The Accidental Kiss

by Heatherly Bell

  “And I’m thinking its gas.”

  “Stop it! I’m way too cool for gas.” She cleared her throat. “Okay, butter is next.”

  Charley searched in the walk-in refrigerator. “You’re out of butter. How can you be out of butter?”

  “Lord of the flies!” Milly cursed. She’d recently told Charley that she was trying to clean up her language in advance of the baby and was forcing her to do the same. “Come upstairs. I’ve got a secret stash.”

  Charley rushed up the inner stairwell to the private apartment section above the bakery. This particular neighborhood in San Francisco not far from the Mission District had been nicknamed Miracle Bay by the locals, based on the legend of the sunset kiss. Kiss someone at sunset in Miracle Bay, the legend said, and you might find your true love. The legend was good for business, because every mid-July in a “kiss hello to summer,” ritual, sailboats would launch at sunset boarding hopeful singles hoping to kiss and find their true love. It was a three-day event and all the rage in Miracle Bay.

  Unfortunately, Charley knew from actual experience that the so-called legend didn’t work for everyone.

  Above the bakery there were two small apartments directly across from each other. One of them was where Milly now lived, and the other one had once belonged to Milly’s mother, Coral. She’d been gone a few years now, but Coral had been Charley’s mother too, or at least the last foster mother she’d had before she aged out of the system. The best one, and Charley’s twenty-eight-year-old self could admit that now.

  She threw open the unlocked door to Milly’s apartment. She was still exactly where Charley had left her. Straight jet-black hair piled high on her head. On the plush purple couch in the main room were several hot pink, yellow, and bright orange pillows stuffed around her, Rufus the Siamese cat at her feet. He didn’t even bother to lift his head and acknowledge Charley’s presence. He was stuck-up that way.

  “Who keeps a secret stash of butter?” Charley asked.

  “Wise bakers. I buy it in bulk, but I won’t put all of it in the walk-in. Why do I do that? Because sooner or later, something like this always happens. Someone who is not me forgets to make a note that we’re low on butter.”

  Charley found butter in the vegetable crisper. Several pounds of it. No vegetables but plenty sticks of butter. Charley waved a stick at Milly. “I’m not going to call you weird or anything because you hoard butter.”

  Milly made a face. “Really, what is going on here? I’m getting that bummed-out feeling again.”

  “Could that bummed-out feeling have anything to do with the bed rest?”

  “Why? I’m going to Netflix-binge for a week. This is like the best thing ever.” As if she realized what she’d just said, Milly corrected herself. “I mean, though, I’m sorry about New Orleans.”

  “Sean said he’ll talk to Chef Tati and see what he could do about stalling.”

  Either way, Charley’s entire life had been one seismic change after another. By now she rolled with it. Milly needed her, and as the only family Charley had, there was no way she would let her down.

  Milly pointed to her front door. “Now get back down there and bake with love!”

  “Is there any other way?” Charley mumbled.

  No sooner had Charley reached the bakery than the monitor squawked again. “One of the men from House 50 is coming by before we open, and I told them I’d have two dozen assorted donuts ready and waiting.”

  Milly knew that Charley and Dylan had argued. She just didn’t know why. Dylan was still stewing over the fact that Charley wasn’t listening to him and backing off. Lately, they’d had no late-night phone calls or text messages.

  This was weird because they talked or texted every night when she was away from the city, long talks in which she’d carefully tell him every detail about her long day in whatever kitchen she’d been working in whatever city. He’d tell her about the crazy calls he’d run that day. The guy who’d taken too much Viagra and his girlfriend had to call 911. The three-alarm fire at a warehouse someone had been using to illegally rent out apartments.

  Finally, a few hours later, the Sunrise bakery was filled with the smells of fresh baked bread, cinnamon, chocolate, and butter. Nothing quite hit home more than the smells of a bakery. And even if she’d chosen the main course over baking, she’d first found her place in the world here. Her purpose.

  There was a sharp knock on the glass pane door.

  Milly spoke through the baby monitor. “You better go let them in. Take me with you.”

  Charley sighed and picked up the monitor handset. “Really? I don’t know, reception in that part of the store? Not good.” She carried the monitor with her to the front of the store, smiling her evil grin. “Got…I…door…can’t…”

  “You’re cutting out,” Milly said. “I didn’t get that. Over.”

  This micro-managing was getting out of control. Charley set the monitor on the counter and with a flick of her wrist shut it off. “Enough.”

  She pulled up the blinds that covered the bakery doors and found the figure of Dylan Reyes, hands shoved in the pockets of his blue SFFD jacket. As dawn broke outside, he stood framed by the fading gleam of a streetlight and a random ray of sunlight, like a beautifully dark fallen angel. Good Lord, he was perfect.

  She hadn’t realized quite how much she’d missed seeing him, despite the fact that he was proof incarnate the sunset legend seemed to work so well for other people and not her. Which made her special in a backward way she didn’t want to be. What’s more, being around him always caused all manner of physical reactions, from unexplainable tingles to more explainable deep affection. The affection she understood. The tingles not so much, though they weren’t entirely unwelcome.

  The moment his shimmering mocha eyes fixated on her, he quirked a brow.

  She pointed to the “Closed” sign, then to him. Shook her head. Mouthed: you’re early.

  He mimed her opening the door. She shook her head, pressed her lips together, and crossed her arms.

  He scowled and held up his wristwatch. Acted out hanging himself, ending with his tongue hanging out. And in spite of herself and her rolled-up tight resentment for a man who’d never see her as more than his buddy, he’d pulled a laugh out of her without saying a word. Charley removed the keys from her pink and yellow gingham Sunrise Bakery apron that was a size too large. She unlocked the door and stepped back. If he wanted to come in, he’d have to do the rest of the work himself. She gave him her back and the doorbell chimed as it opened. Heavy work boots thudded behind her.

  “Since when do they send the LT to pick up donuts?” Charley said.

  She stole a quick glance in his direction. A mistake. He had an amused look on his face, lips tilted into his classic one-tip smile. Edgy dark eyes not quite there. Typical. It was hard to get Dylan to smile on the best of days but when a smile reached all the way to his eyes you’d practically won the lottery.

  He met her gaze. “Mad at me?”

  “I’m not mad.” Yep, she was mad.

  “You haven’t texted me.”

  “You haven’t texted me, either.”

  “How’s Milly doing today?”

  “She’s good.” She broke eye contact first, as always.

  Milly had given Charley a full report after the fact. Dylan and his crew had responded to the 911 call an anxious teenage Naomi, their part-time employee, had made when Milly collapsed at work. Charley had received a call later the same day and been en route the next morning to be with her sister.

  According to Milly, Naomi had raved about how fast the response time had been when she’d dialed 911. Gone on and on about the hotter than hell firefighters. Dylan, the hottest of them all, of course, with a “swoony” bedside manner. He’d spoken so sweetly to Milly and reassured her, even held her hand. Naomi hadn’t stopped going on about Dylan until Milly had given her the evil eye and told her that the bakery floor needing mopping.

  No one needed to remind Charley th
at Dylan was swoony. She’d known that for what felt like forever but was in fact only thirteen years. Even now, she’d swear her entire body lit up and reacted to the heated awareness that he was only feet away from her. He, unfortunately, did not reciprocate said tingly feelings. This was a sad but true fact Charley had learned to live with. Mostly.

  “How’s the sleuthing going, Mrs. Marple?”

  “We’re so not talking about this.”

  Charley wished she had her butcher’s knife in her hand right now, to stab it into her cutting board and make a point. Like all good chefs, she was learning to be temperamental. Instead, all she had was a little pink cardboard box to fold together. As she tucked edges in, she did so with a vengeance, with a lot of wrist action involved.

  “Chuck, I don’t want you chasing this guy—”

  “You don’t understand. She thinks she can do it all.”

  “Maybe she can. Let her decide how she wants to handle this situation.”

  “Nope, sorry, no can do. Milly needs my help. You know how she is.”

  “I know you. You’re going to wind up in an uncomfortable position with someone on that ridiculous list you have.”

  “If I do, I can handle him.”

  “Whatever you say, Nancy Drew.” He slid her his exaggerated look of patience and glanced at his watch. “Smitty called in a dozen donuts. I need to get going. Long shift ahead.”

  Box made up, Charley quickly grabbed the tongs. “What would you like?”

  “Anything. Just fill it up.”

  “I can’t just fill it up. I need your input. Or don’t you care?”

  “It’s for the guys and they’ll eat anything.”

  “Wow, what a compliment. Because we have scones, too. And cream puffs.”

  “Fill. It. Up.”

  “Alright, Bossy, then don’t complain if you don’t have what you like in it.”

  She sighed and threw in an old-fashioned raised, a raspberry crème-filled Danish, several sugar raised, and chocolate glazed donuts. Charley boxed up the donuts and taped the lid. While Dylan quietly waited on the other side of the register having obviously given up on arguing, she rang him up. And stole glances at him when he wasn’t looking. His larger than life presence took up the space between them, stealing all the oxygen from the room. Filling up all the empty spaces. Calming her even while he managed to stir up every named and unnamed emotion. She hated when they argued, and it was true he had a lot of good points, but she couldn’t budge on this one.

  When he handed over his cash, their fingers bumped into each other eliciting a far too familiar tug of longing. The tug went straight from her fingers up her arm, where it gained speed and electricity, and found the quickest pathway to her heart. She knew from past experience that the ache would settle there.

  His back already to her, he raised his arm in a half-hearted wave. “Text me later.”

  And they both knew she would. She’d text, and they’d fall back into old and familiar patterns. Best friends to the end. They were tomato and basil, bread and butter, chocolate and milk. Butter and cream.

  But apparently, he wasn’t her true love.

  3

  “I took the road less traveled and…now I don’t know where I am. ~ meme

  Dylan managed to hand over the box of donuts to his crew before he had to field his first question about Charley being back in the city. For how long was anyone’s guess. No doubt she’d make herself scarce when Milly was officially on the mend. But he was used to her flitting in and out of his life, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake.

  What was happening now felt different somehow.

  “You still pissed at her? C’mon, it was almost funny.” Smitty devoured a chocolate glazed donut in two bites. “Look at it this way. The guy’s okay, and now he’s probably engaged.”

  “How is that a good thing?” Marco, Dylan’s younger brother, grimaced.

  Smitty shrugged. “He seemed happy about it.”

  There was no excuse for the way Charley was making her way through the city, scaring men and putting herself in possible danger. He and Charley had a long history, so it was only natural that he worried. She had his back, and he had hers. Always. An argument here and there was to be expected between people who’d been friends for over a decade. Marco liked to joke they were like an old married couple who’d forgotten to get married.

  And also, the sex. They’d forgotten that part, too.

  They’d started a friendship at Mission High School, her the tiny but feisty girl who worked weekends in her foster mother’s bakery. The girl he’d nicknamed “Chuck” because it fit. She had an extensive collection of Chuck Taylors and thought all designers of sexy women’s shoes were closet misogynists.

  “How long she staying this time?” This was from Tony, one of the old-timers at the station who’d worked with Dylan’s dad.

  “Figure she’ll leave again once Milly is off best rest.”

  At least then she’d be forced to stop chasing prospective sperm donors down. After the scare over Milly’s baby, he’d expected Charley to get herself back home. Charley Young was a lot of things. Beautiful and impulsive. Funny. Creative and honest. Wild. But even if he weren’t her best friend, he’d made his mind up long ago that the last man she needed in her life was a firefighter. He’d always discouraged any man on his crew who’d wanted to ask her out. There had been plenty of them over the years, but he had to protect the girl who’d endured such loss and turmoil in her life.

  He understood loss. His father, Emilio Reyes, had died in the line of duty eighteen years ago and Firehouse 50 had been like a second home to his mother Pepita, widow Alice, and three boys. Dylan had been the first to enter the field, but not before he’d studied fire science at San Francisco State. His brother Marco followed a couple of years later, getting in through an open call and some good old-fashioned nepotism.

  But his youngest brother Joe was still the wild card. He had no interest in joining the family tradition of service to community and spent most of his time either on a surfboard or a skateboard. The twenty-four-year old’s life was still one big party.

  Later that morning, after they’d cleaned and checked all their equipment, Dylan locked himself in his office to take care of email and phone calls. One phone call in particular.

  A call to Joe was long overdue. He’d made himself scarce for the past few months, which had greatly upset their mother and grandmother. When Joe finally answered, Dylan swore he heard seagulls in the background. Undoubtedly, the surf was up somewhere.

  “Hey. Where are you?”

  “Catching waves in Santa Cruz. You?”

  “Where else? Work,” Dylan ground out.

  He would ask where Joe had been staying, but no doubt it was with a new girlfriend. His younger brother seemed to attract both women and friends like the Pied Piper. Hard work was another story. Last Dylan had heard, he was working as a surf instructor at a local board shop.

  “Tight. Lots of business from the tourists.”

  “You coming up for Ma’s anniversary party next week?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Ten years cancer free. The good residents of Miracle Bay liked to call it just one of their many miracles. Dylan called it good health insurance and a whole lot of luck.

  In the background, Dylan heard the sounds of waves crashing. He lived in San Francisco but couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the beach. Couldn’t recall the last time he’d had fun with or without a woman. Somehow Joe managed to be where he wanted to be at all times. And they all, Dylan included, let him get away with it.

  “Hey, any more thoughts on that EMT course we talked about?”

  “Nah, you know I don’t test well. I’ll get through all the classes and I won’t be able to pass the state licensing test.”

  Dylan sighed deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. “Giving up is easier than putting in the tough work.”

  He understood anything involving testing was rougher f
or Joe because of his late-diagnosed dyslexia. Dylan clearly remembered late nights spent helping Joe with his homework. The frustration he’d felt when it seemed Joe wouldn’t even try. He’d been a good kid in school, funny, cute and entertaining, and the teachers adored him. He’d never had any behavior issues. Consequently, he’d received no real help despite dismal grades, until their mother had insisted he be tested. He’d wound up testing for a slew of learning disabilities, dyslexia included. Without any help, he’d slipped through the cracks.

  “We don’t all have to be first responders,” Joe added. “Besides, I’m a certified lifeguard. That’s good enough for me. You and Marco save the people from fires, I’ll save them from too much water.”

  Dylan scrubbed a hand down his face. “Listen, I’ll see you on the Fourth.”

  Dylan hung up and finished going through a slew of emails. It had been a slow day, but that afternoon, the first call turned out to be the usual medical response. Those were always the toughest because they were often dealing with the elderly, mentally ill, and homeless in the city. Today a homeless man had been spotted collapsed on the sidewalk in front of a law firm, but when they got to him, he reared up, ready to fight. He’d simply been sleeping.

  “This is my spot!” The man came up swinging. “Fight you for it.”

  “Take it easy, man.” Dylan ducked a punch. And another.

  Growing up with two younger brothers, he had good reflexes he still employed to this day. They finally managed to calm the man down enough to ascertain that he was sleeping off a bender, and when he refused a ride to the county hospital they simply suggested he find another place to sleep it off besides the entryway of an upscale law firm.

  Their second call involved a fire in a fraternity house. When they rushed upstairs, they found a pot in the hallway, flames rising out of it. Once they’d extinguished the fire, Dylan wanted to know who in the hell had dragged a pot of flaming hot oil into the hallway.

  “Mummanshah.” One of the students shrugged. He was chewing as he spoke, making it difficult to decipher what he was saying.