Portrait of Us Read Online Free Page A

there I’d anticipated, sure—but I hadn’t expected that many people. The weekend was going to drag painfully slowly, especially if we didn’t get more customers in.
    My grandfather popped his head out and gave me a wink. His dark golden eyes glinted in the bakery’s lights. “Everything okay out here?”
    I grabbed the bleach and began scrubbing down the counters. Grandpa ran a tight ship, and he insisted on the place being clean. A sloppy shop turns customers off, he always preached to me.
    â€œThings are fine,” I replied. “It’s a little slow but not horribly so.”
    Grandpa stepped out and surveyed my progress. He nodded. “Doing a good job. Keep up the hard work.”
    I warmed under his praise. He was a tough boss, one who pushed me to do better. If I was giving a 100 percent, he wanted a hundred and ten. But this job had taught me a lot so far. Plus, having extra money in my pocket—that I’d earned myself—was never a bad thing.
    â€œHow’s things at home?” he asked as he walked to the bread shelf and straightened the loaves.
    â€œGood. Mom asked if you wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow, by the way,” I said.
    His nod was short. “Can do.”
    Grandma had passed away a few years ago, from cancer. He’d loved her heart and soul, and though he wasn’t one to show a lot of emotion, her death had broken his heart. We’d all been worried that Grandpa would pull away, so Mom had started insisting he come over for Sunday dinner from time to time. That, plus the business, had spurred Grandpa to get out of bed every morning.
    Time hadn’t erased all the pain, but he was gradually getting his old self back. Mom, however, hadn’t backed off on having him over regularly. But it was nice having him around.
    The phone rang. He shuffled back into his office, and I heard his gruff voice as he took someone’s order. Not the most emotional man, but his cakes were out of this world. And his designs . . . I didn’t know how he did it. He’d never gone to art school, yet somehow they were richly decorated, sheer perfection.
    While I added a few more croissants to the glass case in front of our counter, the door dinged. In walked Matthew, followed by a few of his basketball-jock friends. The guys behind him were loud, shoving each other, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
    I had to be nice to the customers, even if they were super annoying.
    Or if one of them had piercing blue eyes that kept drawing my attention back.
    I was glad Grandpa wasn’t here to see the hot flush on my cheeks. He was pretty astute and would see it immediately. I cleared my throat. “Can I help you?”
    One of Matthew’s friends, a stocky Asian who I think was going to be a senior this year, pursed his lips. He strolled to the counter, dragging his fingertips along the glass. Ugh. “I want a doughnut,” he said, looking back at his two buddies.
    Matthew’s brow furrowed, and he bore holes into his friend’s face. What was that all about?
    The guy cleared his throat, then glanced back at me. “Uh, please.”
    At least one of them had manners—and enough common sense to make the other ones behave politely. Guess I could give Matthew a point of credit for that one. I gave a nod and walked over to the doughnut section. “What would you like?”
    The guy tilted his head. His black hair was spiked in the front, and he rubbed a hand absently over the top of it. “Something loaded with chocolate.”
    Matthew’s other friend, a guy who was in science with me this year—Thomas—came to the counter too. “Hey, get two of them. You owe me for buying you a Coke yesterday.”
    The first guy grumbled, then nodded.
    I pulled two chocolate-covered doughnuts out and made myself look at Matthew. For some stupid reason, my pulse picked up. “Anything for you?” At least