My throat tightened.“I don’t hang out in there.”
He took a step closer.“Why were you in there?”
“Just,” I said too fast, “doing business stuff.”
Saint didn’t smile.He didn’t push harder yet either.He just looked at me like he knew I was lying or hiding or both.
“What’s wrong?”he asked.
“Nothing,” I said automatically.
His jaw flexed.“Belle.”
I lifted my chin.“I’m fine.”
He moved closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him even in the chilly bakery.His voice dropped lower.
“You’re not,” he said.“Talk to me.”
I shook my head and crossed my arms over my chest like it would hold me together.“I don’t have time for this.I need to get the dough started.We open in an hour.”
“Then answer while you work,” he said calmly.“What’s wrong?”
I turned away, headed for the prep table, and started pulling out bowls like busy hands would save me from the truth.
Saint followed.
Not in my space.Not hovering.Just there, like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.
“Something is wrong,” he said.
I snorted.
“Tell me what is going on,” he replied.
I reached for flour and slammed the bag down harder than necessary.A puff of white dust rose and settled on my sweater.
Saint’s eyes flicked to it, then back to my face.He didn’t look amused.He looked concerned.
That only made my frustration spike.
“What do you want me to say?”I snapped.
Saint didn’t flinch.“The truth.”
I stared at the mixing bowl, my hands clenched around the edge so hard my knuckles ached.
The truth was ugly.
The truth was humiliating.
The truth was that I was one grown woman running an award-winning bakery, and I still felt like a scared kid trying to clean up someone else’s mess before it swallowed me whole.
My voice came out tight.“I’m just stressed.”
Saint nodded once, like he’d expected that.“About what?”
I laughed, sharp and bitter.“About Christmas.About orders.About money.About everything.”
