#the 1975 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

abiiors · 2 days

Text

marigold's - ross x reader 🍂˚ ༘ ೀ🎃｡˚☕️

a/n: quite literally giggled and kicked my feet the entire time writing this fic!! also BAKER ROSS!!!! cw: nothing much really, just food and food related activities/conversations wc: 4.4k

it’s a crisp autumn morning when their eyes meet across the street. her heartbeat quickens, palms starting to sweat just a little. in the opposite window, ross stands still for a moment. her eyes narrow in his direction. recognition flares in them and then... hatred.

that pumpkin stealing bitch!

“you…” she seethes through her nostrils like a furious dragon. obviously, ross can’t hear her from across the street, but oh, he knows what he did. and she is sure that her face does in fact, betray all her emotions right now; anger, hatred and more anger.

ross gives her a sickly sweet smile in response and waves a cheery goodbye. then he turns around and walks away from the window, a pep in his step. it makes her brain go into emergency mode, funnily enough—anger eating away at the sane parts of it, no doubt!

the greater marigold’s is in a bit of an uproar today. suspiciously enough, everything seems to be going on normally across the street at (the inferior) marigold's. she immediately runs for her binoculars.

a collective sigh runs through the other baristas at the sight of it, but she does not have time for these trifles. she has to get to the bottom of something.

and there they all are, just as she suspected. big, ripe, orange, and double in quantity. the pumpkins that marigold's stole from the greater marigold's. or rather, the pumpkins that ross stole from her.

she’s sure of it.

she shifts her gaze to the window of the bakery. might as well get some additional spying done. and she sees him—already there—matching binoculars in hand. it’s like they are mirrors of each other. they might as well be.

for the better part of a year, she and ross have both been working hard towards being the head baker of their respective bakeries. no one has come out and said the words, but they both know it’s a race to the finish line. just like everything else.

that’s when she realises, this is her chance to step up and take charge of the situation. she can survive another day without murdering ross, but the bakery can’t survive without pumpkins. not on a beautiful autumn day like this.

her eyes narrow as she furiously begins to type, her coffee getting colder by the second in its cosy little mug. it can wait. this, however, cannot.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: thief! stop stealing our fucking pumpkins, you… you ghoul!!

there. that should fucking show him. with much satisfaction coursing through her veins, she reaches for her coffee, breathing in the rich aroma, dreaming of the first delicious sip when the laptop pings.

an email pops up.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: re: thief! ghoul? cute. stop stealing our recipes then and come up with your own :)

the coffee cup stills abruptly on its way to her lips, drink sloshing precariously while she gapes at the first email of the day. the one she’s just had the misfortune of reading—first the fucking pumpkins and now this. all before a single sip of coffee. the sheer audacity!

there’s the familiar urge to glare across the street, at the all too familiar glass windows, all the way to the man inside; the familiar urge to turn him into a toad with her withering glare alone. still, she resists, takes a dainty little sip of the coffee. it tastes like shit—likely the doing of the stupid email and the stupid man.

she huffs, fingers running angrily across the keyboard.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: re: thief! seems like you’re projecting? the recipe has been in our family for decades :)) return our pumpkins.

there. that seems sufficiently saccharine and sarcastic. and sent.

the next sip of the coffee she takes tastes better than the last, sweeter even, until there’s another ping on the computer. another email popping up. all the warmth in her belly turns to hot, burning irritation.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: re: thief! marco’s older. the recipe is his. :))) how are they your pumpkins? we paid for them

little shit! the smiley face in the email grates on her nerves. how dare he try to turn this on her?! he’s the thief, she mutters to herself, stomping her feet to the coffee machine and prepping for the day.

it’s bound to be a long one. shitty too judging by the lack of the pumpkins.

marigold's isn’t just a bakery, it’s an institution. and its head baker-to-be does not fuck around.

ross glances at the surplus of pumpkins in the kitchen. sure, they might not have needed that many, and sure they would have to give some away at the end of the day, but he knows the other bakery does not have any for the day.

maybe he’ll just work on a few more autumn recipes with them. he has no doubt they’ll taste just a little sweeter now that he’s seen the pure annoyance on her face—the way her forehead scrunches up, nostrils flared and the way her eyes narrow into what she thinks is a glare. to ross it’s about as scary as a little rabbit.

it’s adorable that she should even entertain the idea that it’s scary.

his boss, the older (and objectively the better) of the two brothers, can be dealt with. marco loves ross, loves all his recipes and the little tricks he likes to pull on ty, the younger of the two brothers. their rivalry is an enigma to him.

it’s not just sibling rivalry—not just healthy competition. there’s so much more to it that he’d never been told. all he knows about it is that there was a big fight, marigold's split up because of it, and now the world has the "other one".

but ross has decided, a long time ago, that he won’t be caught in the cross-fire of it. not when he can be put to much better use as marco’s right hand man.

he can’t resist sneaking a look at the modern, sleek bakery in front of theirs. everything about it is off to him—the slightly different font spelling out “the greater marigold's” in neat, cursive letters. they’re freshly painted too. not the chipped and slightly worn but comforting look he associates with marigold's.

she’s leaving the bakery in a hurry, ross sees. her face is arranged in a careful, determined look. he looks at the clock and smirks. nowhere on a monday morning would have enough fresh pumpkins to sustain a bakery for the day.

there’s a pumpkin spice haze in the air, ross thinks. marco even gives him a pat on the back when he sees ty throwing a hissy fit in his office through his binoculars.

ross thinks back to just a few months ago, during the summer—how he’d managed to sneak in to the greater marigold's when she was on her break, and purchased one of the last remaining lemon-caramel muffins that had been selling like hotcakes for the last two weeks.

lemon and caramel, he’d scoffed before biting into the giant thing, what a stupid combination.

and now he remembers the way his eyes had rolled in the back of his head, the involuntary moan he’d let out on the sidewalk. they were the best fucking thing he’d had all summer.

caramel, yes.

he’d make something with caramel.

had she been there in the kitchen at marigold's that day, she would have described it as heaven—the smell of fresh pastry, the blend of pumpkin and caramel. there’s a hint of cloves and cinnamon in there too, she would have thought.

mostly, though, she would have looked at the baker—at his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tattoos peeking. at the way he kneads the dough until it’s soft and fluffy. the painstaking concentration he displays while making the pumpkin and caramel filling, his dimples on full display when he tastes his creation and finds it has exceeded expectation.

she would have looked at him to study his technique, of course.

alas, that’s not how it goes.

by the time she gets back to the greater marigold's, sad little pumpkin in hand, ty is waiting for her.

“you’re my star!” he says, gesticulating wildly, shaking his head in disappointment. “how could you let that happen? no pumpkin desserts in autumn, it’s a shame.”

and it is a shame, she thinks. there were recipes she’d thought to try. something new and exciting just like her lemon caramel muffins from summer—something that would have made ty promote her to head baker on spot!

“our suppliers deliver to marigold's first,” she mumbles, but ty is too busy cursing at marco, muttering his name under his breath. she supposes her excuses and explanations don’t matter.

the problem isn’t the lack of pumpkins, the problem is that marco (ross) won.

“i’ll make sure it won’t happen again,” she promises.

ty takes one long hard look at her, then looks back at marigold's. she thinks something almost nostalgic flickers on his face then, but that’s a stupid thought, right? the brothers hate each other just like she and ross hate each other.

some gaps can never be bridged.

a second passes and ty rubs the bridge of his nose. “no,” he says, “it won’t.”

she looks down at the ground like a little kid that just got told off. ross… is going to pay for this. oh how she wishes one of those pumpkins would blow up in his annoyingly handsome face…

the rest of the day, it seems, is well on track to going downhill. she feels herself dying a little on the inside every time she has to tell a customer that they indeed do not have pumpkin spice lattes today.

yes, it’s not even noon yet.

no, they haven’t ran out.

we are so sorry ma’am.

something went wrong with the pumpkin shipment.

she should take that small sad pumpkin she managed to get and throw it through marigold's window, ugh!

in an hour their new trainee gets tired of dealing with people’s questions. “you can try marigold's for pumpkin spice latte, we are currently out,” he says.

almost in unison, a gasp runs through the other baristas. head after head turns to look at her as if she’s a volcano about to erupt. and maybe she is… the boy cowers, realising he probably said the worst thing he could have. she simply smiles at him—lips stretched over her teeth, canines visible—and turns to the customer.

“we are sorry about the lattes, ma’am,” deep breath in. deep breath out. you need to sound human, not like a growling animal, “something went wrong with the pumpkin shipment today.”

“they ran out of PSLs! PSLs!” the customer’s voice rises an octave higher, and ross smiles from behind the divider.

he’s busy making sure the big batch of caramel doesn’t burn, and eavesdropping of course… subconsciously, his gaze flicks towards the other bakery and the girl within. he wonders if she’s so angry the tip of her nose has gone all red, he wonders if she stomped back to the oven like he’s seen her do before.

ross stirs the caramel. it’s nice and thick now, smells delicious too, but his arms strain with the effort. there’s a thought that’s pushing around in his brain. ross wishes she could try some of the doughnuts he’s going to make. he wishes for a brief five minutes they can set the rivalry aside and he could spoon some of the filling into her mouth—watch her as she savours it, letting the sweetness linger on her tongue.

he wonders if she’d sigh and moan like he had after that muffin.

then he wonders if he’s lost his mind because this is a truly ridiculous line of thought.

he curses under his breath, stirring a little more aggressively than needed. why does she have to be so... infuriating?

it’s another hour before he has to let go of the doughnut recipe he’s been working on all afternoon. all of it needs to chill in the fridge for a few hours, he can’t hurry it in his excitement. the doughnuts need to be perfect. not because of her, of course—he isn’t making them for her—but because marco expects nothing less.

besides, the satisfaction of one-upping the greater marigold’s, of seeing that familiar look of frustration on her face when she realises her defeat, would simply be a sweet little byproduct.

there’s a quiet little ping the moment he closes the fridge behind him.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: re: thief! 1) we were going to pay for them before you hoarded them with your grubby little fingers. 2) marco can keep his stuffy old recipe, ty’s is better anyway :)))) 3) you suck.

ross blinks. then looks across the street and blinks some more. try as he might, he can’t seem to fight the smile that worms its way onto his face. try as he might he can’t stop his brain from conjuring up images—of her sitting in front of the computer, nose scrunched, fingers typing furiously.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: re: thief! think about my fingers a lot do you? at least try my recipe before bashing it.

her cheeks are about as red as the apples in the kitchen, she’s sure of it.

think about my fingers a lot do you?

no she fucking doesn’t! she never has and never will! what’s it to her if he uses his big hands with the slender fingers to knead the dough until it’s soft and fluffy? what’s it to her if he uses his toned arms to lift up heavy bags of flour and sugar and cocoa? what’s it to her if he does anything inside that stupid bakery of his?!

she huffs, ready to fire off a reply of her own, when the second line of the email finally registers in her brain.

at least try my recipe before bashing it.

why should she? it’s going to be rancid and possibly full of rat poison or laxatives or something. she’s sure of it. she turns her nose up at the email, primly clicking out of the tab.

she won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it affected her even a little. she won’t give him any satisfaction at all.

it works for a bit—working in the kitchen and taking up more jobs than necessary—it distracts her for a good few hours. the sun makes its slow descent west, dousing the bakery with warm golden light.

this is one of her favourite things about the greater marigold’s—how everything turns golden at a certain time of the evening when the waning light of the sun touches it. she even likes to sit by the window for a small break then, sipping on whatever drink she fancies, munching on a small croissant maybe.

that is until she sighs into her mug of hot chocolate, and opens her eyes to ross grinning at her from across the street. she narrows her eyes at him, his smile turns brighter, almost a laugh now.

he has dimples, she realises for the millionth time. and just like every other time, her lungs stop working for just a second.

ross lifts up a finger to his mouth and taps above his lip. she frowns, and then mirrors his action, mortified when the finger comes back soaked in chocolate and cream.

shit. he saw her with a chocolate moustache like a fucking toddler!

her face flushes. ross laughs, and laughs harder when she sticks his tongue out at him. she does something wholly unfamiliar then, something that goes so much against her instincts that it feels alien for a moment; but she studies him, studies his face and the tray in his hands filled with delicious doughnuts that aren’t even baked yet and still they look so mouth-watering.

at least try my recipe before bashing it.

should she take him up on his offer?

ross quirks an eyebrow when he catches her looking, equally as interested in her as she is in him at the moment. then his eyes slide to the door to marigold’s and back to hers. a silent invitation. he means it then—his offer is genuine.

and try as she might, she can’t get herself to ignore the doughnuts and their maker.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: poison how do i know they’re not poisoned?

ross laughs—no, he actually guffaws when the email comes through. two email chains in one day… anyone else might have thought there was something there. not him though. he can’t be thinking things like these…

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: re: poison if they were, would i tell you?

he looks across the street at the other bakery even though he can’t see her. the sun’s properly gone down now, the twilight giving way to the night. there are more people milling about the street—going home from work or out on an evening stroll. ross looks at the window and smiles fondly.

the image is burned in his head now—her sitting by the window, upper lip coated in chocolate and head thrown back mid sigh. fuck, he had no business staring at her the way he had. no business teasing her about the moustache or inviting her to marigold’s again!

and even now, ross can’t help but imagine the expression on her face—the suspicious squinting of her otherwise huge eyes, the subtle jutting-out of her bottom lip.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: re: poison at least this email thread would serve as evidence if i died

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: re: poison so you’re taking me up on my offer then

ross holds his breath as the email whooshes out of his inbox and into hers. who knows how long it will stay there? what if she just decides not to respond and leaves him hanging?! but his heart lurches in his chest when the inbox refreshes, one unread email at the top.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: re: poison my shift ends in 15

he fidgets for fourteen minutes and fifty-seven seconds of it, only getting himself together when the bells chime and he sees her looking around, a little lost. her hair is no longer in a bun, instead it hangs down her shoulders, framing her face perfectly. ross clears his throat and instantly gets her attention.

he leans against the counter, arms crossed. the stance is meant to be casual, cool and aloof, and yet he doesn’t miss the way her eyes quickly graze over his biceps, over his forearms. how interesting…

“you came,” ross says, his voice laced with more surprise than he intended.

she hums, and there’s no judgement behind it—just a hint of that exasperation that may or may not be the teasing kind. “had to check out the competition, didn’t i,” she says coolly, walking toward the tray that still sits on the counter.

ross watches her as she takes marigold’s in. has she never been in here before? granted he’s only been to the greater marigold’s only once—to sneakily eat her muffins. shit, he’d have to erase the cctv before marco realises and goes ballistic.

he watches her with baited breath, waiting for her to finish her inspection.

“your bakery’s empty,” she notes, and ross looks around as if realising that for the first time.

he shrugs. “we close an hour before you do.”

she nods, then gestures towards the tray on the counter. he can practically see the gears turning in her head, sense more of the questions that he’s about to be asked.

“what’s in it?”

“caramel,” he answers without missing a beat.

“and?”

a shit-eating grin. “pumpkins…”

she falters a little, fighting the tiny smile on her face.

“and…?”

“usual doughnut things?”

she levels her stare at ross again. it’s a bit of a shock then—of course it is. he’s never been in such close proximity to her. the closest they’ve come before this when the brothers got into a heated argument in the middle of the street and their respective staff had to drag marco and ty back to their offices. he remembers how she’d scoffed at him then, sticking her tongue out as if that were the epitome of a good burn.

it’s also a bit of a shock to him because in the warm, golden lighting of marigold’s, ross can see the precise colour of her eyes (so much different than he’d thought), the exact shape of them and their intensity.

he looks at her and, perhaps for the first time, realises just how much he enjoys looking at her.

“don’t be smart with me,” she holds up a finger, threatening.

then the finger pokes him in the chest. “laxatives?” she asks.

ross frowns. “no—”

“ooh, i get it. salt instead of sugar.”

“uh—”

“too much cinnamon? wait, wait, cayenne pepper instead of cinnamon!”

ross watches her, amused, as her brain spits out idea after idea—all outlandish, all highly improbable. she’s halfway through guessing uranium (???) when he lightly grabs her by her elbow, halting her mid-sentence, and stuffs the doughnut in her open mouth.

his finger touches something incredibly soft then—her lip, he realises with a mix of every emotion he’s ever felt. and thrill. so much thrill. his thumb is touching her bottom lip, lingering there, even though he should have pulled his hand back moments ago.

she’s probably thinking along the same lines because her gaze dips down—first to the doughnut, half in her mouth and half out, and then to his hand, still by her lips. and then she bites down.

ross waits. one beat, then another, then another.

time slows as she chews, swallows and then, just as he’s about to be impatient and demand she tell him how they are, she licks her lips. right over the spot his fingers so briefly touched.

involuntarily, ross shivers, gripping the countertop just a little.

“so?” he asks, his voice just a little hoarser than before. “are they poisoned?”

she doesn’t answer immediately, letting the silence hang thick between them. she just takes another bite, this time on her own accord, and closes her eyes as she chews, making a show of it. ross doesn’t realise he’s practically gawking until her eyes snap open, and she finally speaks.

“no,” she says slowly, dragging the word out, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “but they’re dangerous.”

he blinks. “dangerous?”

she swallows another bite and nods, stepping just a little closer, closing the distance between them. “quite addictive,” she says in a low voice, the teasing evident, as if she’s revelling in the way his face flushes ever so slightly at her proximity.

ross huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “you’re terrible.”

she doesn’t bother answering that. instead, she finishes the doughnut in two more bites and then swipes another one from the tray. he tries not to notice the warmth that blooms in his chest.

“they’re inspired by you,” he admits shyly, finally allowing himself to pick up a doughnut and taste it. and yeah it’s fucking good! it’s better than when he’d tasted just the filling earlier today.

“me?” she points to herself, voice muffled.

“your lemon-caramel muffins from this summer.”

she ahhs in understanding, remembering the baked delights from just a few months ago, before her eyes narrow in suspicion. “when did you try them?”

ross gives her an easy smile. “i snuck in when you were on your break.”

she gasps, ever dramatic. “so you are a thief!”

ross throws his hands up. “i paid for them!”

“if i knew you were buying i would have charged double,” she challenges, standing on her toes all the way to look down his nose at him. not that it works much—he towers over her regardless.

ross steps even closer, bending down, his voice deep and soft like he’s confessing a secret. “i sweet-talked the barista, gave her a smile, and she gave them to me for half off.” and then he erupts into laughter as her face goes slack and then indignant and then finally pouty.

“a thief and a flirt!” she accuses.

“only one of them,” he concedes.

for a moment, they both just stand there, the tension between them crackling like electricity in the warm light of the bakery. he’s fully aware now—how close she is, how she smells faintly of vanilla and spice, how her eyes are much more alive than he had ever realised before. and she’s watching him too, her gaze flickering between his eyes, his lips, and back again.

it’s a moment. they’re having a moment.

but then something happens—errant noise from the traffic, or creaks of the old building, or one of the million things that could have happened—and the moment is over. she steps back. fidgeting with her hands.

then, as if thinking twice about it, swipes another doughnut.

“thanks for these,” she holds it up, smiling in earnest. “i’m glad i got to taste them.”

“me too,” he nods, still just a little breathless.

“i should go,” she mentions, lingering a little.

“mm-hmm,” he nods. she’s right, it is getting a little late. he has no idea how far away she lives or how long it would take her to get home or if she has plans she’s getting late for.

“right then,” she slaps a hand on the counter and then turns on her heels, brushing past him, her shoulder grazing his arm as she makes her way to the door. ross’s body tingles from the touch, and he watches her go, follows her out of the bakery just because.

she looks to the right once, then left and right again, before crossing the street. halfway through though, her steps falter. ross seizes the chance.

“oi!” he calls out and she turns, dazzling him with a brilliant smile, warm enough to stave away the late september chill in the air. “see you around?”

she swallows hard. “yeah,” she breathes out.

it’s a crisp autumn night when their eyes meet across the street. ross’ heartbeat quickens, and his palms start to sweat just a little.

#autumn fics #seasons #the 1975 #ross macdonald #ross macdonald x reader #ross macdonald x you #ross x reader #ross x you

44 notes · View notes