Nuts (Hudson Valley, #1)(73)

“Ahem,” I heard, bringing me out of my doughy reverie.

“Oh, sorry,” I said to the scandalized driver.

I signed for the delivery and paid the poor man, who backed out of the door, clipboard in hand, as I stood cradling the bread like a baby.

“Get a grip, Roxie,” I told myself. But two seconds later, I smelled the loaf like I’d seen mothers sniffing their baby’s head. Something about the smell of a newborn? Is it wrong that I feel the same way about a warm swirled rye?

Racks of gorgeous bread were waiting to be sliced for sandwiches. My mother had been ordering white bread from the local bakery since before I was born, sliced thin for toast and thick for sandwiches—which she almost endearingly called sangwiches.

I’d altered her order, keeping the traditional white bread but adding a few other varieties, mostly for the new line of deli sangwiches I’d premiered to great fanfare.

Swirled rye for the Reuben. I’d updated the classic by adding a little lemon to the Russian dressing, and a very thin slice of smoked Gouda hidden between the Swiss.

Dark, dense pumpernickel. I paired it with thinly sliced Vidalia onions, horseradish cream, and thick slices of Polish ham.

Caraway rye for the pastrami. Cut thick from whole briskets that I sourced from a local butcher in Hyde Park, the pastrami was reminiscent of that from 2nd Ave. Deli in the city. It was slathered with teary-hot deli mustard . . . and nothing else. Come on, I was still a New York girl.

I used other breads in other ways too. We still made our traditional French toast with thick-cut white bread, but I’d added a brioche bread pudding to the menu. Eggy brioche slices soaked in vanilla egg custard, then baked with currants and pecans in between, topped with powdered sugar and allspice? It might have sold out every day since I’d added it to the menu.

I admired this bread the way a sculptor might admire a piece of virgin marble. Just a block of rock, but what else might it be? What could it become under a master’s hands? I rubbed the pumpernickel again.

“Would you rather we left you alone?” Leo asked from behind me. Starting a little, I turned to see him standing in the swinging door that led to the dining room.

I smiled, a little bashfully, full of feelings I couldn’t name and wouldn’t even try to explain. After last night, I was a bit unsure as to how we moved into this new phase of . . . whatever this was. I’d never been here before. Would it be weird? Would it be strange? Would we immediately go from being cool and happy-go-lucky, into some kind of now-we’re-a-couple-and-this-is-how-couples-behave-and-holy-shit-wait-a-minute-are-we-a-couple—

A kiss broke me out of my incipient panic. It was just the tiniest brush against my lips, but so warm and sweet that it cut right through my bullshit and made me want another kiss. And another one.

Leo’s hands sneaked around to the small of my back as he tugged me against him, little light kisses dancing off in a line toward my neck.

“Hi,” he murmured, speaking directly to my heartbeat, currently thumping against his lips.

I breathed in deeply, luxuriating in his scent. All that green grass and salty skin. His beard rasped a bit against my collarbone, and I realized that the feel of him, rough and scruffy, was something I’d also gotten very much used to.

“I’ve got a pile of bacon here that’s getting cold, and you know Mr. Beechum hates cold bacon. So eighty-six the kissyface and get your buns back to work.” Maxine cracked my buns with a dish towel as she walked by with a crooked smile.

My kissyface had been noticed. My kissyface would be the talk of the condiment station within minutes, and out on the gossip wire within the hour.

Eh.

Eh?

Yeah, eh.

It’s a new world order.

I dared to sneak in one more kiss, then smiled up at him. “What’s up?”

“We’re here for lunch,” he replied, his eyes dancing.

Riiiiight. Cue cold water bucket. Because Leo was already a we. And would always be a we. And as someone who already had issues with being a we, this would be tricky for me.

I smiled bravely, determined to see how this played out. I’d promised Leo I’d try.

Pushing through the swinging door into the hustle and bustle, I spied Polly sitting at the end of the counter. Taking a deep breath, I sauntered out like I owned the place—which technically, in my mother’s will, I did—determined to show no fear.

“Hey there, Polly, how’s it hanging?” I asked. I actually asked a kid how’s it hanging. And I know this because the words were flashing in the air, enclosed in a bubble like in a comic strip. A comic strip titled “Things to Never Say to a Child.”

I looked over my shoulder to see if Leo had caught it, and he was just staring at the ceiling, shaking his head.

Polly looked confused. “How’s what hanging?”

Flailing, I said, “Your ponytail, of course!” I smiled so widely I could feel my lips stretch.

She smoothed her ponytail with her fingers. “Fine, I guess.”

“Well, that’s just great. So what can I do you for?”

“I’m starving,” she announced, sitting primly on her counter stool.

“Then, you’ve come to the right place. I was just getting ready to make myself a grilled cheese. You like grilled cheese?”

“I don’t like grilled cheese,” she said. As I started to think of other options, she leaned across the counter and said in a dead serious voice, “I love grilled cheese.”