75 AMAZING PICK UP LINES

Baker

A/N: Hey there! For historical reference, this chapter is set in the early 1900's in Chicago. Mitch's family immigrated from Italy and Scott's came from Germany. They're also a little younger in this one (15 or 16 years old). The grammar/sentence structure in this chapter is a bit simpler to reflect Scott's education. Sorry if it's kinda dumb :P Enjoy, and thanks for the support! :)

"Your dad must be a baker, 'cause you got some nice buns."

Scott's P.O.V.

The bitter January wind nearly shoved me inside the bakery as I pushed against the door with all my might, slamming it shut. I shivered, shaking the snowflakes out of my hair, grateful for the warmth of the tiny shop. Chicago weather was unforgiving in the wintertime.

"Ciao!" I heard the baker's son, Michello, call from the back room that held all the ovens and baking equipment. I looked at the counter that held various pastries and loaves of bread. When he came out to greet me, a smile spread across his face when he saw it was me. "Schotte! Guten tag!" he exclaimed, his heavy Italian accent ruining the German. I didn't mind, though. He was quite handsome.

Michello and his family were friendly Italians who had been running their bakery on Peterson Avenue for as long as I could remember. They lived in a tiny place above their shop, all crammed together in one room. That's how it was for us, too, and for most of the people in our neighborhood. We were all from Germany, except Michello's family. No one seemed to mind their out-of-place lineage, however, because they were very kind people, and also because their bread and pastries were the best in the city. At least I thought so.

"Guten abend," I corrected him, pointing outside at the dimming sunlight the windows let in. "E ciao, Michello," I said, the Italian that once felt very awkward on my tongue now flowed forth confidently.

He smiled even wider and nodded, and I felt my heart beat faster as he took me by the hand and lead me over to the counter to show me today's items that I could take home to my family.

Every evening, when mother would give me two pennies to go out and buy bread for supper, I would hurry very quickly to the bakery so I would have more time to spend with Michello. He didn't speak German and I didn't speak Italian, but we managed to have entire conversations with each other every day without barely saying a word.

This evening was special, however. I reached into my pocket with the hand not holding Michello's and felt the cloth pouch heavy with coins. Now, I just needed the right time to present it.

Michello squeezed my hand gently, using his other hand to point to a small pastry on the top shelf of the counter. "Cannoli?" he asked. I nodded. I knew what that was. He reached up and took it down, holding it carefully in front of me with two fingers. "Sì?"

I nodded again, taking it from him and setting it on top of the counter by the money box. "Und..." I trailed off, deciding between the loaves of bread. After a little while, I pointed to the largest one.

Micello went behind the counter to retrieve it, placing it alongside the small cannoli. Normally, at this point I would take the bread for supper (and the extra treat Michello let me have) and leave. When my mother first started sending me on these bakery errands, Michello used to charge me money for the bread, two cents a loaf. Now that we were closer, however, he gave them to me for free so long as his father didn't catch him, and he baked me a pastry every day just for me. He was the best friend I had. The boys I worked with at the factory didn't talk to me much, and I didn't have any other friends. Even though Michello and I spoke different languages, I felt connected with him. We didn't talk about much, but just being in his company made me feel safe and happy. My sister said that meant I loved him. I didn't really know what love meant outside of my family, so that confused me. But if love is that safe and happy feeling, then I knew that yes, I loved Michello. I knew he loved me too, because he gave me food for free and held my hand. His love was better than mine, though, because I knew his father would be very angry if he saw Michello giving me bread without charging a price from me. So today, I decided I would repay him for all his love with an extra-special love.

When Michello pushed the bread and the cannoli toward me, expecting me to take it, he scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion when I didn't.

Reaching slowly into my pocket, I pulled out the cloth bag. Inside the bag were all the pennies my mother had given me to buy bread that Michello had never made me pay him. Michello had been giving me bread free of charge for over five months now. There were over 300 pennies in the bag, and 300 pennies could buy many, many things for Michello and his family. I needed some way to tell Michello that I loved him and that I thought he was very special and kind for giving my hungry family bread.

I placed the bag on the table, and Michello still looked very confused. I pointed to the bag and nodded, signalling him to open it. He did, slowly unknotting the string with his tiny fingers and pulling it open, peering inside. His eyes widened and he grinned with joy. "Davvero?" he asked me, amazed. I didn't know what that meant. He tried again. "Per me?" he said, pointing at me and then to himself. I nodded. Overjoyed, he squealed with happiness and clutched the bag close to him. "Grazie, grazie, grazie!" he exclaimed, running from behind the counter over to me, throwing his arms around me and pulling me into a big hug, which I returned. Even though he was shorter than me, I still felt protected in his arms. "Dankeschön," he whispered into my coat, squeezing me tight. I liked how his Italian accent made German words sound funny. When he let me go, he kissed me very quickly on the cheek. "Ich...Ich liebe dich," he said very quietly, smiling nervously and looking down. His face had turned bright red.

I smiled back and nodded, returning the kiss on his cheek. "Te amo," I replied. I'm not sure where I had heard that phrase in Italian, or how I knew it, but it felt right.

I walked home that night with the loaf of bread in one hand, the pastry in the other, light pockets, and an even lighter heart.