.⋆｡⋆🍰˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.
❛ 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞. ❜
blue romero fled to la when she
was eighteen years old, with
absolutely nothing - not even
a name. all of that changes
just by walking into a bakery.
911 S1-5 BUCK...
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I love the smell of freshly baked bread.
I wish I had some elaborate story or flashback about my great-grandmother who baked bread in the woods and passed down all her recipes to me in some book made of parchment — But I don't.
My love for the smell goes beyond its indication of a fluffy baked good. It is no longer just a warm food. It is a symbol of something new. When I wake everyday now, it's not just the bread I smell.
Instead I smell my first morning in Los Angeles. Or my first night in the apartment upstairs. I smell freshly baked bread and it smells like change.
I had been making bread rolls since dawn. First in my apartment, then when my shift started at nine. Now everything I owned smelt like freshly baked bread.
Fiona was preoccupied with the register, so I was free from her teasing from the time being. Word about the incident spread fast, and Buck and I avoided confirming and denying rumours.
I hoped that would water them down, but it actually made them much worse. Which is why we hid all the additional times we had hung out since then.
Personally, I didn't want to talk about it. I loved to share with the people I cared about, but everybody already knew about La Reina. When it came to our other moments, I wanted them just for me.
Take things slow between us was definitely also helping.
I pulled the last of the bread pans out of the oven and laid them neatly on a wire rack to cool. Emma wheeled it away to sit with the other four racks
"I can't believe you cut a hole in the guy's throat on your first date." She said.
I just got done telling her about the date. She'd been prodding me all week to say something and I finally relented. Plus if I didn't tell her, someone else would, and I didn't need anymore skewed stories going around.
