In the Weeds by B K Borison

Author:B K Borison [Borison, B.K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK
Published: 2022-04-18T00:00:00+00:00

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I eat oatmeal chocolate chip cookies until I have to unbutton the clasp of my jeans, reclined in the back kitchen across three sacks of sugar. I make a moaning sound as Layla walks by with a tray of brownies, a small square dropped neatly on my chest.

“You’re gonna kill me,” I groan.

“Death by chocolate.” Layla drops the tray on the large metal island in the middle of the room and wipes her palms against her apron. “There are worse ways to go.”

I sit up and watch as she cuts the brownies into perfect two-inch squares, her movements graceful and efficient. The whole day I’ve watched her spin around this bakehouse like a dancer, every single movement a step in an elaborately choreographed routine.

“You moved to Inglewild when you finished college, right?”

Layla hums and nods, reaching for some plastic wrap at her elbow. “I met Stella our freshman year at Salisbury. I decided to move here on a whim, really. Not much of a plan.” She presses the back of her hand across her forehead, fingertips covered in dark chocolate. “I lived with Stella for a while. We shared a tiny apartment above the service station. I’m pretty sure I smelled like oil and grease for six months straight. Beatrice hated it.”

“Ms. Beatrice?”

“Ah, yeah. I worked at the cafe for a while. She taught me everything I know about baked goods.”

Huh. I had no idea. I’m guessing Ms. Beatrice kept her shortbread recipe to herself. Layla’s eyes narrow in a secret smile, her pink lips curled at the edges. “I know Beckett gets cookies on the side. It amuses me to watch him sneak around.”

Her phone begins to rattle across the countertop and she glances at the screen. “Speak of the devil,” she mutters. She reads whatever message pops up and snorts a laugh. “Beckett says he’s running late and you should head to trivia with me. He also says we should not, under any circumstance, walk by the fountain in town. You might go careening in.”

I roll my eyes. “How long am I going to be teased about this?”

“Oh, a decade or so. Is your phone still in the pond?”

“Probably,” I say. I imagine it sitting at the bottom with the silt and the mud, an endless stream of social media alerts pinging like bubbles. The image is oddly satisfying. “What’s the likelihood Beckett is avoiding trivia?”

“Depends,” Layla hangs up her apron on a peg by the door and rolls out her neck. The amount of things this woman creates in a day is astounding. Peach tarts and warm butter croissants and donuts with fresh vanilla custard inside. She should have her own Food Network show, an entire line of cookware. “Who did he promise? You or Nova?”

“Me.”

She smiles. “Then he’ll be there.”

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