Flowers In His Hair - H.S

H.S. Flowers In His Hair - 2

Hello! I present to you the second chapter. Thank you for reading; I really appreciate you.

It's the first of a double update!

***

Well, I'm not rich, and I'm not free, but I've got my girl, and she got me.

I wake up from the shriek of my alarm; I get up on my elbow and reach for my phone. I look through blurry eyes and fall back onto the bed. It's 4 am, that's fucking great.

I sigh loudly and turn, pushing my face into the pillow. I fall asleep within seconds, but my second alarm goes off next to my head, and I jolt awake. "Fine, fuck. Jesus Christ, I'm up." I grumble into the darkness.

I stumble out of bed, hoping with everything in me that a shower will wake me up. It doesn't help one bit. I'm exhausted before I finish getting dressed. I grab my keys and my wallet and head out, grumbling as I almost slam my fingers in the door. It's going to be a very long fucking day.

I arrive at work with five minutes to spare, Great now I have to rush. I half run to the back of the building and push open the heavy steel doors. I take a deep breath, the smell comforts me, and I calm down a bit. I fucking hate waking up early, but the moment I set foot in the bakery, It's all worth it.

I greet everyone quietly and grab my apron. Amy comes around the corner, and she giggles when she sees me. I raise my eyebrow at her, fumbling with the strings of my apron. Stupid, fucking big useless hands.

She comes over to me and points at my stomach in silence. I look down at where she's looking. Great, it's the wrong way around.

"Turn around." She says once I turned it inside out. She swiftly ties it in a knot. Show off. "Thanks." She nods in acknowledgment.

"Doughnuts mention it." I let out a sharp laugh. "God, Amy, they're getting worse." I tease her. She always had some kind of joke ready for any situation. "Go bake something." She shoves me away from her, and with a final laugh, I do exactly that.

It's always been a dream of mine to be able to have my own bakery. There's just something about mixing a load of shit together and crossing your fingers in hopes that it comes out perfect.

I hide this side about me, the baker with the long hair who's obsessed with flowers. Not many people know what I do for a living, not because I'm ashamed but because usually, they are.

I've heard every single joke there is about it. 'Someone like you want to be a baker?' 'Very funny, but seriously what do you want to do with your life?'

That's the thing that always gets me. People see the outside, and they decide what the inside should look like. When they're not right, it's you, the person who actually gets to decide, that's wrong.

They ask you how someone who looks like a rock star from the '80s wants to be a baker. It's never them who drew the wrong conclusions. There's instantly something wrong with you. Pisses me the fuck off.

The smell wavering from the oven brings me out of my musing; I know they're perfect before I open the door. I place the pastries on the cooling rack and put the next batch in. I've been working at Dough for the last three years, gaining experience and saving every penny to open my own business.

The owner is a woman in her sixties. I adore the hell out of her, and she reminds me of the perfect grandmother. It's a stupid thing to think because what the fuck do I know about grandmas, but I imagine it's how they are.

She takes a lot of time to teach me everything she knows from her almost forty years of experience. She always jokes that she's going to leave me the bakery when she dies, but I refuse to acknowledge it because I don't deal well with death.