But tonight, my mind kept circling back to the same things. Yusef’s bruise. The rent increase. Prime with his judgmental eyes and his groceries. Saturday looming like a storm cloud.
I worked the dough with more force than necessary, rolling it flat, spreading the cream cheese filling thick. The cinnamon and cocoa mixed together, the smell already making my mouth water. These rolls were my best work. Rich, decadent, the kind of thing people would pay good money for.
If I could just get a real shot. A real kitchen. A real business.
As I cut the rolls and arranged them in pans, I realized something. This kitchen. After hours. No Larry breathing down my neck, no customers rushing me, no one judging my every move.
I could do this multiple nights a week. Bake in bulk. Sell at the farmers market on weekends. Build my business without needing to rent expensive commercial kitchen space.
It was risky. If Larry found out, he’d fire me. But if I was smart about it, if I cleaned up perfectly, if I only used ingredients I brought myself, if I was careful…
The idea took root, growing stronger with each roll I placed in the pan.
This could work. This could actually work.
I slid the first batch into the oven and set the timer, already planning. Three nights a week. Maybe four if Yusef hadsleepovers at Brandi’s. I could make dozens of rolls, maybe branch out to my peach cobbler ones, the bourbon pecan…
The back door opened.
I screamed, whirling around, my hand instinctively grabbing the rolling pin.
Prime stood in the doorway, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who’d just broken into a closed restaurant. He was dressed in all black—black jeans that fit him too well, black shirt that stretched across his chest in ways I shouldn’t be noticing. Those eyes locked on mine, and my breath caught despite my anger.
“What the fuck!” My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might crack a rib. “How did you… the door was locked!”
“I have my ways.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him as if this were his business. The space suddenly felt smaller with him in it, the air charged with something I didn’t want to name.
“Are you stalking me?” I backed up against the counter, still gripping the rolling pin. The cool metal pressed into my lower back. “Because this is textbook stalking. Breaking and entering. Harassment. I could call the cops.”
“You could.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and I hated how my eyes traveled over the definition in his forearms, the way his muscles flexed. Those unsettling eyes moved over me slowly—taking in my flour-dusted tank top, my jeans, my bare feet. “But you won’t.”
The way he looked at me made my skin feel too tight.
“Why are you here?”
“Making sure you didn’t run.” His voice was low, almost a rumble. “Saturday’s coming up. Wanted to make sure you were still planning to honor our agreement.”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
“People say a lot of things.” He pushed off the wall, moving closer. Each step deliberate, predatory. “Then they disappear. New city, new name. Happens all the time.”
I gripped the rolling pin tighter, hyper-aware of how close he was getting, how I could smell his cologne now—something woodsy and expensive. “I’m not running. I have a job. A life. A son who goes to school here.”
“Baking.” He stopped just a foot away, his eyes dropping to my flour-covered hands before traveling back up to my face. His gaze lingered on my lips for half a second too long. “That why you were studying all those business plans at the library? Starting your own thing?”
The fact that he knew about the library made my skin crawl. And burn. How long had he been watching me? How much had he seen?
“Get out.” My voice shook with anger and something else. “I don’t need you checking up on me. I said I’d take Yusef on Saturday, and I will. Now leave.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“I have a car.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “Your car’s been sitting in that parking lot with busted brakes for a minute. I know because I checked.”
Of course he did.
“Then I’ll take the bus.”
