Cinnamon Bun Quotes

You done with work? Yep, at home waiting for you. Now that's a nice visual... Prepare yourself, I'm taking bread out of the oven. Don't tease me woman...zucchini? Cranberry orange. Mmmm... No woman has ever done breakfast bread foreplay the way you do. Ha! When you coming? Can't. Drive. Straight. Can we have one conversation when you're not twelve? Sorry, I'll be there in 30 Perfect, that will give me time to frost my buns. Pardon me? Oh, didn't I tell you? I also made cinnamon rolls. Be there in 25.

I really don't think I need buns of steel. I'd be happy with buns of cinnamon.

Carbohydrates from the Latin, carbo which means "yummy" and hydrates which means "cinnamon bun," are not something I can eliminate or even drastically cut back on.

He was summer and she was fall. He was adventure and she was comfort. But right now, on the cusp between the two seasons, in this liminal space they’d carved out for themselves, they fit just right.

I was prepared to read every damn book in that bookstore just to spend more time with you.

I always bring a book, just in case.

Because what more did one need besides good friends, good books, and the occasional cinnamon bun?

Maybe she hadn’t needed to change her life, maybe she’d just needed to change how she saw her life. How she saw herself.

You brought a book.’ ‘Of course I did.’ His mouth tipped up in the corner, unable to resist the little smirk on her face. ‘Of course you did.’ ‘I always bring a book, just in case.

They are not to be scarfed, the cinnamon sticky bun, but savored.

Will you be my best friend?’ the fox asked the rabbit. ‘But we’re so different,’ said the rabbit. ‘That’s why I like you.

I am not! I just prefer to be inside. I’m an inside cat.

So they wanted to take Tansy to a different doctor and her husband refused", Ryland said. "I wonder why he would do that." He frowned and leanede close to Kadan, sniffing. "Cinnamon?" "Shut the hell up", Kadan said and pushed past him. Ryland took another whiff and gave a low whistle."You smeel yummy. I'm getting hungry. Maybe cinnamon buns". Kadan flipped him off rudely. Nico stood waiting by the front door. As always he was their backup. He frowned when the two Ghostwalkers got close. "What the hell is that smell?" "Kadan's new spicy cologne". "Go to hell Rye", Kadan said ans shot him a look thaty should have withered him on the spot. "Both of you can go to hell". "I think his blood sugar's dropping", Ryland explained. "Must have been all the cinnamon candy he got tonight".

Are oysters aphrodisiacs? For men, the smell of baked cinnamon buns had such a powerful impact on libido that it trumped the scents of a slew of various perfumes combined. Men were also strongly aroused by the scent of pumpkin pie, lavender, doughnuts, cheese pizza, buttered popcorn, vanilla and strawberries. The foods and smells that got women going more than anything else were licorice, banana nut bread, cucumbers, and candy.

she was salt air and rainy days, she was the perfect book. She was kisses and secret smiles. She was everything.

She liked her bookstore. She liked cups of chamomile tea and rainy days and the Sunday morning crossword puzzle. She liked her quiet life.

Hazel wasn’t her job or her curls or her cute button-up blouses. She was the tart spark of blueberries on his tongue, she was salt air and rainy days, she was the perfect book. She was kisses and secret smiles. She was everything. He just needed her.

Agent Jones switched to the big screen and a grainy video of MoMo sitting at his enormous desk, a swivel-hipped Elvis clock ticking behind his bewigged head. 'Death to the capitalist pigs! Death to your cinnamon bun-smelling malls! Death to your power walking and automatic car windows and I'm With Stupid T-shirts! The Republic of ChaCha will never bend to your side-of-fries -drive -through-please-oh-would-you-like-ketchup-with-that corruption! MoMo B. ChaCha defies you and all you stand for, and one day, you will crumble into the sea and we will pick up the pieces and make them into sand art.

He’d read just one more chapter and then deal with his own shit...

Cinnamon buns. Cinnamon buns. Cinnamon buns,” he panted as he pushed the cart.

Even as someone with a terrible habit of landing herself in unwanted situations to keep others happy, this one had to take the biscuit. And the cake. And the cinnamon bun, too. What had she gotten herself into?

lost-in-your-favorite-book good, sun-on-your-face good, the-perfect-cup-of–coffee good.

Say you’ll be my wife, Haze.

Hazel Kelly was the only thing he’d felt like learning about in years.

It was a slow day, bright and sunny, the type of day people wanted to be running around outside, not browsing the shelves of a bookstore. Not that Hazel understood that line of reasoning. She always wanted to be browsing the shelves of a bookstore.

Humans have very odd tastes. They think their music is beautiful. They are wrong. It is awful. All of it. And they completely ignore their greatest accomplishments: the cinnamon bun, the Snickers bar, the hot pepper, and the refreshing beverage called vinegar.

When I see someone with six-pack abs, I know we won’t have fun because that person doesn’t know what fun is. Their idea of a good time is putting on tight shorts and working on their stomach muscles. Someone with love handles is putting on oven mitts and working on baking the perfect cinnamon buns. They’re fun.

Cute in like a koala-napping-in-a-tree kinda way. Not cute in a I-want-to-get-in-her-pants kinda way. And that was fine. She’d made her peace with it.

I have all my favorite days with you.

And God, wasn’t that addictive? That feeling that maybe you were enough.

She liked cups of chamomile tea and rainy days and the Sunday morning crossword puzzle. She liked her quiet life.

I think I’ve had plenty of fun for one night. I should probably get to bed.’ ‘Haze, it’s nine o’clock.’ ‘I’m tired.’ ‘Haze, nine o’clock is an old-lady bedtime.’ ‘I’m an old lady.

Not that Hazel understood that line of reasoning. She always wanted to be browsing the shelves of a bookstore.

She brought him back to life, reconstructed him into a better version than the original. And he felt alive. He was alive. He was real.

Hazel was the one person in his life who looked at him and he didn’t feel like she was searching for something that wasn’t there.

She wanted to say more. That he was a breath of fresh air in her musty life, that he was slowly reminding her how to let go, that he was waking her up like the Sun after a long winter

She was watching him now, her big eyes taking him in like she always did. She looked at him like maybe he didn't come up short in her eyes. Hazel was the one person in his life who looked at him and he didn't feel like she was searching for something that wasn't there. And God, wasn't that addictive? That feeling that maybe you were good enough.

you

Good books,’ she said after a minute, her gaze returning to his. ‘Good friends. Good food.’ He smiled up at her. ‘What more do you need?

Noah was in love with her. She was in love with him. It was... Unfathomable. Unbelievable. Unexpected.

I love you,’ she murmured and he couldn’t help smiling against her mouth, happiness bursting bright and sharp in his chest. ‘I love you too, Hazel Kelly.

He didn’t just have the hots for Hazel Kelly anymore, he was completely and inconveniently in love with her.

The ship cut through the waves, tossing Arabella’s curls around her face. Salt spray misted her face, and the wind whipped around her skirts. She felt like she was flying.

I got things apostilled, and I learned what that word meant, and we can get married right here on the beach, if you want.

The blueberries popped tart and bright in her mouth. They tasted like summer and new beginnings.

Come with me, lass, if you want an adventure.

Hazel would like to shock her friends, and shock herself. Just once, Hazel would like to do something very un-Hazel-like.

You can take the girl out of the bookstore, Noah, but you can’t take away her scones.

My grandfather always used to say, there’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad equipment.

Noah had still not recovered physically or mentally from kissing Hazel the night before,

But adventures weren’t safe, right? Getting out of your comfort zone was by definition, uncomfortable.

Noah’s hands came around her and undid the clasp of her bra. He pulled back then, like he was unwrapping her and didn’t want to miss a minute of seeing his gift.

Noah could do casual sexual encounters. He did them all the time. But this was different. Hazel was different.

He’d do anything. Strip down right here and take her on this beach blanket, despite his concerns about sand in unfortunate places and public indecency charges.

The Ferris wheel couldn't do anything to her stomach that Noah’s stare wasn't already doing.

There is literally nothing else I’d rather do.’ He held her gaze and Hazel believed him. She couldn't think of a single thing she’d rather do either, as it turned out.

I’m an inside cat.

Sweet and a little spicy, like Hazel.

She didn’t need a new life or to be a new person. She just needed to look at herself, at her life, in a new light.

Hazel was doubled over in giggles and Noah would let Mac make fun of him all day just to keep listening to that sound.

Good job, skipper.’ He kissed the tip of her nose and Hazel blinked.

And something about waking up with a hot man in your bed, really did wonders for a girl’s self-esteem.

Okay, universe, or whoever you are, I’m officially done fighting this thing. Lead the way.

For some people, Hazel assumed, thirty meant an end to the wild and storied days of their twenties. A time to settle down, to get serious, to be an adult. Hazel had a different problem with thirty. She’d forgotten to have wild and storied days. Her twenties had been ... calm? Responsible? Boring. Hazel had essentially been in her thirties since she was fifteen.

She tucked her legs up closer to her body while Noah tried to shoo the lizard from their cabana. The little green monster just blinked at him, wildly unimpressed with his hand flapping.

Her heart was racing, and only partially because she’d been caught reading smut during work hours. The other reason was because ... well, because Noah was smiling at her like that again.

She cleared her throat. ‘You know if we hold hands the whole town will have us married off by Monday.’ His laugh was low and just for her when he leaned down to whisper in her ear. ‘Fine by me.

close.’ She tucked her legs up closer to her body while Noah tried to shoo the lizard from their cabana. The little green monster just blinked at him, wildly unimpressed with his hand flapping.

Hazel suddenly wondered if she’d missed out on something. Maybe she’d forgotten to try some things. Maybe, shockingly, there was more life outside of her books that she should have experienced by now.

Hazel was the one person in his life who looked at him and he didn’t feel like she was searching for something that wasn’t there. And God, wasn’t that addictive? That feeling that maybe you were enough.

He was making big promises here, but he had to. Go big or go home, right? And if this was his one shot with Hazel he sure as hell was going to take it. Whatever the bizarre circumstances that got them here.

The authorities who insist that abstaining from carbohydrates is an unsustainable lifestyle once again typically do so from the perspective of lean people whose primary fuel happens to be carbohydrates and whose bodies can tolerate carbohydrates without accumulating excess fat. From their perspective, a program that requires living without carbohydrates appears doomed to fail. Why would anyone do it, if another way existed that allowed for the occasional consumption of cinnamon buns and pasta (in moderation, not too much)? But for many of us, there may be no other way. Lean folks aren’t like us. They don’t get fat when they eat carbohydrates; they may not hunger for them just by thinking about them. They have a choice to live with carbohydrates or not. We don’t. Not if we want to be lean and as healthy as we can be.

Me too.’ His voice was low and rough like those two words meant so much more than he spoke out loud. Like maybe he meant, me too, you’re my favorite person, too. Me too, I have all my favorite days with you.

Hazel wasn’t her job or her curls or her cute button-up blouses. She was the tart spark of blueberries on his tongue, she was salt air and rainy days, she was the perfect book. She was kisses and secret smiles.

Getting out of your comfort zone was by definition, uncomfortable. And if these last few weeks had taught her anything, it was that good things came from being a little bit unsafe, by taking a few risks now and then.

He wanted to give her everything. He wanted to be everything. But he still didn’t even know if that was what she wanted and he was going home right after her birthday. How could he be everything to her if he was leaving?

Hazel couldn’t bring herself to tell him that the birds had already begun inching closer again. She was too busy grinning like an idiot, as though Noah had slayed dragons for her instead of chasing away some pesky birds.

Alex had gone back to their clean-up efforts, scraping stepped-on crayons from the carpet, so Hazel ducked behind the counter and peeked inside the book. The descent of the Ferris wheel made her stomach swoop with nerves.

Hazel leaned in. Her lips brushed against his. Noah made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh so Hazel deepened the kiss, her tongue swept into his mouth and he was cotton candy and lemonade and summer and Hazel liked it.

Want to come in?’ Noah clearly groaned. Of course he wanted to come in. Did she know how much weight those innocent questions held? Did she know that if he came in he would want to do so many other things, too? Did she want that?

He didn’t care if they went on every ride or did nothing but stand around. He had a date with Hazel Kelly. And all he’d needed to get it was for some cryptic messages to appear in the pages of a book. Not his usual style, but he’d take it.

She finished her lap and was standing in front of him again in the little kitchen where he’d stalled out next to the front door, listening to her be excited for him, listening to her use the word we when she talked about future ideas for the houses.

Hazel opened it to the dog-eared page. It was a diary entry and the only highlighted line was the date. September 28th. Hazel’s birthday. In the margins was a note. Mac’s. 7:00, bring friends. ‘A grand finale,’ Annie breathed. Jeanie clapped. ‘I told you!

She wanted to say more. That he was a breath of fresh air in her musty life, that he was slowly reminding her how to let go, that he was waking her up like the sun after a long winter. But none of that seemed casual. And this thing between them was very casual.

Have you noticed anything strange in the Romance section lately?’ Isabel tapped her chin with her pen. ‘Stranger than moth men with vibrating tongues or giant blue aliens or minotaurs donating their––’ Hazel held up a hand to stop her. What did these people read?

And in that moment, she could picture it. She could picture so many days just like this one. Well, maybe with less near-death experiences. But ones where they went on little adventures together and ended the day reading in bed and it was so freaking perfect, it hurt.

If nothing else, his little infatuation with her had given him a new hobby, a way to quiet his mind and calm his body. It was nice, laying here on a rainy day in his sweats, totally absorbed in another world. If school had been like this he definitely would have finished.

I want to make you so happy, Jane,” he says, voice choked. “I want to bring you coffee with cream in bed every morning, and I want to make you laugh, really belly-laugh the way you hardly ever do, and I want to read books and eat cinnamon buns and know what outfit you like to wear on a Sunday. I want to be part of your routine. I want to stand next to you in a crowded party and hold your hand tight and make you feel safe. I want to know you, all your habits, all the secrets you’ve held in. You’re not on your own now, Jane. You’ve got me. Always

satisfies some deep masculine urge to mark you as mine.’ His smile was full of teasing mischief. He was kidding but a little part of her, a part she’d never confess to anyone, wanted it to be true. She wanted to be his. And in the spirit of equality, she wanted him to be hers.

Noah’s smile grew. ‘A clue?’ Hazel sighed. ‘Vanilla milkshakes are objectively better. Colder and Sweeter. Evie smiled around her straw and took another sip.’ Hazel quoted from memory the clue she’d found this morning, looking somewhere over Noah’s shoulder instead of at his face while she said it.

Hazel was instantly transported back to picking blueberries as a kid, the sweet burst of fruit on her tongue, scanning the bushes for the ripe ones, and the ice cream her dad would buy her on the way home. She closed her eyes and leaned against the shelf. When was the last time she’d gone blueberry picking?

She dug her toes into the cool sand and dipped her head back, letting the warm sun caress her face.’ Noah read the highlighted line out loud in that low rumble of a voice and Hazel repressed a shiver. ‘Looks like we’re going to the beach,’ he said, still close enough that his breath stirred the curls around her face.

Grace had turned to Leeza, Ken, her boyfriend, Brian, and baking. She started by baking the family recipes from her childhood. Cinnamon buns, gingersnaps, saffron bread, and lingonberry pancakes. Grace knew she didn't have her mother's talent, but she tried her best and hoped it might also bring her mother back to earth. Maybe even bring the two of them closer. One afternoon, Grace made a German chocolate cake. She decided to try something different, and added fresh local Door County sour cherries to the batter. When Ken tasted it, he'd fallen on the floor, exclaiming, "I'm dead, but at least I went to heaven: Death by chocolate!

She was everything. He just needed her. And the fact that she felt the same about him was enough to make him feel like he could do anything. Like his feet didn’t even touch the sand anymore. He floated after her into his half-finished project and for the first time in a long time, he felt confident. He felt like enough.

Hazel had a different problem with thirty. She’d forgotten to have wild and storied days. Her twenties had been ... calm? Responsible? Boring. Hazel had essentially been in her thirties since she was fifteen. Or more like her seventies if you asked Annie, without whom Hazel probably wouldn’t have picked her head up out of a book at all.

Have you noticed anything strange in the Romance section lately?’ Isabel tapped her chin with her pen. ‘Stranger than moth men with vibrating tongues or giant blue aliens or minotaurs donating their––’ Hazel held up a hand to stop her. What did these people read? Although that vibrating tongue sounded interesting... No. She shook her head. Not the time for that.

He didn’t care if Hazel ditched the bookstore tomorrow and wanted to leave town and become a circus performer. She could shave her head or decide she wanted to take up rock climbing, and he’d be on board. Hazel wasn’t her job or her curls or her cute button-up blouses. She was the tart spark of blueberries on his tongue, she was salt air and rainy days, she was the perfect book. She was kisses and secret smiles.

Egilson was prompt in preparing our supper, which was accompanied by a dozen buns and, perhaps as a form of apology for the lack of apple tart, a basket of greyish-blue fruits aptly named iceberries. Finn delivered the lot, along with his apologies---there were no apples to be had in Hrafnsvik, and he had no experience with bread pudding, but he hoped we would enjoy his briòsupa, which he and Krystjan guessed to be the closest Ljoslander approximation. It was made with rye bread and plenty of cinnamon, cream, and raisins, and smelled divine.

I sipped my hot, sweet, milky tea, feeling myself settle, center. I couldn't possibly stay in a state of high emotion, and there was a lot to get through in the next few days or weeks. Right this minute, I could enjoy this table in a bakery in a small English village. The place was clearing out, and the chelsea bun beckoned. It was a coil of pastry laced with currants and a hint of lemon zest, quite sweet. I gave it the attention it deserved, since a person couldn't be pigging out on pastries and eggs and bacon all the time. Not me, anyway. Unlike my slender mother, I was built of rounder stuff, and I hadn't been able to walk as much as was my habit. In the meantime, the tea was excellent, served in a sturdy silver pot with a mug that didn't seem to match any other mug on the tables. The room smelled of yeast and coffee and cinnamon and the perfume of a woman who had walked by. Light classical music played quietly. From the kitchen came voices engaged in the production of all the goods in the case. A rich sense of well-being spread through me, and I realized that my leg didn't hurt at all.

Sitting on a recently cleaned chair, she bit into one of the buns. Sugary sweetness exploded in her mouth, and she sighed through the bread. Closing her eyes, she savored every morsel. It was light, fluffy, sweet, and perfect. Had he made this? How? She added "baking" to the growing list of useful skills she didn't possess. Eagerly, she picked up the wedge of cheese and bit into it. Sharp, woody flavor filled her mouth, and she swayed a bit as she shoved more into her mouth. Cheese in the city was typically soft and bland, intended to be spread or melted, a side note to the main dish, but this... It demanded to be devoured.

After John drops me off at home, I run across the street to pick up Kitty from Ms. Rothschild’s. And she invites me in for a cup of tea. Kitty is asleep on the couch with the TV on low in the background. We settle on the other couch with our cups of Lady Grey, and she asks me how the party went. Maybe it’s because I’m still on a high from the night, or maybe it’s the bobby pins so tight on my head that I feel woozy, or it could be the way her eyes light up with genuine interest as I begin to talk, but I tell her everything. The dance with John, how everyone cheered, Peter and Genevieve, even the kiss. She starts fanning herself when I tell about the kiss. “When that boy drove up in that uniform--ooh, girl.” She whistles. “It made me feel like a dirty old lady, because I knew him when he was little. But dear God he is handsome!” I giggle as I pull the bobby pinks from the top of my head. She leans forward and helps me along. My cinnamon bun unravels, and my scalp tingles with relief. Is this what it’s like to have a mother? Late-night boy talk over tea? Ms. Rothschild’s voice gets low and confidential. “Here’s the thing. My one piece of advice to you. You have to let yourself be fully present in every moment. Just be awake for it, do you know what I mean? Go all in and wring every last drop out of the experience.

HEJ HEJ! CAFÉ MENU RULLEKEBAB Original (Rullekebab)----shaved seasoned beef, fresh flatbread, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, kebab sauce Blue Kebab (Rullekebab med blåmögelost)----Original Rullekebab with blue cheese Shroom Kebab (Rullekebab med champinjoner)----Original Rullekebab with mushrooms Hej Hej! Special Rullekebab----Original Rullekebab with pineapple, blue cheese, jalapeños HAMBURGARE Hand-patted, local grass-fed beef, homemade buns The Classic----beef, choice of cheese, bun The Gettysburg----caramelized shallots, mushrooms, blue cheese, bacon, balsamic glaze The Farfar----two patties, four slices of American cheese, four pieces of bacon The Gruff Burger----goat cheese, fries (on top!), caramelized shallots, poutine gravy to dip The Valedictorian----pepper-jack cheese, bacon, guacamole (from Rosa's) POMMES FRITES Fresh-cut fries Plain----with cheese or gravy to dip Loaded Kebab Fries----fresh-cut fries, chopped kebab meat, red and white kebab sauces, crumbled feta, diced jalapeños and tomatoes Goat Cheese Poutine----fresh-cut fries, house-made gravy, goat cheese crumbles MUNKAR Äpple Munk----fresh donut, cinnamon sugar, filled w/ apple and sweet cream Bär Munk----fresh donut, sugar, seasonal berry jam, sweet cream Munkhål----baby donuts (holes), cinnamon sugar Special Munk----daily and seasonal specials CUPCAKES Vanilla Wedding Cake, Devil's Food, Lemon, Strawberry Cheesecake, Weekly Specials SEASONAL TREATS Homemade Apple Crisp à la Mode Apple Fritters Pumpamunk Saffron Buns

I turn to see what she’s looking at, and it’s a red convertible Mustang driving down our street, top down--with John McClaren at the wheel. My jaw drops at the sight of him. He is in full uniform: tan dress shirt with tan tie, tan slacks, tan belt and hat. His hair is parted to the side. He looks dashing, like a real soldier. He grins at me and waves. “Whoa,” I breathe. “Whoa is right,” Ms. Rothschild says, googly-eyed beside me. Daddy and his Ken Burns DVD are forgotten; we are all staring at John in this uniform, in this car. It’s like I dreamed him up. He parks the car in front of the house, and all of us rush up to it. “Whose car is this?” Kitty demands. “It’s my dad’s,” John says. “I borrowed it. I had to promise to park really far away from any other car, though, so I hope your shoes are comfortable, Lara Jean--” He breaks off and looks me up and down. “Wow. You look amazing.” He gestures at my cinnamon bun. “I mean, your hair looks so…real.” “It is real!” I touch it gingerly, I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious about my cinnamon-bun head and red lipstick. “I know--I mean, it looks authentic.” “So do you,” I say. “Can I sit in it?” Kitty butts in, her hand on the passenger-side door. “Sure,” John says. He climbs out of the car. “But don’t you want to get in the driver’s seat?” Kitty nods quickly. Ms. Rothschild gets in too, and Daddy takes a picture of them together. Kitty poses with one arm casually draped over the steering wheel. John and I stand off to the side, and I ask him, “Where did you ever get that uniform?” “I ordered it off of eBay.” He frowns. “Am I wearing the hat right? Do you think it’s too small for my head?” “No way. I think it looks exactly the way it’s supposed to look.” I’m touched that he went to the trouble of ordering a uniform for this. I can’t think of many boys who would do that. “Stormy is going to flip out when she sees you.” He studies my face. “What about you? Do you like it?” I flush. “I do. I think you look…super.

What kind of dog do you want?” Peter asks her. “Don’t get her hopes up,” I tell him, but he waves me off. Immediately Kitty says, “An Akita. Red fur with a cinnamon-bun tail. Or a German shepherd I can train to be a seeing-eye dog.” “But you’re not blind,” Peter says. “But I could be one day.” Grinning, Peter shakes his head. He nudges me again and in an admiring voice he says, “Can’t argue with the kid." “It’s pretty much futile,” I agree. I hold up a magazine to show Kitty. “What do you think? Creamsicle cookies?” Kitty writes them down as a maybe. “Hey, what about these?” Peter pushes a cookbook in my lap. It’s opened up to a fruitcake cookie recipe. I gag. “Are you kidding? You’re kidding, right? Fruitcake cookies? That’s disgusting.” “When done right, fruitcake can be really good,” Peter defends. “My great-aunt Trish used to make fruitcake, and she’d put ice cream on top and it was awesome.” “If you put ice cream on anything, it’s good,” Kitty says. “Can’t argue with the kid,” I say, and Peter and I exchange smiles over Kitty’s head.

Doughnuts were an undignified pastry, she told him, lacking the stateliness of muffins, or the secret shame of cinnamon buns who at least tried to live the lie they weren’t really cake.

She tested the peppermint cocoa. The rich, dark liquid warmed her tongue and put a shine in her green eyes as she swallowed. She sighed. "I would live inside this if I could." "You and Willy Wonka." Anna set her mug in the sink and gathered ingredients for the truffles. Today she thought she'd make a variety filled with dark chocolate, raspberry, peanut butter, or almond cream. "I wish he was real." "I bet you wish you had a golden ticket too," Eli said. Anna looked over her shoulder, and they shared a smile that made her insides feel hot and gooey like the center of a fresh cinnamon bun.

Come for me, Hazel. Right here. Right where anyone could catch us.’ His voice was low and deep and wicked and his gaze nearly burned right through her. She came fast and hard, biting down on her bottom lip to keep in her screams. Her legs trembled but Noah banded an arm around her waist and held her up as the aftershocks rolled through her. He pulled his hand slowly from between her legs and licked his fingers.

The aroma of cinnamon and chocolate from the bakery was a temptation, but that hardly constituted a healthy breakfast. He paused for a moment as the scent washed over him. The quality of Siglufjörður’s cinnamon buns, known as hnútar, left the Reykjavík version he was used to in the shade.

You didn't need me to help you discover any of that Maybe. But I'm glad you were here for all of it Yeah? I really like you, Noah. Yeah? Mmm. A lot.

She hummed under her breath as she rolled out and began kneading the proved dough for the cinnamon buns. Usually, this was when Dina would lace a spell into the bake. For something like a cinnamon bun or a muffin, she might put in that feeling you get of wrapping yourself in a soft, woolly blanket. Baking magic worked best when it was peppered throughout the process.

I’ll drive her home.’ Noah followed her toward the driveway, ignoring the surprised and curious faces of their friends. ‘To her home! Not yours!’ Annie called after him and he waved her off. He stopped that kiss in the field, didn’t he? He would never take advantage of Hazel, or any other woman for that matter, but he was more than excited to start their adventure together. By the end, she’d be kissing him with no wine required.

You look terrible, Hazelnut.

She made a happy little sigh as he pulled her closer against him and every happily ever after he’d ever read finally made sense. This was it. Happy.

Activity and noise and lights and bodies swirled around her, but Noah only saw her. It was as though everything else was blurred but Hazel was crystal clear.

Haze, nine o’clock is an old-lady bedtime.’ ‘I’m an old lady.

Haze, we’ve known each other for a long time, right? And you’ve never done casual in your life.’ Hazel opened her mouth to speak but then shut it again. Annie wasn’t wrong. Hazel was a serial monogamist.

the type of day people wanted to be running around outside, not browsing the shelves of a bookstore. Not that Hazel understood that line of reasoning. She always wanted to be browsing the shelves of a bookstore.

Hazel hates sunshine. She’s like a vampire.’ ‘I am not! I just prefer to be inside. I’m an inside cat.

No one ever died from embarrassment.

So he made the healthy choice and grabbed his book,

I kinda thought the treasure was going to be like the experience of being here or something metaphorical like that.’ Noah glanced at her, a smirk teasing around his mouth. ‘I’m not that deep, Haze. And I like treasure.

Ruxs woke up feeling loved and sorer than he’d ever been in his life. He’d been thrown from two story windows, wrestled with five men at once, even been thrown from a speeding car, but nothing compared to the feel of your ass being fucked by a man that was heavily muscled and well endowed. He noticed he was in bed alone, but he smiled because he could smell the scent of cinnamon buns. Ruxs turned on his side, groaning at the aches. But damn if his man didn’t make him soar. He’d never felt that good before, never been that aroused or come so hard. He

Enjoy your cinnafucks!

Let Mother complain,” Valeria said. “I don’t think I’d like to marry someone who doesn’t appreciate my love for good food.” She continued to munch on the bun. The smell was heavenly, the texture perfect, and the sprinkle of cinnamon sugar on top added a unique touch that set it apart from the ones she usually tasted. Really, Luigi had outdone himself.

Jude smiles and explains things much more personably than I, slicing and toasting thick pillows of cinnamon-coated raisin and offering that to people, topped with a pool of melted cultured butter, fresh from the farm down the way. The day tourists find this quaint; the green eaters, sustainable and local; and the rest happy to have something sweet now that the sticky buns are gone. Everyone is smiling, and I wonder if Jude can also turn water into some sort of fermented beverage.

What's on the menu for tomorrow?" I ask. "Celery root soup with bacon and green apple. And bean and Swiss chard." "Why don't you ever do something normal, like chicken noodle?" Gretchen asks. "If you want that, buy a can," Tee says, stirring the creamy goodness in her speckled enamelware pot. Gretchen begins preparing for the morning. I hover, watching, though by now she knows what to do. She'll make the dough for the soup boules, challahs, sticky buns, and Friday's featured sandwich loaf, cinnamon raisin. I start the poolish- a pre-fermented dough- for my own seven-grain Rustica as she weighs the flour and fills the stand mixer. The machine wheezes, rocking a little too much, as it spins the ingredients together. It's old and will need to be replaced soon. Vintage, Gretchen calls it.

As Corcoran's Bake Shop boasted no back garden, and had no need for parking space thanks to its owner's preference for wheelbarrow delivery, the arrangement was a sound one for both parties. Benny Corcoran never minded having to share his alley space, encouraged it even, as the sharing allowed him proximity to his primary source of inspiration, Layla Aminpour's rosewater and cinnamon scent. Ever since the Babylon Café's opening, that first day when Benny crossed paths with Layla on his way from Fadden's Mini-Mart, the baker had been on a steady chrysalis-like course of transformation. Not only had he tripled his hot cross bun production and experimented with a black yeast and soda water ferment that pumped his sugar loaves to near Blarney Stone proportions, but he had dedicated himself to the rigors of an exercise regime that found him running up and down Croagh Patrick's stony path once a week, showers notwithstanding. Metamorphosis would have been an exaggeration had it been anyone but Benny Corcoran; the once puffy baker had turned his body and libido into a sinewy machine of redheaded virility- a development that did not bode well for his wife Assumpta's version of the marriage sacrament.

that moment, he shook his head. “Come on. You can’t fool me.” Isaac managed to spit out the truth. His brother’s mocking laughter filled the air. “Cinnamon buns? You looked all”—Andrew lowered his lids halfway and assumed a dreamy expression. “D-did not.” “Jah, you did.” In a falsetto voice, Andrew warbled, “Ach, Sovilla, you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” He exhaled a long, shuddery breath. For the first time in his life, Isaac longed to punch his brother in the stomach. How dare he make fun of Sovilla! And of the tender feelings Isaac held for her. Andrew laughed. “You look like Mamm’s teakettle.” Huh? “All steamed.” With a snicker, he danced out of Isaac’s reach. That was probably for the best. Isaac would never forgive himself if he hit his twin. But he needed to find a way to get these feelings under control. If even remembering her cinnamon rolls made him as dreamy eyed as his brother said, he had to erase Sovilla from his mind. Yet the harder he tried, the more it proved impossible. In fact, he woke at dawn on Thursday hungering for cinnamon rolls and a glimpse of the angel who baked them. Her name replayed as a lilting melody. Sovilla, Sovilla, Sovilla. Had he ever heard a prettier name? Or seen a lovelier face? At breakfast, he missed his plate when he dished out scrambled eggs and almost knocked over his glass of milk when he tried to scoop up the slippery mess. “Goodness, Isaac, what’s gotten into you this morning?” Mamm peered at him over the top of her glasses. “Don’t mind him, Mamm. He’s in love.” Andrew sang the last word. Daed’s stern glance sobered Andrew, but everyone else stared at Isaac. He shook his head and lowered his gaze to his plate. “Leave your brother alone.” Mamm passed a bowl of applesauce. “Eat up so you won’t be late to market.” To Isaac’s relief, Daed turned the conversation to a new brand of chicken feed he’d heard about at the market. Mamm asked questions, and his brothers and sisters concentrated on eating. In his eagerness to see Sovilla again, Isaac practically inhaled his breakfast. Once they reached the auction, he waited impatiently for a chance. He intended to slip off without being noticed, but Andrew spied him and Snickers edging in the direction of the market. “Bet you’re going to get a cinnamon bun, right?” His brother waggled his eyebrows. “I’m hungry for one too.” Pinching his lips together as Andrew walked beside him, Isaac stewed.

For days wagons had been arriving from all directions, loaded with sacks, crocks and crates, tubs of pickled fish; racks dangling with sausages, hams and bacon; barrels of oil, wine, cider and ale; baskets laden with onions, turnips, cabbages, leeks; also parcels of ramp, parsley, sweet herbs and cress. Day and night the kitchens were active, with the stoves never allowed to go cold. In the service yard four ovens, constructed for the occasion, produced crusty loaves, saffron buns, fruit tarts; also sweet-cakes flavoured with currants, anise, honey and nuts, or even cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. One of the ovens produced only pies and pasties, stuffed with beef and leeks, or spiced hare seethed in wine, or pork and onions, or pike with fennel, or carp in a swelter of dill, butter and mushrooms, or mutton with barley and thyme.

I get straight to work preparing my yeast, mixing it with a splash of milk and warming it in a pan as an image of a Swedish cardamom twist comes into my head. With its elaborate plaiting, it's like a cinnamon roll but more complex. I love a bread tied in knots. I'll make mine savory. That will be interesting. I turn off the burner and rush to my designated sage-green refrigerator on the side of the tent. It's stocked to the brim, stuffed full of fresh produce, exotic fruits, and dairy from local farms. I get to work, sorting through my options. What is this? Spring onion? No, chives. That'll be perfect. I'll dice them and mix them with olive oil, so they crisp up in the cracks of the bread, along with some mature cheddar. I dig deeper in the dairy compartment and find a log of expensive goat cheese. Even better! Then I'll add a ton of fresh-ground black pepper and top with some flaky sea salt. My mouth is already watering. Pair a few of these freshly baked buns with a crisp, mineral white and aperitvo is served!

This is an herb boule." I gesture to the oven where my dough is still proving. "Can we see it to get a quick shot?" Archie asks. I hesitate but slide the drawer open for just a moment, releasing a warm yeasty plume into the air, and then quickly slide it shut. It leaves behind the fragrance of parsley, cilantro, and basil, some of the herbs I've mixed into my boule. "And these are my cinnamon buns. I've used my own hand-ground rye flour to balance the sweetness and specially sourced Vietnamese cinnamon and just a touch of cardamom.

Twenty minutes later, we were back with our friends in the food court. I had bought a cinnamon bun and was holding it close to my nose, trying to bring my sense of smell back from the nasty fountain water.

Hazel Kelly loved a good story. She just didn’t have any of her own,

Or about the fact that this Ferris wheel had literally been assembled that morning, and by whom?! And what if they’d missed a screw or something?

My Easter smells are the cinnamon and mixed spices in the hot cross buns, and the rosemary and mint sauce with the roast lamb. The grassy tang of rhubarb and real muddy wet grass from the egg rolling. And of course, lots and lots of milk chocolate. My scents for Easter are: Angel by Thierry Mugler Anima Dulcis by Arquiste Musc Maori by Parfumerie Générale Blue North by Agonist Opium by Yves Saint Laurent English Pear & Freesia by Jo Malone London La Tulipe by Byredo

When you split and toast a hot cross bun, the warmth releases the smell of cinnamon and the citrus oils in the candied peel. The bun should be torn apart, never cut. Teasing one half from the other with your fingers provides a craggy surface whose furrows will hold the melted butter in tiny puddles like rain on a hoggin path. But (and it is a big but) the rough, toasted surface is never quite hot enough to melt the butter. Once the buttering is done, something that is to be set about with extreme generosity, the bun must be placed back under the grill in order for the butter to melt. Perfection is when you manage to catch the bun just as the butter has formed a golden pool yet retains a patch of glistening, soft-but-not-yet-liquid butter at its centre. A shining, golden coin in the middle of your bun.

Four in the afternoon, and Haga in Gothenburg is still shrouded in a cinnamon mist. A smell that will often lead you, as it will everywhere in Scandinavia, to knots and twists and bundles of dough laced with pearl sugar, butter and spice.

A cardamom bun is less sticky than the cinnamon-scented kanelbullar; more giving than the currant-freckled curls of the Chelsea bun, but just as much fun to unravel as you sip your coffee. You can spend a pleasing afternoon making a batch of buns. The milk-enriched dough is spread with ground spice, sugar and butter, sliced into wide ribbons then fashioned into an untidy knot. Each cook seems to have their signature tangle. The surface is speckled black and white, a gritty mix of caster sugar and ground cardamom. The salt and pepper of Swedish baking and my drug of choice.

It was too early in the morning for this level of insanity.

This one had a note at the bottom of the page. Not a note, really. Just a few words. It’s me this time, ~Noah.

This one had a note at the bottom of the page. Not a note, really. Just a few words. It’s me this time, ~ Noah.

I always bring a book, just in case.’ ‘Just in case of what?’ ‘Just in case the person I wanted to see gets very busy doing his job and I have to wait to talk to him.

Hazel was literally surrounded by amazing stories, books filled with love and adventure and life, but Hazel herself was stuck.

Ten minutes later her phone rang. It was Peter and the children, carefree and untroubled, wondering where she was. “WHERE ARE YOU?” she yelled. “At home,” they replied, their mouths full of ice-cream and cinnamon buns. When Kira asked why, Peter replied uncomprehendingly: “There was a snowstorm, so we came home.” He had forgotten to charge his phone. It was in a drawer in the bedroom.

But,’ she went on, ‘being the neighborhood crazy, book lady who thinks the books are talking to her so she plans the last two months of her twenties around them . . . is definitely embarrassing.

I made you a cinnamon bun to say sorry?” he tries. I look down at the pastry. It looks delicious. “You made it?” “Well. I put it in the microwave. But I did it very apologetically.

Hazel was getting lost-in-your-favorite-book good, sun-on-your-face good, the-perfect-cup-of–coffee good.

It was nice, laying here on a rainy day in his sweats, totally absorbed in another world. If school had been like this he definitely would have finished. But you probably can’t learn calculus from a werewolf.

Hij was zomer en zij was herfst. Hij was avontuur en zij was gezelligheid. Maar op dit moment, op de grens tussen twee seizoenen, in de beperkte plaats die ze hadden gecreëerd, pasten ze perfect bij elkaar.

Jullie zijn allebei volkomen verblind door orgasmes.

Do you want to have a milkshake with me?’ she asked. ‘There is literally nothing else I’d rather do.

Good books,’ she said after a minute, her gaze returning to his. ‘Good friends. Good food.

He flipped his book back open and lost himself in the pages. These epic fantasy novels seemed to be the antidote to his normally fidgety behavior. When he was in the story, everything else faded away.

Hazel was everything. Hazel was getting lost-in-your-favorite-book good, sun-on-your-face good, the-perfect-cup-of–coffee good.

She stood there on the edge of the garden, darkness creeping in around the edges of the sky, and felt every bit her age. She wasn’t in high school anymore, or college. She couldn’t go back and change the past and she didn’t want to, not really. But in the months leading up to her birthday, she wanted to step outside herself. To let go. To be young and fun and twenty-something before it was too late.

She always wanted to be browsing the shelves of a bookstore.

That's all you can do. Try your best.

...there's no such thing as bad weather, just bad equipment.

You brought a book.’ ‘Of course I did.’ His mouth tipped up in the corner, unable to resist the little smirk on her face. ‘Of course you did.’ ‘I always bring a book, just in case.’ ‘Just in case of what?’ ‘Just in case the person I wanted to see gets very busy doing his job and I have to wait to talk to him.

There were jam sandwiches - naturally - cold chicken, slices of potato pie. And on the sweets table were cinnamon biscuits, Ephraim's carrot fudge, fruit scones, rock buns. What caught my eye most were the foods I didn't know, made by our Austrian visitors: the flat bread, the shredded cabbage in vinegar, the dark, dense cake dusted with icing sugar, and the apple pie that was oblong rather than round, and whose pastry crackled when you cut it.

Hazel came around to the other side of the counter and took the book from his hands. ‘I want to do this with you because I like you.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘And you’re good at it.’ A new mix of emotions flitted across his face but Hazel couldn’t catch them before he was smiling again.

Noah was still looking at her and another mosquito landed on her thigh. What fresh hell was this?

Much better.’ Noah’s smile was triumphant this time, his eyes dark and hungry and for the first time in her life Hazel understood what it felt like to be wanted. To be desired. And it felt really damn good.

Adam slings an arm over my shoulders. “Leave my guy alone. He’s got a crush, that’s all.” A crush? My throat squeezes. “Psssh. No I don’t.” Do I? “You do, Carter. That’s why you haven’t left the bar with a single woman lately.” “Maybe I needed a break. I’ve been tired.” “That’s why you bought Olivia cinnamon buns and cheesecake and talked her into getting her face painted with you last week. That’s why you stood there with your arms around her during the tree lighting, just because she shivered, and that’s why you invited her to a party at your house, even though you never have meaningless hookups here. Because Olivia means something to you, and you, my friend, have a crush.

Our new Save the Date stuck prominently to Gloria’s fridge. I memorize all the floorboards that creak or groan, so I can tiptoe downstairs in the morning without waking anyone, take the Jeep into town for a sugary latte for me and black coffee for them, orange cinnamon morning buns for all of us. Or at least Wyn will have a bite, and I’ll polish off the rest. I walk for a while, enjoy the bittersweet scent of whitebark and pine and quaking aspen. There’s an entire shop here for sauces, syrups, and oils. Last week, after sampling easily two dozen, Wyn and I bought a smoky maple syrup aged in charred bourbon barrels. For Gloria’s birthday, we made pancakes, and when she tasted the syrup, she said, “Tastes like camping.” Then she got choked up, because camping was something she and Hank used to do. “When we were first dating and had no money,” she explained. Then, after a teary laugh, she added, “And once we’d been married for decades and still had no money.

I am not enabling your Princess Leia fetish...No cinnamon-bun Leia. ...I was thinking metal-bikini Leia. Perv...Does every man in the galaxy have that fantasy? Probably.

general boating terms. The front of the boat is the bow and the back is the stern.’ Hazel nodded. ‘Right is starboard and left is port.

She’s clever too. I’ve read a lot in my time but she gobbles up books like cinnamon buns.

Noah was objectively very handsome, she could admit that. And, objectively, very much not her type.

Annie smirked. ‘I think this could be good for you. I mean

It was a heady feeling to know someone had been fantasizing about you

He was summer and she was fall. He was adventure and she was comfort. But right now

Activity and noise and lights and bodies swirled around her

She was the tart spark of blueberries on his tongue

what more did one need besides good friends

That all those holes in her memories were turning into something like regrets.

Hazel was literally surrounded by amazing stories

Krav Maga class.