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The dough for his sourdough/pumpkin rolls has risen to perfection.
Brad tips the bowl unto the counter to divide them into lumps before he starts shaping them. He likes to have them rough and rustic, so you can see the chunks of pumpkin breaking through the crust, which will be golden and shiny. Perfect to tear into.
Victor opens at 0800, so he’s got a half-hour before the harried businesspeople and the half-asleep freshmen almost late for their morning class start trickling in for their bagel and caffeine fix, and housewives and the old ladies sneaking in for fresh buns and cookies. The ovens have been fired up and working all morning, and the entire bakery smells like freshly baked bread, and even the street outside. By nine, the place will be packed and bustling.
Ray and Walt are busy filling up the shelves and display cases with breads and cakes and pastries. He can hear them screwing around, arguing about country music, of fucking course, but at least they’re not singing it; Brad would have to go over there and murder them, and he frankly doesn't have the time. He’s got to start working on the filling for Mrs. Ferrando’s tartlets soon, so he pushes the tray of rolls into the oven. They should be done in just twenty minutes so he can leave them to cool and be ready right before—
“Morning, gents.”
Brad accidentally blurts a dollop of lemon curd on his cooling coconut macaroons. Fuck.
“Nate, my man, you’re early!” Ray exclaims, too-loud and hyper, which means the fucking junkie is already on a sugar rush and will probably crash spectacularly by 1100. “The usual?”
“Yes, please,” Nate says, followed by the sound of him taking off his coat and stowing his shit by his table. Nate’s usual is a sourdough/pumpkin roll with walnut butter and candied ginger and a large black coffee.
“Aw, Nate, you never give me anything interesting to do,” says Walt, firing up the coffee machine. Brad listens as the clatter of beans drowns out Nate’s reply, but his tone is cheerful, the warm tones drifting out to reach even Brad. He curses, quietly, wiping his hands on his apron. He manages to rescue most of the batch of macaroons, chucking the ruined ones in a silver bowl on the windowsill. At the end of the day, the bowl goes to Ray, who is a palate-less philistine and will stuff anything into his face.
“It’s going to be a couple minutes, homes. That’s what you get for being early.”
“I’ll live,” Nate says cheerfully, and then, “Is Brad in the back?”
“Uhuh,” Ray says, and he sounds like he’s smirking, the fucker. “You can go say ‘hi’ if you want, he probably won’t bite your head of.” The emphasis on ‘your’ is subtle as a brick, and Brad can hear Walt’s muffled laugh. Both of them are fucking fired.
Nate appears in the doorway in between moments, hair a fluffy mess and cheeks flushed from the chilly autumn wind outside. He's wearing the dark green sweater his mom made him for Christmas last year.
“Hi.”
“Morning.”
They stare at each other for a moment before Brad remembers that he used to be a death-dealing warrior and has never to his knowledge been a swooning teenage girl. “My opening hours not good enough for you?”
“Nope.” Nate grins, stepping closer, shutting the door behind him to cut off the sound of Ray and Walt’s retarded snickering. “I have a lot to write today, I’m afraid. I hope you don’t mind me colonizing my table for the day.”
Brad decides not to tell him that Nate on display by the window lures in most of the teenage girls giggling through their orders of elaborate macchiatos and dainty cupcakes. He’s probably single-handedly responsible for a good 20% of Victor’s profits.
“I suppose I’ll allow it,” he offers magnanimously, “Go sit by the window with your pretentious 5$ coffee and your shiny Apple monstrosity, you dirty hipster.”
“You’re the one selling me the pretentious coffee, Brad.”
“Ah, yes, but I’m the shrewd businessman in this scenario, playing into the retarded delusions of a dissolute, obnoxious subculture.”
Nate grins, leaning a little closer on the counter to steal a strawberry from the pile on Brad’s cutting board. “Extravagant and spoiled?”
Brad feels the corner of his mouth curl up. Nate bites into his purloined fruit pointedly, green eyes bright. Jesus Christ.
Three different ovens start beeping before he can get out a halfway appropriate reply.
“See you later, Brad.” Nate smiles, stealing another strawberry and heading back out the door.
Brad blows out a breath and gets to work.
Five minutes later, his brain catches up with what his hands are doing only to find that he’s holding a spoon laden with the raspberry jam meant for his sponge cake, without quite knowing why or when or how. He looks down at his tartlets. They’re decorated with pretty red swirls, cheerful and evocative, inviting a taste. The color is exactly the same as Nate’s bottom lip after he’s bitten it in frustration over a new chapter giving him trouble.
Brad rolls his eyes at himself and shoves the tartlets in the oven.