Late evening at the bakery was one of Bella's favorite times. As the afternoon crowds filtered out, there was something comforting about cleaning everything and putting it back to right. She was normally here for the opening shifts, up at 3 or 4 in the morning to begin mixing and proofing the bread dough, but one of the front end girls called out sick so she stayed late to help keep things moving.
She stretched her arms and shoulders out. It had been a long day. She took a quick break around 11AM to eat something, but other than that, had been on her feet for most of the day.
And yet, she lingered.
Her family owned the bakery and she one of the head bakers. The kitchen was more or less closed for the day, with the last rounds of bagels, breads, and sweets having been baked a few hours ago. Because of this, the small, industrial kitchen was all hers.
She didn't want to stay too long, but she had a memory floating in the back of her mind. It was a garlicky pastry that her grandmother used to make. Her grandmother had passed away a few years ago, and she was sure her grandfather would appreciate seeing one of her old recipes resurrected. And if it went over well, the bakery could always use some authentic specials.
Bella's family was mostly Escrovian. It was a small, mountainous country in Europe, between Italy and France. The bakery had been in their family for 4 generations, since her grandparents emigrated from Escrovia.
The bakery was the only remaining Escrovian bakeshop in Brooklyn. Their neighborhood had been a small enclave of Escrovian immigrants a few decades ago, but cities change. Now, their neighbors were as like to be Puerto Rican, Korean, or Russian. Her grandfather grumbled about the withering of his community sometimes, but also ate more kimchi than anyone she knew.
Regardless, their small bakery was bedecked in Escrovian pride. A large flag hung outside the front door, and on the walls was a soccer jersey from the national team and a picture of JFK shaking the Escrovian prime minister's hand. It was all a bit much, Bella thought with a mental eye roll.
Even she had to admit, though, that her grandmother's baking was what to aspire to. And that was what had her at the bakery late, toasting pine nuts and roasting garlic, as the last of the employees left. With the place to herself, she cranked the music a little higher, marinating the chicken in a garlic and basil sauce. As the ingredients came together, the bakery began to smell amazing.
She finally pulled the chilled dough out of the fridge, quickly throwing down some flour on the counter with an experienced flick of the wrist. It was critical to work quickly because there was so much butter in the dough. She didn't have a recipe, but was working off her memory of the pastry and a general knowledge of baking.
She started humming along with the music as she pinched the corners of the small pastry puffs together, sealing the chicken, basil, and garlic inside. Once they were all closed, she quickly topped them with the pine nuts and popped them in the waiting oven.
She was just wiping down the counter as they were baking when she heard the front door open. She straightened, annoyed that the last cashier to leave hadn't locked up, and that she hadn't checked the lock either.
"Sorry, we close at 4," she called, bumping the swinging door to the kitchen open.
"You're closed?" The man in the doorway looked so crestfallen, that she felt a twinge of guilt but also annoyance. Everyone in their neighborhood knew what time they closed. She met his deep green eyes and wavered a moment. "But I swore I smelled some pastelitos." He sniffed the air.
She recognized the slight accent as similar to her grandfather's. Every now and again, they got a visitor from Escovia that was new to the city and looking for a taste of home, or younger college students looking to impress their foreign relatives during a family visit.
"Yes, I have a batch in the oven, but we're closed. Recipe development."
"Too bad, they're my favorite. My sister makes them with basil and pine nuts. Sorry to interrupt." He pushed the door open behind him.
She bit her lip. "Hang on, they'll be out in a minute." He turned, a gleeful expression lighting up his face. "Can't turn away a visitor from the old country, my grandfather would disown me. And you can help with research and development."
He laughed as she grabbed the tray from the oven. The pastries had browned nicely, but were they smaller than she remembered? Also, the nuts had browned more than she liked.
She grabbed a notebook from the counter and scribbled a note to herself to skip the pre-toasting on the nuts. Vaguely, she registered that the visitor had followed her into the kitchen and seated himself on one of their wooden stools.
"I think you should wait at least five minutes," she said, watching out of the corner of her eye as he reached toward the hot pastry.
"I'm an expert at burning my mouth, actually. I'm impervious to your mortal limitations," he snarked as he snagged one juggling it from hand to hand. He delicately took a bite and positively moaned.
She blushed, her eyes having caught up to how attractive her visitor was. His copper hair was long and just a bit wind-tousled, falling into his bright eyes. He had long fingers that held the pastry as he blew on it. The sound of his moan was just a little salacious.
"Just like home," he pronounced. "I really like them this size, actually. Sometimes in the city, they make them really big, but then the bottom gets a little soggy. This is better."
She shook herself away from staring at him. "I knew they were normally bigger," she muttered, scratching down another note.
"What is your name and when can I hire you to make this every day?" he asked, polishing off the last bit of it.
"I think it's customary for people breaking and entering after hours to introduce themselves first," Bella quipped, blowing on her own pastelito.
She saw him look up at her in surprise. "Oh, it's um - Anthony. Anthony." He paused. "Sorry, I thought that you - I thought I had introduced myself already."
She grinned. "hard to be offended if it's my baking that distracted you. I'm Bella."
"The baker was pretty distracting as well," he said, throwing her a wink. "Where are you from, Bella?"
She shrugged. "Here. Brooklyn. My family's Escovian, obviously, but I'm a New Yorker."
"Oh. I mean, you sound very New Yawk," he drew out the vowels a little bit. "But these are amazing. Provincial. Authentic. Homey. I assumed you were born there, at least."
She blushed a little at his praise, sweeping off the counter. "No. This is my first trial run with these actually, but I remember my grandmother making them. I think next time I'll go with dark meat instead. I am glad I got the sign off from an expert though, before they go to my grandfather for judgement." Her coy tone was flirtatious.
She heard the front door open again. "Bellita! What's this I smell?"
She rolled her eyes. "Speak of the devil." She raised her voice a little. "In here, Papi! I have a surprise for you!"
The door swung open and revealed her grandfather. At 81 years old, he was still active, and moved well, despite his sloping back and his cane. "Pastelitos! Bellita, this brings me back!" He grabbed one of the tarts, and only then noticed Anthony. "Who's this? Friend of yours?"
Bella blushed, watching Anthony smirk a bit. "A new friend," she said smoothly. "Fresh off the boat, it seems. This is Anthony."
"Nice to meet you, sir," he said, extending a hand to her grandfather. "You have a wonderful bakery here. A little piece of home, in the middle of the city."
Her Papi's face split into a wide smile. "An Escovian! Well, you're always welcome here! Where are you from, amiccee?"
"Landistown," Anthony said, naming the capital city. "And yourself?"
"Landistown! Lovely city! Love the football team. I'm from Reischard. It's a small village."
Anthony nodded. "Near Mount Ganclee, I know it. The trees there in the spring are so lovely."
Bella thought her grandfather was going to faint of joy. No one ever knew the small town of his youth, even the other Escovians in town.
Her Papi looked over at her. "New friend, eh? Keep an eye on this one, Bellita."
Bella blushed and finished wiping down the counters, bagging a few pastry up for each of the men, who were now speaking in rapid Escovian. She knew a few words, but they were going too fast and she got lost.
Until the Escovian turned from cheerful to a bit more serious, and Anthony made a strange sound, halfway between a snort and a laugh.
She turned, curious, and saw Anthony studying the floor with great interest before he looked back up at her grandfather and spoke for several minutes in a quiet, serious tone. Her grandfather nodded in response, seemingly satisfied.
"I'll head back upstairs, Bellita. Don't you stay here working too late," her Papi teased. "And these are perfect. You should talk to your cousin about putting them on the menu." He clapped Anthony on the shoulder. "Come by anytime, Anthony. And anything you need in this city, I have a lot of contacts. You tell any Escovian you know Pietro Swan, and they'll take care of you."
"Appreciate it, sir," Anthony said as Bella rolled her eyes.
"Excuse him, he thinks he's a one-man welcoming committee," she said as soon as the door swung shut. "What were you two chattering about?"
He caught her gaze, his eyes sparkling. "Well, he asked if I stared at all the pretty bakers in Landistown, or if my manners left me once I got to New York."
She both blushed and groaned. "He didn't…"
"And I told him that it only happened around exceptionally beautiful bakers that welcome in strangers with pastelitos."
She made a face. "You did not give that cheesy line to my grandfather. He would have kicked you out."
He grinned. "Ok, I didn't tell him that exactly. But I did tell him that I'd be a perfect gentleman around you in the future."
She raised her eyebrows. "The future, eh?"
He grabbed the bag of leftovers that she had left for him and headed for the door. "Well of course. Now that I know where to get the best baked goods in the city, I will definitely be seeing more of you, Bella." He winked and raised the bag. "Thank you, truly. These mean more than you think." And then the door swung shut behind him.
Bella finished cleaning up, thinking that Anthony was exceptionally charming and somehow very strange.
Outside the bakery, a black car was waiting at the curb. The windows were tinted, but Edward didn't pause before opening the passenger side door.
"Dude, this isn't funny anymore," said the driver, a large, muscular man with close cropped curls.
"Sorry, Emmett. I just meant to run out for a few things and then I smelled pastelitos. And you know me…"
"God forbid you pass up baked goods," the larger man grumbled. "Are those for me?"
"They're for us. I'll come back with you sometime. If these are any indication, the rest of the food here must be awesome. And the baker is gorgeous."
Emmett shook his head. "A girl? An American girl?"
"Her grandparents are Escovian. She might even be full Escovian, I didn't ask for a pedigree," Edward snapped. "Also, she thinks she just met Anthony, a run of the mill fellow new to the city."
"You didn't tell her who you are!" Emmett exclaimed. "As your head of security, this is a terrible idea. Almost as bad as you ditching your guard this afternoon to wander Brooklyn."
Edward smirked. "Pretty sure I'm the boss here."
"Your mom's my boss, dude. She'd deport me in a minute if I lost you."
"Of course she wouldn't, she's practically adopted you. Don't eat those all!"
"I thought we were going back tomorrow," Emmett said around pastry. "Even though that would be the worst place for you to try to be undercover. I saw that huge flag out front." He snuck another look at his companion's face. "It is the girl, isn't it? Is it the girl?" He paused for a second, assessing Edward's expression.. "Ok, we'll go when they're not busy."