Like she knew, and is at this moment, using this weakness to somehow manipulate me further.
I don’t know what’s worse: that I know she’s doing it, or that I look forward to her machinations?
I grunt and slam the fridge shut, as if the action can somehow eject her from my thoughts.
Reyes is nothing but a headache of a tenant. A fire hazard wrapped in a too-small apron, running a bakery with the worst name I’ve ever heard.
Moist.
Gods.
Every time I hear it, I want to commit an act of violence.
And yet, my feet still move on their own. Crossing the floor of the converted loft that I use as my workspace separate from my apartment, I stand near the window where I have a clear view of her shop across the courtyard.
Through the window, I can see her moving behind the counter, kneading something for her day’s supply or probably more bread designed to ruin me.
Her sleeves are rolled up, exposing slim forearms dusted with flour.
She tucks a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, frowning slightly as she works the dough, her hands pressing and folding, rhythmic and sure.
My breath comes a little too slow. I should be able to ignore her. Instead, I notice things. Things I shouldn’t. Things I’ve been actively ignoring since I first opened my door to her manic grin, waving my rental flyer in my face.
Like how small and vulnerable she looked all on her own. How she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s concentrating. Or how she leans into her work, utterly unafraid of a mess, as if baking is the only thing in the world that matters.
I tell myself I’m just making sure she doesn’t burn the place down again.
That’s all.
That’s the only reason I’m standing here like an idiot, watching a human woman knead dough as if it’s some kind of hypnotic ritual.
Then, as if sensing me, she suddenly looks up.
Our eyes meet.
I don’t move.
For half a second, neither does she.
Then, she grins. That infuriating, too-bright grin—like she’s caught me in something, like she sees the battle I’m trying to win against myself.
And because she is a menace, she waves at me.
I stalk away from the window. Swear under my breath. Refuse to look back.
I throw myself into my work, hoping the rhythm of sanding wood will drown out the sound of her laughter that somehow echoes in my head despite the solid brick walls between us. My workshop takes up half of my apartment—a massive open space filled with tools, lumber, and works in progress. Custom furniture is my business. My livelihood. My sanity.
And I’m good at it. Damn good. I know exactly how much pressure to apply to make rough edges smooth, how to coax beauty from raw materials, how to turn chaos into order.
Unfortunately, I can’t seem to do the same with one tiny human baker.
I run my palm over the surface of a mahogany tabletop I’ve been commissioned to finish by the end of the week. The wood is cool and responsive beneath my touch, exactly as it should be.
I switch to a finer grit of sandpaper, focusing on the repetitive motions, trying to channel my frustration into something productive.
My horns feel heavy, the base of my skull tense with the effort of carrying them. I should rest. Take a break. But rest means thinking, and thinking means?—
No. I’m not going there.
