I was still staring when the door opened behind me.
“You found them.”
I whipped around so fast the whisk almost flew from my hand. “Micah! I feel like a broken record, but you can’t just buy me things.”
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. Looking completely unbothered and maddeningly patient. “Why not?”
“Because it’s too much.” I waved the whisk between us like it could express the chaos in my chest. “And I don’t want people thinking?—”
I cut myself off before the rest could tumble out.
Amusement flickered in his eyes. “You let me get away with using your recipe. It’s only fair you get something in return.”
“That’s not how it works,” I sputtered even though he’d made a good point.
His voice gentled further as he added, “These are just tools. Ones that’ll make it easier for you to whip up more of those incredible treats.”
“You can’t do things like this,” I whispered, more breathless than angry.
He didn’t stop looking at me as though my flustered irritation delighted him. “I’m going to keep believing in you, whether you’re ready for it or not.”
I retreated a step, suddenly overheated and completely unsure what to do with the storm inside me. But when he leftme alone, I very carefully tucked the supplies into my tote bag before going home.
Micah’s textcame in the following morning while I was shoving my hair into a ponytail before work.
Micah: Hope you put those supplies to good use while I’m out of town this weekend.
I stared at the message longer than I should have.
The regular season had just started, and their first game was an away one. Which meant I wouldn’t see him for two whole days. And that bothered me more than it should.
I shoved my phone into my tote and told myself I was being ridiculous.
Missing Micah wasn’t part of the plan. I needed to keep my focus on Reese. My sweet sister, who was holding on by her fingertips in a house neither of us had ever felt safe in.
The plan was simple—save every dollar, work as many shifts as I could survive, keep my head down. Falling for the guy who owned the deli where I worked didn’t fit into it anywhere.
I sank onto the edge of my bed and pulled out my recipe notebook from where I’d left it under my mattress last night. When I flipped it open, a small square of yellow paper fluttered out and landed in my lap.
I traced the edge of the sticky note with my fingertip. I could have thrown it away. It would’ve been the smart thing to do.
Instead, I tucked it gently back between the pages, right beside the sketch of the lemon blueberry blondie bars I had drawn last night.
A quiet exhale slipped out of me.
As much as I kept telling myself nothing could change, I was starting to realize something terrifying. Somewhere in the middle of the rush and exhaustion of my life, Micah had slipped inside places he shouldn’t fit.
7
MICAH
The Tight Line was packed, comfortably crowded with a bunch of my teammates and their women, spread out at the two long high-top tables we’d pushed together near the front window. The late lunch hour sunlight streaked through the glass, glinting off silver napkin dispensers. Laughter rolled through the air, warm and familiar, and I watched them eat.
Specifically, I’d been keeping an eye on the three white ceramic dessert platters in the center of the table. The desserts that had been laid out on them were almost gone.
“What the fuck is in these?” Brady asked, lifting a gooey apple-crumble square and taking another massive bite. Crumbs clung to his jawline as he closed his eyes and groaned. His wife, Talia, giggled and brushed them away before snatching the rest of the treat from his hand and popping it in her mouth. Brady scowled at her and playfully slammed her up against his chest. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
That was my cue to leave.
