"Part of it." He scrubbed harder at a spot on the counter. "Mostly it was the hours. He wanted a normal life where we had dinners together and weekends. He preferred someone who didn't smell like yeast twenty-four-seven. And that wasn’t me."
"That wasn’t fair to you.”
He shrugged. "It's the reality of running a bakery alone."
"You're not alone now." Oh gods, the words were out before I could stop them, and I couldn't take them back. The universe wouldn't allow it.
Hawthorn's hand stilled. He looked at me and his eyes were wide and unguarded, before they shuttered.
"No," he said quietly. "I guess I'm not."
My heart was galloping. I put a hand to my chest and asked my wolf to make it stop. But he was paying attention to Hawthorn. This was supposed to be a professional relationship. And I was supposed to be figuring out my life, not falling for a grumpy baker who made my wolf howl with longing.
But when Hawthorn looked at me, as though I was something to be treasured and also terrifying, professional was the last thing on my mind.
The bell above the door chimed, and a woman walked in, bringing a blast of cold air and the scent of perfume that cut through Hawthorn's lingering scent on my skin.
"Hawthorn!" She beamed at him. "I heard you hired someone new. Are you going to introduce us?"
Hawthorn's expression shuttered. "Zale, this is Marg. She runs the bookshop across the street. Marg, this is Zale. He's helping out for the holidays."
"Just the holidays?" Margaret looked between us with interest. "That's a shame. From what I’ve heard you two are working well together."
"We manage." Hawthorn was already moving toward the back. "Zale, can you handle this? I need to start the next batch."
He disappeared before I could answer.
Marg smirked. "Don't mind him. He's always been prickly. But I've known Hawthorn for years, and I've never seen him let anyone else work the front counter before."
"Really?"
“Yes.” She leaned in. "He must trust you. That's not something he gives out easily."
Her words pleased me more than they should.
I sold Marg a baguette and when she left, I glanced toward the back room where Hawthorn was moving around.
One week down and however many more to go.
My wolf was counting on forever. I wanted to believe in forever too. But I'd run from one complicated situation. I couldn't let myself fall into another one.
FOUR
HAWTHORN
The order came in on a Wednesday morning, and it was exactly the kind of thing I should have said no to.
"Fifty gingerbread houses?" I stared at Cynthia Bateman, the head of the town's Christmas festival committee. "By Saturday?"
"I know it's last minute." Cynthia had the decency to look apologetic. "But the bakery we ordered from in Ivybrook just closed unexpectedly. You're our only hope, Hawthorn. The kids are counting on it. Each family decorating their own gingerbread house at the festival is a town tradition."
Tradition. The word that made it impossible to refuse in a place this small.
I sighed. "Fine. But it's going to cost extra for the rush."
"Whatever you need." Cynthia beamed. "You're a lifesaver."
After she left, I contemplated the sheer amount of work ahead. Fifty gingerbread houses meant hundreds of individual pieces that included walls, roofs and chimneys. They all had to be baked, cooled, and packaged with royal icing and candy for decorating. And that was on top of the regular orders.
