The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(32)

“Sure.”

She takes my hand in hers and looks up at me, those endearing eyes connecting with mine. “Did your friends send the video?”

“Jesus,” I say, laughing and pulling my hand away. “I thought you were going to ask something serious.”

“This is serious. We’re talking about a video of you shooting Sprite down your crotch.”

I roll my eyes. “They sent the video.”

“Really?” She lights up and bounces up and down. “Let me see it.”

“No. This isn’t the time. I’m saving it for later.”

“Crew, come on.” She tugs on my arm. “I can’t wait until later. I’m impatient. You know this. Just show me now and then we can focus on the gingerbread.”

I reach out and pinch her chin. “Let’s work on patience today, huh?” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and lead her toward the bakery. “Just think how much fun it’ll be to eat gingerbread in our hotel room while watching the video over and over again.”

“That does sound appealing.”

“And you’ll be able to turn the volume all the way up, which totally adds to the experience.”

“Ugh, I hate that you’re right.”

I give her a squeeze.

“Fine, we shall wait. But I’m warning you—if that video isn’t the first thing I see when we hit our hotel room, I’m not going to be pleased.”

“Hazel not pleased? Well, we wouldn’t want that.” I open the door for her and we both walk into the tiny bakery. The walls are old wood slats, both rustic and charming, and the floor is made up of stone pavers. There’s a single bakery case in front of us full of gingerbread, but not the kind I’m used to. Instead of the little men and women with the hard royal icing decorating their outline, what’s in the case are round, dome-like cookies. Some have what looks to be chocolate glaze on them, some with nuts decorating the top, and some with powdered sugar.

“Oh my God, it smells amazing in here,” Hazel says just as an old woman walks through an archway that leads to the back of the shop. She’s wearing a white apron over a dress with burnt-orange, puffy sleeves that complement the fiery hue of her hair.

“Hallo. Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” She waves with a small bob of her head.

“Ah, hallo. Hello,” I say, placing my hand on Hazel’s back. “I’m Crew Smith and this is Hazel Allen. I believe we’re supposed to have a baking lesson with you today?”

“Ja. Stunde.” She nods and waves for us to join her as she trails into the back of the bakery.

Hazel gives me a look over her shoulder and I shrug my shoulders. “I think we’re supposed to follow her.”

“I gathered that, but what if there’s some nefarious slaughterhouse in the back? I’m not ready to end my life, are you?”

“You really think there’s a slaughterhouse in the back?”

“I mean, it does smell pretty potently of gingerbread in here. Maybe they’re using the smell to cover something up.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” I push her along, and we file through the archway toward the back, Hazel first, because, you know, just in case something does happen, she’d be the first to go.

What a gentleman, right?

When we reach the back, we’re welcomed by the old woman, who is sitting at a table with bowls and several ingredients in front of her. Next to her is another fair-skinned woman, wearing the same outfit and almost the spitting image of the woman next to her, but younger.

“Welcome. My name is Petra, and this is my mama, Monika. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Petra, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, waving awkwardly. “I’m Crew, and this is Hazel.”

“Hi,” Hazel says, giving the back kitchen a smooth once-over.

It almost feels as though we’ve stepped back into the world of Lord of the Rings, and we’re in a Hobbit-hole. The walls are made of clay, and large wooden beams span the ceiling. There are a few ovens off to the right, but they’re not the typical ovens you’d find in America; instead, they’re clay ovens, big enough to hold a few cookie sheets. I know this because there are cookies baking in them right now. It’s so far from anything I ever expected that I’m starting to feel the energy of Pops. He’d have loved this.

Hell, maybe he did. Did he say he visited here? Now I can’t remember. Maybe this is where his love of baking cookies came from. That would make sense as to why he sent us both here.

“It smells so good in here,” Hazel says. “I don’t know if it’s good being here as I might eat all of the cookies.”

Petra laughs. “Have as much as you want, and take home as much as you want, as well. But before we eat, I think we should learn how to make the cookies first, ja?”

“Yes, we’d love that,” I say.

“You will have to excuse my mother. She doesn’t speak much English, so if she seems quiet, it’s because she either might not understand you or she’s just trying to konzentrieren . . . ah focus on understanding the language as you speak it.” Pointing behind us, Petra continues, “There is a sink behind you where you can wash up, and I will grab you some aprons while you do that.”

We turn around to find a cast-iron sink carved into wood countertops, and below it, and instead of cabinet drawers, there’s a red-and-white checkered curtain covering up the pipes.