Chapter 1

Walking into the cloakroom at the beginning of my shift – which just so happens to be the night shift – the last thing I expected to find is Tristan balls deep in some delivery guy he had up against the wall.

He didn’t stop when I entered. Instead, he seemed annoyed that I ignored him and went harder, that is if the man bent over the tables hissing was anything to go by.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not homophobic, far from it. I just don’t need to be greeted with that shit when I go to work.

Quickly leaving the room, I dump my coat in the office and decide I’ll put it away later.

Tristan and I take it in turns working the night shift at the bakery.

I know, a twenty-four-hour bakery-patisserie, but it actually does really well. So much, so that they have started putting the two of us together, because ‘it’s too much to handle alone,’ or so I’m told.

Usually when I work, I only make the easy stuff, cookies, and cupcakes. Most of the bread and stuff is already done for me. I have recently turned eighteen and am attending college part-time during the day, to learn how to become a real baker.

My boss thinks it’s a great idea for me to work with Tristan because he is already a fully qualified and trained baker and he can teach me. Apparently it will help towards college, which I guess is right. But I don’t know… I feel weird around him. He is always watching me when he thinks I’m not looking and I swear I caught looking at my ‘man’ once when I was using the urinal. But wasn’t sure, so I just started using the cubicles instead.

Now here, I am stood alone in the eerily quiet bakery preparing a new batch of cookies. The people I had taken over from had just left and so had the delivery guy. I noticed his van pass the window about fifteen minutes ago. He seem to leave pretty quickly after I saw him and Tristan, but my colleague was still nowhere in sight.

The bell on the door chimes indicating a customer. “Hello. Is it the norm?” I ask the elderly regular.

“Hello, son. Yes. Six whites, four grain, four brown and a chocolate roll for the Mrs.” He and his wife ran a sandwich shop several streets away. He came here every night to pick up his fresh order of bread for the next day.

“I’ll be out with it in a minute,” I tell him and he thanks me before leaving to open the car.

In the beginning, he always used to tell me I didn’t have to take the delivery out to the car. But I never listened. I offered him the delivery service to bring it to his shop, but he say he enjoys coming in and then he can buy his wife a treat. It was really nice. They have been married more than forty years and still love each other.

“Tristan, I am going to take Mr. Taylor’s order out for him,” I call back and leave not sure if he was listening.

“Thank you so much, son. You’ll really have to come to the shop another time and I’ll give you a free feed,” Mr. Taylor offered as he did every time after I packed the car.

“You don’t have to do that. I enjoy helping.” I really did, especially when it got me away from that grumpy ass I work with for a minute.

After talking for a minute about random unimportant stuff he finally leaves. He’s a nice guy, but I swear he can talk for England. Not to mention he is always trying to get me to eat at his shop for free.

What is it with people trying to feed me?

My neighbor is just the same. Every time she sees me she tells me how skinny I am and my Dad need to feed me more. That I should come to her house if I am ever hungry.

But I’m not underweight or anything. I am normal for my size. I am five foot five and yes, I am slim. I tried to work out, but there was never the time. I wish I were more toned, but I think my body is alright.

Sweeping my dark brown hair – which reached my ear – back under my uniform hat and out of my brown eyes, I head inside.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Did I mention how nice he speaks to me?

“I called you, I was helping Mr. Taylor,” I said not in the mood for an argument. He may always look at me when he thinks I’m not looking, but it doesn’t stop him being an ass.

But being the manager/owners son, thirty-two-year-old Tristan could do pretty much what he liked and get away with it.

“Well, I didn’t hear you,” He grumbled as I push the cart I used to take the bread out back to where it belonged.

Ignoring his assiness, I return to making my cookies. His father is a really nice guy, he treated me better than my own father and let me make patterns and pictures of my choice on the cupcakes and cookies. As long as it was decent, it was alright. It might seem a little girly, but I really enjoy it.

I was so engrossed in finishing off the batch of cupcakes that I didn’t hear anyone him approach me.