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Anabelle had to admit, there were certain benefits to living above a bakery.
The first was that her studio flat maintained a delicious aroma of vanilla essence and cinnamon. She often awoke from dreams of cupcakes and frosting, simply from the scent that permeated her bedroom.
The second was that, in order the satisfy the cravings brought on by item one, the bakery owner—a motherly, middle-aged woman named Marnie, also Anabelle’s landlady—offered her a special discount on anything she purchased. It was all so delicious that Anabelle had had to increase her gym attendance to four times a week to avoid packing on too many pounds, but the raspberry and white chocolate blondies alone were worth it.
She absentmindedly picked up the last mouthful she had left on the plate at her elbow, rolling it between her fingers for a moment, eyes still fixed on the canvas in front of her, before popping it in her mouth and savouring the cloying sweetness.
For a pleasant change, the art piece she was working on wasn’t a commission, or something she would later put online to sell. It was simply a way to pass the lazy Sunday afternoon. Her palette was dotted with light, springtime colours—duck-egg blue and pastel pink, seafoam green and primrose yellow—swirling and dotted across the canvas with scarcely a plan as to where the next colour would start. It was a gentle flow of her own consciousness, the paint making her feel calm and happy.
When the knock at the door sounded, Anabelle’s heart jumped like an excited rabbit. It seemed so juvenile for the mere thought of her new boyfriend to cause such a reaction, but Matt was. . . Well, he was something else.
The third, final, and most crucial advantage to her living situation.
The first time they’d met, she was coming home from work—tired, hungry, and more than a little cranky. Teaching P.E. to classes of reluctant twelve- and thirteen-year-olds could be nothing short of exhausting at times. She paused at her front door, adjacent to the glass entrance of the bakery. She searched for her keys in the depths of her bag and as she finally drew them out, they dropped into a nearby puddle. Throwing her head back in exasperation, she bent down to pick them up, only realising she was being watched when she straightened back up.
Behind the counter was a guy. Not particularly tall or muscular, but certainly cute. His brown hair was styled neatly back, his jaw dusted with a light coat of stubble. Their eyes locked for an awkwardly long moment, before he waved and beckoned her inside.
As she stepped through the door, she’d expected a “how are you?” or “you must be the girl upstairs who eats too much cake”. Instead, he reached into the display cabinet, pulled out a rose and pistachio cookie, and said, “You look like you could use one.”
Unsure of whether to be offended by this comment, true as it might be, Anabelle reached for her purse, only for the guy to shake his head.
“On the house.”