“Oh, sure. You were about five seconds from reaching across that counter and going feral. Then what would happen to your business if you wound up in jail for assault on your first day?”
I feel my jaw tighten. Her knowing smile makes me want to prove her wrong and thank her at the same time. I lean forward slightly, my forearms resting on the counter.
"Wouldn't be the first time I've been in handcuffs," I say, meeting her gaze. "But I appreciate the concern for my business model."
She laughs, a sound that's both sharp and sweet, like biting into dark chocolate with sea salt. "I bet you're very familiar with handcuffs. From both sides of them, I'm guessing."
I blink. Quiet. Something about her cuts through my usual defenses. She's not intimidated, not flirting in that desperate way some women do when they see a guy like me. Instead, she's standing there like we're equals in a game neither of us invented but both know how to play.
"You planning on ordering something, or just saving strange men from themselves before the sun comes up?”
"Everything looks..." She pauses, her gaze traveling up to meet mine. "Impressive."
The way she says it makes my skin heat up, and not from the ovens. I clear my throat.
"I'd recommend the kouign-amann. Just pulled them out twenty minutes ago."
"Kouign-amann?" She tests the word, her lips curving into a small smile. "That something you can actually eat? Or are you messing with me?”
“This your first time in a bakery?”
“I don’t know what I expected coming in here.”
“You’re surprised at finding baked goods in a bakery? What the hell goes on in this town?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “You have no idea. Look, I came in here because I wanted to find out what kind of lunatic opens up a bakery just a block away from the seediest strip club in the United States?”
“A guy who likes to bake and who knows that everyone’s got to eat, even strippers.”
“Oh, trust me, I know,” she says. “Look, I’ll take a mixed dozen. Surprise me. I’m sure they’ll all love it.”
“They?”
“The strippers.”
I blink again. “Are you a…?”
Because, if she is, I damn well may actually set food inside Club Sin with intentions other than murdering the owner, Victor Moretti.
“No. Hell no. But I runSafe House. It’s a women’s shelter. And some of our residents have been lucky enough to escape that hellhole.”
I make up her box, filling it mostly with sticky buns and chocolate croissants. Then I throw in a few extra.
"For the shelter," I say. "But don’t tell anyone. I’m trying to run a business here."
She grins. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
She pays, then, with a tinkle of a bell, she’s gone, and a young couple with a dog comes in to take her place.
I exhale, shaking my head, watching her go.
I barely register the next customers. It’s not until I go to wipe down the counter that I see something on the floor. A small, worn set of rosary beads.
She must’ve dropped them.
I grab them, step out from behind the counter, and push through the door, scanning the street. I spot her near a car, just pulling out her ringing phone.
I jog toward her, about to call out.
