gut while I wait for the verdict.

Silence.

He looks around the rest of my shop with a frown, eyeballing the discarded trays of desserts before walking over to take a bite of another creation, then another. No response hinting at his thoughts.

Then, to my shock… and horror… he points to each tray that he just sampled. “Too lemony, too sweet, too sticky, too dry.” Every syllable out of his mouth drops mine a little wider. How dare he? I didn’t ask his opinion!

My temper flares, I don’t care who the hell he is. “I know that, dammit! Why do you think they’re tossed to the side?” I step in his spaced, aimed to move this oaf out of my kitchen. This is not the final walkthrough his grandfather intended. “Go ahead. Look through the building. My permit’s ready to go, health grade’s on display behind the register, and the tables and supplies are set. What else do you want to know, Mr.-?”

He glances down at the trays of baklava, like the answer is obvious. “Lee. I already told you, I’m helping my granddad with his business now. I intend to sort out some of the… lesser establishments. Make sure his portfolio is up and running as it should.”

I bristle at that. Lesser establishments, my ass!

“Well, your grandad and I had a deal and I’m honoring my part to the letter, so do whatever inspection you need to do. I’m getting back to work.” With that, I turn my back to him and unwrap the next section of dough resting on the counter. My mind churns through the many ways I’d love to mess up his pretty boy demeanor while I kneed my hands into the phyllo dough. I know I nailed this part perfectly. Death by whisk. Now there’s an interesting idea. News at Six: Local baker goes berserk, whisking local shop owner into pie filling.

A laugh escapes at my morbid daydream, but I stifle it quick, seeing the young Mr. Lee quirk his head in my direction. I keep my hands safely planted in the dough, not for a second noticing how Lee’s suit pants hug the curve of his finely sculpted ass as he bends over perusing the contents of my display case.

I make it through rolling the dough, buttering two layers into my clean baking dish, and covering it before a heavy presence lifts the hair on the back of my neck. I feel pretty boy standing behind me, but refuse to acknowledge his presence after those earlier comments. He can get his business done and get the hell out of my hair so I can finish beating myself up over my nana’s long-lost recipe.

It’s only lost because you didn’t pay enough attention. I remind myself, hating that chastising voice in my head.

Shaking off the thought, I dig my spatula into the nutty mixture—take thirty-two—and mix like my life depends on it because it kind of does.

“You look like you want to murder that mix.” A low chuckle over my shoulder reminds me I’m not alone. Goosebumps break out along my arms, but I attribute them to being startled, not at all from the sexy masculine asshole who spent the last thirty minutes walking through my business with a fine-tooth comb and criticizing every taste of my food he’s put in his smart-ass mouth.

“It’s my mix, I’ll murder if I want to,” I sing-song the bastardized lyrics under my breath, adding a little shake to my solo dance party.

A loud, echoing laugh fills the back kitchen and I stop, my face burning white hot remembering this is a suit is one I should try to impress. Someone who has a vested interest in my business. Despite that, I’m not doing a good job of hiding how horribly he pushes my buttons.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he bellows, laughter tinting his voice. I stop my stirring long enough to glare over my shoulder, jumping slightly when I see how close his tall body is to mine. Even in just his shirtsleeves, he’s an intimidating presence. “Have you added the clove yet?” He steps closer, peering into my bowl like he has any idea what he’s doing.

When his finger raises, aimed at my bowl for a taste. That’s when I snap out of my stupor and slap his hand like a disobedient little boy, ignoring the twinge of guilt at the stinging smack. “What the hell are you doing?” My voice is too squeaky for my liking, but this man has made my baker’s dozen a few eggs short.

 The quirk of his eyebrow does nothing to relieve the tension building in my neck. “I’m tasting, what does it look like?” Why does that sentence sound so dirty? I need this man out of my kitchen. “I’m here. I thought I’d help.”

“I don’t need your help. I’m making my nana’s recipe. You can’t help me with that.” What I really need help with is controlling my hormones, apparently. My self-imposed man-diet while I focus on getting my bakery up and running was a horrible idea if the first attractive man put in front of me turns me upside down like this. Especially one that’s so stuffy and ill-mannered.

“Is this your nana’s recipe?”

I scoff, insulted at his insinuation my recipe isn’t up to snuff. Maybe I’m a little oversensitive… who cares?

“I’m trying to find it,” I huff, digging my spoon into the mixture for a sample.

“Didn’t my granddad mention this is the recipe you ran your marketing blitz on?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“What of it?” Incredulous shock seeps into his voice, his body moving around my countertop to scour my tabletop ingredients. “The ‘it’ is that you don’t have the recipe.”

I growl... under my breath, but still… I don’t need this stress.

With a cocky swagger, the young Mr. Lee stalks over, his arms tucked casually behind his back. A false show of submission, because the moment he’s close enough to my mixing bowl, a spice bottle whips out, sprinkling a healthy dose of brown powder over the top of my honey nut mixture.

“Agh!” The scream rips from my lungs as I jump, grabbing my bowl to hug to my chest. “What did you do,” I shriek, sliding my bowl away from his arm’s reach.

“Clover. Stir. Try.”

“You’re going to mess up my recipe,” I scoff.

“You don’t even know your recipe.” The smirk on his face pisses me off more. “Taste it.” One of his annoying thick fingers dips into the batter held protected at my chest and holds it up in front of my face. It’s my turn to quirk an eyebrow.

Does he expect me to lick his finger?

“Taste.” His bossy tone sends tingles to my core. Involuntarily, my mouth opens, hypnotized by his moody blue eyes as his finger lightly brushes across my tongue, dropping a dollop of sweet, sticky filling that blows my tastebuds.

A moan escapes, but I tamp it down quickly, not wanting to give the prick satisfaction in improving my recipe. His eyes light with mischief, with a heat that I steadily ignore.

Annoyingly, it tastes the closest to my nana’s recipe, as I’ve been able to recreate myself. The beaming, mega-watt smile he aims at me says he knows it. It shakes me to my core. “See, cupcake. Add a little clover and you’ve got a winner.”

“Get out,” I growl.

“What?” The confusion on his face is only slightly rewarding.

“You’ve done your inspection. Get out.”

His back straightens, face sobering into the original business facade he arrived with. “As you wish.” He walks over, wiping his hands on a damp dishtowel before slinging his still pristine suit jacket over his arm. “I’ll see you on Monday, Miss Moralis.” With barely a nod, he walks out the back exit, leaving me staring in his wake like the last thirty minutes of my life were a mirage.

I guess we’ll see what Monday brings, won’t we?

For once, since I started this bakery journey a year ago, my brain has a pleasant distraction from the stress, from my failures. Taking one last dip of my finger into the mutilated baklava mixture, I resign myself to knowing this is the mixture I’ll be pouring over the next two days, creating batch after batch of sticky goodness to sell in my nana’s name.

Son-of-a-bitch.