The man vocalizes his thinking with a hmmm. “The cocktail bun for your pork bun,” he finally offers.
I hesitate and look down at what was going to be my breakfast, fully knowing it’s the last pork bun. “Your cocktail bun and Swiss roll for my pork bun,” I say firmly, throwing in a curveball. “That’s my final offer.”
He glances over at the empty Swiss roll case and pauses before finally agreeing. “I normally have a ninety-two percent success rate with negotiations. This is hands down the worst deal I’ve ever made, but I’m impressed by your bargaining skills, so you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“And I want the vanilla one,” I add, studying him. He has a kind face, his quick-to-smile demeanor disarming me. On his upper right cheek is a small coffee-colored beauty mark.
“What’s the difference? I’m pretty sure the rainbow Swiss roll tastes like vanilla, too,” he says, poking the dessert with the silver utensil. “How do you know this one’s better?”
“It’s not that it’s better. I just have a particular preference for the golden one,” I say flatly, holding my tray out toward him.
“Whatever you want.” A dimpled smile spreads across his face. I barely manage to pull my gaze away from the deepening, shadowed spots. I bet those dimples have broken hearts before.
He places the cocktail bun on my tray and hesitantly grabs his Swiss roll with his tongs, looking pained to be parting with it. “Goodbye, new friend. It was nice almost enjoying you.” The man places the slice of Swiss roll onto my tray and, in the same smooth movement, grabs the pork bun.
“Enjoy that,” I murmur. I can’t help but smile.
“Nice doing business with you,” he says, snapping his tongs playfully like lobster claws.
A snorted laugh sneaks out. The man gives a slight wave before heading to the register. I grab a few more baked goods before paying, lingering a while so the man can leave and so my heart can stop fluttering.
When I push the door open, I realize I didn’t wait long enough. The man from the bakery loiters on the sidewalk, staring at his cellphone. The damn bells above the door jingle, betraying me by giving up my location.
Bakery Guy looks up at me. “You back for another barter?” he asks with a pleased look.
I lift the heavy bag of food. “I do have more leverage now.”
We both turn in the same direction.
“I’m not following you, but I have to go the same way,” I say with an awkward laugh.
The man’s hair is a lighter shade of brown than it looked in the bakery’s yellow fluorescent lights. I sneak a look at his eyes once more. Hazel. His eyes are hazel. In the sunshine, I see that there’s a fleck of gold around the pupils. He stretches to adjust his posture, his shoulders broadening and expanding his evergreen-colored polo, which looks soft from years of wear. He comes off as someone who wants to remain low-key but still appear put together.
“No problem,” he says, sliding his sunglasses on.
I walk at his pace but stay about six feet to the right.
“What brings you out here this early?” Bakery Guy asks, filling the silence.
“Picking up breakfast. I meant it when I said I was bringing food for my pó po’s birthday. You almost denied a ninety-year-old woman her favorite bun.”
The man’s eyes widen. “Yikes. She’s lucky to have a clever granddaughter to win it back.”
I grin to myself. “What about you?”
“I just had to pick up something from my office downtown. I like to grab breakfast here sometimes. We’re looking for offices in the area since coworking spaces are expensive.”
“On a Saturday? Your boss must love you,” I say.
Bakery Guy looks over at me. “Work never really shuts off for us.”
I nod slowly. “Chinatown’s really changing. I can’t imagine your coworking space is more expensive than here.”
“At least here there’s room for negotiation,” he says with a smirk.
“I hope your future negotiations go better than today,” I say, thinking about Mae Yí-Pó’s warning of vultures.
My stomach grumbles louder for breakfast, and I dig around my tote bag for the vanilla Swiss roll and a fork. I pierce the roll, breaking off a bite with an even ratio of cake and filling. From the weight of the buns, my tote slips down my shoulder, sending my arm off balance. The vanilla roll wobbles precariously as my arm instinctively reacts to stabilize my bag.
Bakery Guy is quicker. He closes the distance between us and reaches out to grab my canvas bag. His hand brushes against my forearm, sending unanticipated tingles up the length of my neck. He slides the tote up smoothly, cautiously moving my hair back so it doesn’t tug under the handles.
My cheeks warm. I’m at a loss for words. Something resembling “thanks” stumbles out of my mouth.
“Can’t risk losing that roll, too,” he says with a smile. “Mind me asking your name?”
I glance over my shoulder and look him up and down. “My friends call me Liv,” I say. “What do your friends call you?”
“You have nice friends. Mine call me asshole,” he says with a joking tone. Bakery Guy reaches into his plastic bag and pulls out his own vibrant Swiss roll slice. Slinging the handles of the bag onto his forearm, he uses his palm as a makeshift plate. “I’m going to open this. Can I count on you not to try to swipe this one, too? I’m really hungry.”
There’s nothing in this moment I want more than to also take that roll from him, just to prove a point. Obviously, I won’t. Plus, his boyish excitement for his Swiss roll is too endearing. I nod, and he starts unrolling the swirly slice into a flattened cake layer.
“What are you doing?” I ask, perplexed.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I nod toward his hands. “That!”
“I’m eating my breakfast?” he says. The confusion on his face is priceless.
“This cake requires delicate rolling to achieve the perfect spiral,” I explain.
“Really?” Bakery Guy uses his fork and gently scrapes off the filling from the center of the now-flattened spiral.
“I did not just see you scoop the filling out,” I groan. The colors of the rainbow cake glow in the morning light, the sides bending up and looking sad to not be living their full spiral potential.
The man scrapes, eats, scrapes, eats. “Did you see that?” he asks playfully.
“The cake and filling are meant to be enjoyed together, so you have an equal ratio of creamy filling to chiffon cake. And their flavors are complementary to one another.”
“I like eating the sweetest part of the dessert first,” he explains, taking another bite of the sweet cream. “I know it’s a bit different, but I like different.”
My lips lift into a smile. “Just for fun, or…?”
“I like knowing that the first bites of my meal will be good. And this way, I know I’ll have room for it. Don’t judge me!” he says dramatically.