Clementine looks at me under her lashes. “I… I’m not used to drinking black coffee. Do you know how to make a cinnamon latte?” she murmurs.
I stare at her in confusion. For a moment, I don’t know how to reply. And then on autopilot, I grab the milk carton from the fridge and the ages-old cinnamon powder bottle from the spice rack. “Mix them all and you have your drink.”
Her gaze drifts from me to the items I placed on the table. “Not funny.” But she still pours some milk and sprinkles cinnamon over her coffee.
“Now you can go back and start on that inspiration.” I’m slowly realizing it’s not only Mere who likes Clementine in our space, but Clementine also enjoys being here more than the loft. And I don’t really fucking know how I feel about it.
“Can you sit with me until I drink this?” Her eyes twinkle as she picks up her cup.
How is she always so…cheerful?
But my good mood is slowly slipping away.
Did I give her too much freedom? Why is she suddenly so comfortable around me?
“And do what?”
“Talk. Or listen.”
Just because she is good to my daughter, I decide to give her a few more minutes. Also, I’m a little curious what she can talk to me about. We have nothing in common.
She is like this sunshine while I live in perpetual darkness.
“I’m listening.” I take a chair opposite her and cross my arms.
Without missing a beat, she starts. “Back home, when I can’t sleep, I go to the kitchen and my gram is always up, making the first cake for her bakery. It’s her tradition. Every day, there is a cake that goes from Hawthorne Mansion for her bakery staff and one lucky customer.”
“Lucky customer? Your grandmother runs a drawing for cake?” I have no idea why the hell I’m engaging with her.
“No, silly. It’s a free piece, my gram chooses who gets it. It’s like her game. She observes people in her café or sometimes in the street and then decides.”
I don’t think there’s a line outside her gram’s bakery for the free piece of cake, but Clementine makes it sound as if it’s something made of gold and silver.
“So, on mornings like these, Gram would make cinnamon latte for me and tell me stories of her younger days. It’s like our…ritual.”
She lets out a sigh as if she is back in the kitchen at her home with her grandmother. “You miss home?” I’m prompted to ask by her wistful reminiscing.
“Home, not so much. But Gram, yes.” A sadness takes over her face and it reminds me of her first day in the rain.
An unease spreads across my chest, watching her downturned expression.
“So how far is this cinnamon latte from your gram’s?” I make an attempt to cheer her up.
“The company comes very close.”
As expected, my words bring back the smile on her face. But what I didn’t expect was the lightning that hits me, as her lips curl, eyes twinkle, and her cheek muscles pull up.
What is she doing to me?
10
CLEMENTINE
I have a bad feeling.
My one week is over and I have to present my design to Vanessa today. But like I said, I have a bad feeling. I look at the peach dress draped over the mannequin. It’s subpar work.
Any designer can tell this.