Zaccaro

“Ay dios mios!”
“Sorry,” I give a wry smile.
“What in the world are you doing up so early, Reese?” Since implementing the designer cake portion of my business a few years ago, Maria was the only one who opted to open up shop. Though I can be seen in the store at all hours of the day, I’m normally a night owl.
Inside, the kitchen wafts of sweet lavender, one of our most popular muffins. Right before dawn, Maria turns off the music in the kitchen, and presses the panel to a more elevator style of music in the quaint dining room. In tandem, we place flaky, buttery croissants into the glass panels out front. It isn’t until around ten a.m., during the hustle and bustle that I start second-guessing my inherent need to bake and communicate with my fellow Los Angelenos who’re rushing to work. I honestly love being social, but today, my favorite pastime hasn’t done the trick.
“I could smell the blueberry muffins miles away, Reese, I knew you'd opened up shop,” says old Mr. Klebel. His bushy, white eyebrows have arisen as he takes a deep breath.
I smile genuinely, grateful for my most loyal customer. “Thank you, Mr. Klebel. I came in early today, just hoping you’d be here.” I hand over his order for himself and his wife.
Maria bumps my hip as if she's got more junk below. “Are you listening? I just said which is better, butter cream or dark chocolate?”
“Well, nine times out of ten, you're always going for super sweet so butter cream.” I state her preference.
“So, you really haven't been listening,” Maria gestures toward the door.
I can feel my pupils dilating with interest, in the same fashion as a cokehead eyeing premium blow before him. My eyes track him, unable to tear away from his searing gaze, as the tray of berry and Jasmine Tea scones in my hands is placed onto the display rake
Upon realizing Maria’s meaning, I blurt. “Neither.”
Now Evan has stepped up to the counter, and I take him in fully. There are a few abrasions near the kind, crinkles of his eyes. A scrape has edged its way across the stubble of his jaw, and a purplish bruise to the cheek does the opposite of blemishing his golden tone, no, it makes him more rugged, more distinguished. He’s bigger, so much bigger and stronger than I remembered. The douchebag at the dive bar would’ve gotten his ass handed to him.
My mouth waters with a craving for those ripped-up arms to wrap around me like they’d done the other night
“Your face,” I mumble. My fingers tingle with the need to touch, to nurture–
“This is your stepbrother? The Suit on the phone?” Sandra says.
How did she get here? She only socializes with customers who have ordered specially items. With one glance to Maria, I know the two have been talking about my love life, or lack thereof. Maria probably waved her into the dining room as soon as my gaze landed on Evan. Maria quickly greets another customer all the while her eyes are on him.
“Yes, I’m the stepbrother and the Suit,” Evan reaches a hand over the glass display. Though my cheeks are flamed by Sandra asking her questions, I notice him wink as he mentioned suit.
He shakes hands with both of my employees. Maria adds on the Latina charm, and I do believe that Evan might persuade Sandra to brighten her horizons from her usual chubby chasing fetish.
He introduces us to his partner, Tyrone Miller. He’s dark brown, at least six-feet and a stocky type of build. While shaking his hand, I try to address this misconstrued business. “Hi, Tyrone, nice to meet you, and no, I am so not his stepsis–”
“Wait, Lolita got married again?” Maria says, handing the customer her change.
Though the front of the bakery is small, the entire store glances around. Like Sandra, and my other friends who clearly have decided to keep all eligible blood relations under lock and key, my regulars are leery of my mother too. Right around the time she met husband number four here, I think. Sheesh, the local, who became her ex-husband, would come into Flour Shoppe and purchase dozens of expensive macaroons each day to place in his realtor office. Not to mention the days the broker used Flour for various real estate showings in mansions from the Hollywood Hills to Malibu. Needless to say, I lost a loyal customer during the divorce. And I do not discriminate against my customers, I have loyalist such as Mr. Klebel who I wouldn’t give away for the world.
“Yes, she married my father,” Evan mentions. The cocky bastard smiles, getting his kicks in at my expense. While he quickly looks to me to elaborate, I fold my arms since I refuse to explain the dynamics, the deteriorating, soon to be meet its demise familial dynamics.
Clearly this isn't the place to stop and make introductions, so Maria relieves me. Sandra dawdles in her stilettos before heading back to the kitchen.
The guy’s head outside. I grab two cups of coffee, a Danish and a scone then on second thought add another few croissant ham and egg sandwiches to the bag before heading out. These boys look like they’ve had a helluva night.
I can hear Tyrone saying "hook a brother up" as I step toward the umbrella table and chairs. Evan doesn't even respond because he sees me first.
He stands.
Feeling uncomfortable, I thrust out the case with the drinks and the paper bag of food. “Here. Not sure if you've had breakfast.”
“I can always eat,” Tyrone says, his eyes are eagerly taking me in.
“No, we haven't eaten. Just got back to the city,” Evan replies, beginning to reach into his suit pocket for his wallet. The very same suit pants he wore last night to dinner. He hasn’t been home.
“Your money is no good here.” I shake my head as he tries to hand me more than enough for the food. I fold my arms. “Hard night, huh? Does