I rushed into the bakery, the bell above the door giving a small jingle. Mike was standing behind the counter, arranging pastries into neat rows. He looked up as soon as I walked in and smiled at me.
"Morning, Fiona," he said warmly.
I glanced at the clock on the wall and immediately felt a pang of guilt. "Sorry if I'm late—"
"You're not," he interrupted, shaking his head. "Relax. You're right on time."
Relieved, I nodded and headed toward the back where I'd seen the cubbies yesterday. I dropped my bag and books in one of the empty slots and grabbed an apron hanging on the hook. The fabric felt stiff and smelled faintly of flour.
"First things first," Mike said as I tied the apron around my waist. He nodded toward the sink. "Wash your hands. Then we'll get started."
I followed his instructions, scrubbing my hands under the cold water. My nerves were already buzzing, but I tried not to let it show.
"You ready?" he asked when I finished drying my hands.
