Take Three, Please by Anwen Stiles

 
     
     
    Take Three, Please
     
    Cecile popped her gum. “Would you pick one already? I’m
tired of waiting around to make my move.”
    Morgan sent her an impatient frown. “Go ahead. They’re not
my property.”
    “The hell they aren’t.”
    The two women eyed the objects under discussion -- three
handsome, muscular men who currently overfilled the large circular booth in the
back corner of the bakery. They each had dark hair and sculpted physiques,
bronzed skin. Any one of them could have graced the cover of a fitness
magazine. They were in their early thirties, a few years older than Morgan.
    She thought any woman, once she became acquainted with the
men, would ache to secure them as her personal property. Too bad that Cecile
exaggerated Morgan’s own claim.
    The first time the trio entered the bakery, Morgan disliked
them on sight. She knew their kind: overbearing jocks with more brawn than
brains, self-entitled jerks who thought their good looks and hard bodies meant
they didn’t have to be courteous or even passably decent to other, lesser
mortals. They would leer at her, treat her like meat, then complain to her
about how much fat was in the soup, argue over how many carbs were in the
bread. Blech.
    She was so convinced she knew who they were, in fact, that
she’d sent Cecile to take their orders. Not having to deal with customers like
the beefy threesome was one of the perks of owning her own business.
    It was a surprise when the three men turned out to be
polite, friendly and all-around great customers. Profitable, too, since they’d
been coming to the bakery for lunch nearly every weekday for several months.
Oh, and most saliently of all, they were single and straight. Salient fact. To
be sure.
    Morgan tore her gaze away from the handsome men in the booth
and looked at Cecile. “You know you aren’t supposed to chew gum while you’re on
duty.”
    “Geez,” Cecile said, spitting the gum into a napkin, “my
boss is a grouchy hardass. You need to get laid.”
    “Shh -- they might hear!”
    “Good, then maybe one of them will get on the stick and
knock off the googly-eyed act and finally ask you out so I can scoop up the
leftovers.”
    Morgan considered ordering Cecile to the kitchen, then
noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. One of the men in the booth was
waving a hand, trying to get her attention.
    She turned, smiled and muttered under her breath to Cecile
before she walked away, “If you weren’t my cousin, I’d fire you.”
    “If you weren’t my cousin, I’d let you.”
    Morgan bit back a laugh and headed over to the three hunky
men, Brandon, Ethan and Mark. Their big bodies overflowed the available space
and made the table seem diminutive.
    “Do you need something?” she asked.
    “We wanted to tell you how much we enjoyed the soup today. I
don’t even like pea soup, but yours was excellent,” said Ethan, usually the
most outgoing of the three.
    Brandon’s blue eyes shined at her. “Best soup ever.”
    Mark, the quiet one, simply looked steadily at her and
nodded his agreement. Something about him always made her want to push his hair
away from his face, to reveal him.
    “Thank you. I wish all my customers were as easy to please
as you guys,” she said.
    “We’re not easy,” said Brandon.
    “You’re just that good,” said Ethan.
    She smiled as she always did when they completed each
other’s sentences. She’d asked them once if they were brothers, and they said
yes, but not of body, of spirit instead. They said they’d been friends since
childhood and were closer than most brothers could ever hope to be.
    “Thanks,” she said. “Tomorrow’s soup is chicken and rice, if
you come back, of course.”
    “You know we can’t resist ... your food,” said Ethan.
    Morgan couldn’t ignore the deliberate pause. Ethan liked to
flirt. Nothing ever came of it, though, other than more flirting. Pity. “Well,
I can’t resist ... cooking it.”
    He licked his lips. Oh