Chapter 8

Crane holds up two paint cards, one next to the other, brings them up to his nose, pulls them back to an arms length, and lets out a deep, resounding "hmmmm" that Abbie can practically feel practically feel rumbling through the floor. The wheels of the rickety shopping cart (he calls it a 'trolley') creak as she pulls it to a stop just before she can run over her boyfriend's toes.

"What are you doing?" She heaves exasperatedly, leaning against his half full cart and shaking her head. She'd come to Home Depot with him to help him find little odds and ends to humanize his apartment, but Crane got stuck in the paint aisle, and after waiting thirty minutes for him to decide between "iconic sky" and "salty teal," she'd decided to finish off the rest of his list for him. She'd expected that by the time she returned, he'd have finally chosen between the blues, but instead he'd moved on to choosing a color for his kitchen.

"Does your kitchen even have walls?" Abbie grumbles.

"Underneath the cabinets, yes," Crane responds matter of factly. "Maybe a slate grey would be good. I've been thinking of having a grey and blue theme, to match my couches-"

"I'm about to leave you," Abbie warns, backing away from the cart.

Crane gives her his most prodigious pout, which he always seems to manage without ever really pushing out his lower lip. Abbie thinks it's in his eyes, the way they widen piteously and angle up, or maybe in the way he tucks his chin into his collar like a turtle retreating into its shell. Either way, he looks ridiculous, and stupidly endearing.

Really, everything about Crane is endearing. Five months have passed since he moved to St. Louis, and, despite the fact that he becomes significantly more annoying with time, Crane has achieved the impossible and simultaneously made himself even more loveable than before.

Which, in retrospect, may not be such a huge achievement considering that five months ago, Abbie had made up her mind never to speak to him again.

"Don't give me that face," Abbie says.

"All right then, Miss Mills," he says gruffly, holding the cards up to his chest, "you choose."

Having spent the last five years working tirelessly to revamp Crumbtious from old small town charmless to modern warmth, Abbie's spent a good bit of her time in paint aisles at the home depots, Lowes, and Sherwin-Williams of St. Louis. She steps back, assesses the two colors, and points to the more neutral grey.

"Really?" Crane says quizzically, flipping the cards over to examine them again. "I was certain you'd pick this one, seeing as it has a hint more blue in it and you've been telling me to add more color to my life."

"Your living room walls are already pretty blue. If you're going with grey, you'll want some contrast, or it won't look as sharp," Abbie advises. She glances back at his list. "Shoot. I forgot the frame hooks. Look, you go get those colors mixed, and I'm going to run and get those. Hang on to the cart, okay?"

Crane puffs up his chest and adopts a solemn expression. "I will guard it with my life, Miss Mills."

He's so good at coaxing smiles out of her that she doesn't even attempt to suppress them anymore. It spreads wide across her face like the sun across the horizon, and he grins back at her, clearly pleased with himself.

"You'd better," she warns him, then tugs on his sleeve until he leans down to accept her peck on the cheek. "And don't you dare decide you want to try 'luscious lavender' instead and let me catch you looking back at the colors again."

"Scout's honor, Miss Mills," Crane says.

She can feel him watching her walk away, and so she adds a little swing to her hips as she goes, just like old times. Abbie doesn't have to look to know the scandalized look on his face.

Ten minutes later, she runs into a common Home Depot predicament- she can't for the life of her find the frame hooks. They're probably in the aisle she's in right now- it's full of all kinds of hooks and command strips and doodaddies- but no frame hooks, not yet, and pacing up and down the aisle five times hasn't helped her at all. Finally, she spots a man with a blinding orange vest on, and hustles up to him as fast as her short legs can take her.

"Excuse me, sir, I was wondering if you could help me-"

"In a moment," the man says, turning to her with a genial smile. "I'm helping another customer."

And then, because Abbie's luck could never exactly be called one of her strong suits, Andy rounds the corner, pushing along a cart piled high with diy shelving. When they make eye contact, he recoils like he's been shoved in the chest.

"A-Abbie! Hi!" He looks her up and down almost fearfully, settling for a breath too long on her hair. It occurs to her that he hasn't seen it in its natural state since high school- curly and free- because she'd always implicitly associated him with work and straightened it before their dates.

He looks nice. He's in a white v neck and dark wash jeans, his thick rimmed black glasses sliding down his nose in a way that makes Abbie want to push them back up again. Maybe before they'd dated, she could have done that. Instead, she gives him a hesitant smile.

"Hi Andy," she says. "It's been a while."

Almost half a year. The home depot guy hands Andy a set of screw in hooks, asks Abbie what she needs, and gives her the frame hooks before spiriting away and leaving the former lovers shuffling their feet and trying to decide whether or not to make small talk.

Abbie makes her decision after a minute.

"How've you been doing? You look good."

It appears that not running away was the correct choice, because Andy warms up immediately.

"Ah. Thanks. Been hitting the gym some." He flexes his bicep to demonstrate, then decides too late that it's inappropriate and tucks his arms behind himself. "Um. How've you been? How's Crumbtious?"

"Not the same without you, to be honest," Abbie says. "Our new advisor's a bit... Old fashioned. Has a bit of trouble understanding the whole technology thing, you know?"

Andy scratches the back of his head self-consciously.

"Yeah, well, I might be there only person under 40 at the firm, so you let go of a good thing, huh."

It wouldn't take a philosopher to hear the double meaning behind his words.

"Andy." She heaves in a deep, heavy breath that almost brings her collarbone to her chin, then bites the bullet. "I know it's been a while, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't treat you right when we were together. And I, um, miss you. I wish we could be friends."

The package of hooks in Andy's hand must have suddenly become very interesting, because he's fixated on it so intently that he almost goes cross eyed. Abbie waits expectantly, knowing that he'll stop fidgeting and answer her offer if she can hold out for a minute. It really isn't fair to be put him on the spot like this, in the middle of Home Depot with no chance to think about what he really wants, but she can't shake the feeling that this right here is her chance to make amends, and that if she lets Andy walk without really, truly apologizing, she'll never get the chance again.

"Abbie, there you are!"

Her boyfriend's timing is truly impeccable. Andy looks up sharply, and his eyes widen in recognition before narrowing with disdain. Of course she had to go date a Brit. There weren't exactly thousands of them chilling around St. Louis, and so there's no way she can shoo Crane away without making it painfully obvious to both of them that she was trying to make nice with her ex with her current flame peeking over her shoulder.

Ichabod is power walking toward them, cart full of purchased, tagged paints and all sorts of homey items that line up perfectly with Abbie's tastes in decor.

"Miss Mills, whatever happened to ten minutes?" He says cheekily, arching his eyebrow and completely missing the cold look Andy is unabashedly directing at him. When he finally notices Andy, he smiles genially. "Oh, I apologize, I've interrupted you! You're a friend of Abbie's?"

Andy scans Crane from head to toe. Then he looks at Abbie, nods grimly once, and pivots back around to face his cart.

"See you around, Abbie," he says, and then wheels away.

"Well, that was rude," Crane says, miffed. "Who was that?"

"That," Abbie says, dropping the frame hooks into their cart, "was Andy."

Crane's mouth rounds in understanding, and then widens with mischief.

"Don't make that face, Ichabod. He was my friend."

"Oh, but he was just so very bitter," Crane says gleefully, but his smile drops instantly when he sees Abbie's conflicted face.

"I did him wrong," she says flatly. "He's got a right to be bitter."

She doesn't say anything else until they pile back into his car, paint cans and toolkits in tow. The clanging of metal against wood and tin only amplifies the silence.

"Abbie," Crane finally breaks the silence when they pull into their apartment. "Talk to me. Please."

Slowly, she brings her head from its rest on his window. Her eyes are glassy. She can feel the tears just barely clinging to her eyes. Crane hadn't noticed, and the sight takes him aback.

"I have a bad, bad habit of burning bridges," she says softly. Then, "I just need a minute, okay?"

They've had their fair share of fights, or, rather, times when Crane has said the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong tone and Abbie has rewarded him for it with two hours of glacial distance, but he's never seen her truly upset, not since their unorthodox beginning. Seeing Abbie close to tears over an old flame introduces an unwelcome touch of envy to the concern he currently feels.

After a minute has passed, though, she inhales deeply, wipes the corners of her eyes, and turns to him with an unsteady smile.

"Let's get all this junk inside, okay?"

After they've emptied the trunk and have settled into their Sunday evening tradition of catching Ichabod up on Breaking Bad, she cuddles closer into his neck and says the most curious thing.

"I think I understand Katrina a bit more now."

Even though she's in a serious relationship with her sister, it's no secret that Abbie isn't Katrina's biggest fan. Given their history, Ichabod doesn't expect Abbie to be best friends with his ex-wife, and for the most part, her name is out of their vocabulary unless it pertains to Jenny or Ichabod's past. And so, Ichabod is rightfully taken aback when Abbie brings her up...to agree with her.

"May I ask what you mean by that?" he asks slowly.

"She wanted your forgiveness," Abbie says, pulling away to look him in the eye. "Even though she didn't deserve it. Even though she knew she had no right to ask you for it."

"You were hardly married to Andrew." Crane pauses the show; Jesse Pinkman's prolific swearing seems too jarring a backdrop to this conversation he's having with his Abbie. "You? You merely dated him for a few weeks."

"I'd known him for years, though. I ruined a years long friendship for a little comfort when I was trying to forget you," she looks like she's going to cry. "I knew how he felt about me, and I took advantage of that. And now I don't have an advisor, and he can barely look at me anymore."

A rush of sympathy washes over Ichabod. He gets it now, a little. She'd exchanged her friendship with Andy for intimacy, the way she'd exchanged her relationship with Jenny for stability. The Abbie he'd come to know and love did have a practical, me-first streak, but it was so tempered by her conscientiousness that it rarely arose. And whenever it did, without fail, she would feel awful about it.

"You're a good person, Abigail Mills," he tells her, drawing her back to him again, squeezing her so tightly that he feels like he's wrapped all around her.

"I don't know," Abbie whimpers into the crook of her neck. "I don't think Katrina is a good person- no shade- but here I am, doing the same thing as her. Demanding forgiveness when I don't deserve it."

"You might not ever get it, you realise," Crane muses. "At least not from him."

"I know," Abbie mutters.

"But," he holds up a finger, "You can forgive yourself."

Abbie looks up at him like a deer in headlights, her Disney princess eyes open as wide as they can.

And then she bursts into laughter.

"What kind of cheesy ass line was that, Crane," she says, but it's clear that he's succeeded somewhat in cheering her up, and so Crane only pretends to be put out.

"I'll have you know that even the most trite of proverbs are rich in truth!"

"You are such a fool." There's a touch of seduction in the accusation that makes him raise his eyebrows in interest.

She chuckles again, muted this time. He leans back on the couch and lifts a brow in invitation, knowing just what that sultry look she's giving him means. When she swings her legs over his waist to straddle him, he laughs with her, running the span of his hands down her sides. She reaches for his face, and his eyes flutter shut, preparing himself for the feeling of her lips. Instead, he feels her fingers trace his forehead, then glide along the hills of his cheekbones. He shudders as she studies him with her touch, lovingly memorizing the skin of his eyelids, the dips in his skin where his chicken pox scars used to be. One hand traces his sharp nose as the other slides down his neck, then a thumb is running along his thin lower lip. Playfully, he runs his tongue against it ever so lightly, and he feels her shiver against him.

"I love you, Abigail Mills," he breathes, meaning it more and more with every passing second.

She doesn't answer him, not with words, at least. Instead, she presses against him hard, parts his lips with a gentle budge of her tongue, and buries her fingers into his hair.

Crane rather appreciates the way Abbie initiates physical contact, which is, most of the time, by jumping his bones. He deepens the kiss, slowly pushing her shirt higher on her back and smiling in response to her contented hum of satisfaction before trailing his lips down to that spot, the one just under her jaw that leaves her trembling in his arms. Predictably, she arches into him, grabs a fistful of his shirt, and keens, smooth and high and soft and if he wasn't hard before he sure is now-

Her phone rings; it's Luke's tone, Elvis Presley's version of "Hound Dog."

"Leave it," Crane says into her neck, pulling the collar of her tee shirt to expose her shoulder and trailing his mouth there.

"Yeah," she agrees, popping away at the buttons of his shirt. She dives in to kiss him again, bracing herself against the sofa behind his head. He tugs on her lower lip and she giggles a little, pauses to stare down at him lovingly, brushes the a lock of hair that has managed to flick onto his forehead back into place. Then, making sure to keep eye contact, she rolls her hips against his.

The sight of her moving against him is almost otherworldly. Her mouth parted just so, hitching with every other roll in a gasp, the hint of cleavage as her chest heaved in her shirt, the flutter of her eyes in pleasure- they are almost as delicious as the friction she creates with her hips against his.

She loops her hands around his neck, smiles beatifically in a way that lets him know that she's about to fuck him into a wet puddle-

Her phone rings again.

"Oh for Christ's sake," she says, laying her forehead against his, breathing his breath. She closes her eyes, deliberating, then appears to make a decision during the phone's final chimes and hops off of him.

"Abbie..." Crane groans in complaint. She throws him an apologetic smile even as she roots in her bag for her phone.

"Sorry, babe," she says. "Luke never calls twice unless it's something to do with the shop."

"The shop will survive," Crane tries, but it's obvious he's lost her, as she's already got the phone to her ear and is calling Luke back. She bites her lip and offers Crane a bashful smile, and then her face hardens into all business.

"This better be important," she huffs at Luke . There is a pause, then her eyes widen and her jaw pops open. "You're kidding me."

Ever since she took over Crumbtious, Abbie has dreamed of getting that order. The outrageously lavish, excessive, expensive order from a wealthy businessman or maybe the exclusive debutante, the kind she'd have to be there in person to present, like on Cupcake Wars. She wants all of her wealthy client's wealthy friends to be so impressed by her professionalism and the homey deliciousness of their confections that they would become regulars, and she would be able to open up another location on the north side, maybe turn Crumbtious into a true chain...

And here it is. Her dream.

"... Two hundred and fifty filled cupcakes, four hundred cookies, assorted types, then two hundred decorated cookies, he wants them in white and gold, picked out his design when he came by. By Monday at eight."

Not all of her breath is leaving her lungs on her exhales- her chest feels tight, full.

"Monday. Luke. Monday is tomorrow!"

"I didn't know what to say, Abbie- we can't pass an opportunity like this up!"

"I know we can't. We definitely can't. Good God. What did you quote him?"

"Including delivery, set up, staffing, and a late charge- eight thousand. I thought maybe he'd try to haggle it down... He didn't even flinch, Abbie. Abbie, this could be huge-"

She cuts Luke off. She knows he's excited, and so she has to be the level-headed boss.

"And we've also never done an order this big. You got a pen?"

Crane is watching her very intently from the couch, blue balls evidently forgotten. She quirks an eyebrow at him as she instructs Luke on next steps- taking inventory, making sure every single person who works in the kitchen comes into work tomorrow, calling the coffee shop next door to see if they can rent out their oven for a few hours. He doesn't move the entire time, his expression getting more and more pensive, and when she finally hangs up thirty minutes later, he bounds to his feet and snags his car keys from the coffee table.

"Well, I suppose we should go restock, then."

The only place Abbie can go to get her more elusive baking supplies wholesale is an hour and a half drive away in Nowhere, Illinois, and Crane needs to be on campus by seven the next morning.

"Ichabod, you don't have to do all that," she says, touched. "I can go, you've got class tomorrow."

"This is a momentous occasion for you, is it not, Miss Mills?" Crane insists. When she nods, biting her bottom lip. "Then it's one for me, too. Let's go."

Her insides feel like they're melting at his words. She doesn't know whether to shove him for being sappy or pick up where they left off before Luke oh so rudely interrupted them. She settles, instead, for squeezing his bicep affectionately.

"Thank you," she says, letting him go in a fluid brush down to his elbow. Then, finally, she allows herself a moment to celebrate, and punches the air. Crane nearly jumps back at her uncharacteristic display, and she laughs out loud at his confusion and kisses his cheek.

The next day is an adventure. Abbie, Luke, and the rest of the kitchen staff are in by 4am, one group prepping for their ordinary traffic, the other feverishly mixing, rolling, and cutting. Abbie lords over it all, her fingers in every figurative lie, making sure everything is running smoothly and sending people back and forth from the next door coffee shop with baking cupcakes. She even helps out some, dusting cookies with powder sugar and filling piping bags. Luke is a machine, watching his team like a hawk as they ice the cookies, occasionally moving Abbie out of the way when she gets a little too opinionated about how one of the boys is mixing the red velvet batter. Later, he lets her take a bite out of one of the extra cupcakes, and her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head.

By the time baking is done, everyone is knackered, including Jovita, who has single handedly been manning the front and had to deal with the Sunday rush mostly alone.

Next, they're loading up the goods in their as-of-yet non-operational food truck, and Abbie runs back home to shower and change. She's determined not to be the frumpy bakery owner the Milton's are expecting, and slips into an emerald shift dress that goes past her knees and highlights the slope of her waist. Then it's back to Crumbtious, where her crew awaits, all cleaned up and dressed in all black. Luke sidles up next to her, a wild grin on his face.

"What happened to wearing black? You just had to stand out, Huh," he says, kissing her tenderly on the forehead. "This is going to be perfect. You're going to be perfect."

"It will," Abbie agrees.

It is.

The Miltons are perfectly pleasant for business types, very professional, and very impressed by the set up Crumbtious creates. Some of the cupcakes are arranged in a metal tree that Abbie had rescued from Corbin's attic, and the others are below the tree, organized by flavor on a tiered display. Abbie has her boys running about with a small order of their specialty Apple pie la mode pastries that she'd thrown into the order for free, offering the socialites at the gathering the sweet treats. The event turns out to be a celebration for a merger between Milton's company and a red headed woman who takes the time to introduce herself to Abbie as Caroline, and, although the proceedings are stiff and format at first, after a little wine the guests become very personable. At first, she's extremely aware of the fact that she is probably the only black person there who isn't waitstaff, and that most of the people around her probably make what she makes in a year in eight hours. But the only thing the guests have to offer her is praise, and they don't ask too many questions, so she finds herself being swallowed into conversation.

"That was the most incredible German chocolate cupcake I've had in my life," says one of the attendees, who has got to be at least seventy and is looking at her like he's about to propose. "I saw heaven, I did."

"Don't look at me, I didn't make them. The Latino gentleman in the back did." She waves at Luke, he lifts a hand back. He's a little uncomfortable- this party is a little too rich and white for his tastes- but a smile plays on his face to see her enjoying herself.

"Well, he's a genius. But, and I've been in business long, so I know what I'm saying, you're the one who's running things, and you've got to have a strong leader to have a strong product-"

"Dad," Caroline says, sweeping in to the conversation gracefully, "stop flirting with Abbie. You're far too old for her."

The man, Caroline's father, apparently, laughs bodily and takes a dramatic step backward. "I'll go talk to Harry, then. I know when I am not wanted."

Once her dad has sidled himself safely away by the bar, Caroline gives Abbie a warm smile. She's a pretty woman, with shockingly red hair that is either natural or carefully kept up. She reminds Abbie of Katrina a bit, maybe it's the pale skin and slender body, while somehow being the antithesis of her. Her fitted white dress is both sexy and professional. Abbie wants to ask where she got it, but is a little afraid of the answer.

"What does your schedule look like next week?" Caroline says with intention. Abbie blinks. There's something sultry in her tone that makes Abbie unsure if she's being asked on a date or about business.

"Erm... Pretty clear," Abbie says.

"Great," Caroline says emphatically, "because my birthday is next week, and I didn't think I wanted any more food, but I need to have about thirty more of those little apple pie things. And that's just for myself." Slowly, she lets her eyes glide up Abbie's body, from her red painted toenails to her lined eyes, as if she'd like to eat Abbie, too. "I'd like you to be there too, of course."

For a moment Abbie can only gape- she's never been checked out so openly before, by a man or a woman- but after a split second she rights herself, claps her hands together, and smiles brightly back.

"Oh, happy birthday! We'd love to cater the party. What will you need?"

Several minutes later, she paces back to Luke, an order typed into her phone and a chagrined expression on her face. Luke is grinning at her smugly.

"That Caroline woman wants it so bad..."

"Hush up."

"Did you tell her you have a gangly British boyfriend? I'm gonna say no, because it looked like you were flirting back!"

With a huff, she crosses her arms. "I'm getting us business. Don't act as if you don't flex a little for the ladies when you need tips."

Luke leans back against the table, which is now only half full of confections, and crosses his legs, adjusting himself into a position so that the muscles of his arms are corded and on display.

"Can you blame me, Abbie?" He smiles a little crookedly. Once upon a time, she would have swooned at the sight, but she thinks she prefers her "gangly British boy" more, and she tells him as much. He chuckles. "As if you can do better."

It's a challenge if she's ever heard one, and she's never backed down from a challenge, not really. Abbie flutters her eyes up at Luke, then leans from forward a bit, touching her tongue briefly to her bottom lip. She doesn't have to look at him to know that his eyes have widened to circles and that his grip on the table behind him is too tight. She holds the pose for a second, then when she thinks he's had enough, holds her screen up to his face to show him where Caroline has listed her order.

"When you're flirting gets us another order this size, let me know," she says, still buzzing with the joy of a new order.

Instead of heading home, Abbie takes the exit to Crane's apartment. It isn't out of ordinary for her to end up crashing at his or vice versa, but it feels different this time. She feels like she's going home after a long day at work instead of heading to her boyfriend's. Her house, her old haven, is beginning to feel like it doesn't belong to her. She isn't sure how to feel about that.

Then she pulls into the apartment complex, spots his car, and whether or not her sudden comfort is something you should worry about takes a backseat to the impetus of seeing him and telling him about just how incredible her day was and how she's pretty sure her newest wealthy client wants to sleep with her.

She bounds up the steps, hitching her dress a little higher on her thighs to lengthen her stride. Her spare key is her other purse, so she knocks in three sharp raps.

A second doesn't pass before he's at the door, almost like he'd sensed she'd be there. He doesn't say a word, just takes in her bright eyes and parted lips and opens up his arms for her to fall into. They stand like that for a minute, her arms wound around his waist, his long body hunched over hers like a canopy, the sounds of cars speeding down the highway distant and somehow calming.

"So," he says finally, when they break away to look up at each other. "I assume your day has been a riotous success?"

"It is now," she says.

So... This actually isn't the end. Sorry for the epically long wait! Medical school, writer's block, and all sorts of other things have gotten in the way of me updating. regardless, all that's left is an epilogue to rap things up. Thanks for sticking around!