I set my keys down behind the counter and tried to calm my breathing, as if everything was normal. What a joke.
The front bell jingled.
“Easy, sugar,” came that low, rough voice I was starting to recognize.
Easton Holt filled the doorway like a shadow — tall, broad, wearing a worn canvas jacket and a scowl that should’ve come with a warning label. His ball cap was tipped low, but his eyes found me right away, assessing, sharp. He’d been at my house until nearly midnight last night after Wade left, checking the locks himself, and boarding up a window. Sage told me to leave him be.
“I knocked,” he said, shutting the door behind him. His boots thudded against the hardwood as he crossed the shop. “You didn’t answer.”
“I was… lost in thought.” I gestured vaguely toward the display case, which was still empty. “Trying to remember how to make muffins.” There was so much prep to do, and I hadn’t started any of it.
His eyes narrowed. “You should’ve stayed home today. Don’t you have an assistant or something? What about the girl with the pink hair?”
“I can’t just stay home,” I snapped, turning away from him, tugging my sweater tighter around myself. “I need to keep the shop open. It’s bad business to close up on a scheduled day. And it’s Mia. Not the girl with the pinkhair.” Frowning at his irritating look of patience, I added, “And she comes in a little later.”
“You were attacked in your own house, Lila.” He said my name like it was something heavy. “You got bruises and?—”
“I’m fine,” I cut in, sharper than I meant to. The lie tasted like metal on my tongue. “I’ve handled worse.” Ugh. I shouldn’t have said that. His eyes narrowed in anger. “I know what happened.”
Easton didn’t look convinced. He leaned one hip against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. God help me, even irritated, the man looked good enough to ruin a week over. His shirt stretched tight over his shoulders, and there was sawdust on his shirt that I shouldn’t have noticed but definitely did.
“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said after a beat, quieter now. “You’re jumpy. Don’t tell me you’re fine.”
I blew out a breath, turning toward the espresso machine so that I’d have something to do. “You’re very bossy for someone I barely know.” But I wouldn’t lie: his concern did win him points.
He huffed out a sound that might’ve been a laugh if he’d let it, or it could be frustration. “You’re very stubborn for someone whose fingers are still shaking.”
That stopped me. I glanced down at my hands. They were trembling slightly as I reached for a mug. Damn it. “I’m just cold. Do you want coffee before I start on the bakes?”
“Right,” he said dryly. “I don’t believe you, but yes, I want coffee.”
I set the mug down harder than I intended. “You fix fences, right? Not people.”
He pushed off the counter, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head back to look at him. “I fix what’s broken. Doesn’t matter if it’s a fence or a door.” His gaze softened, though his jaw was still set tight. “You should let someone look out for you.”
“I’ve been looking out for myself a long time,” I said quietly. “It’s kind of my thing.”
He studied me for a long moment, his eyes lingering on my face, then my throat, before flicking back up again. The air between us changed — heavier now, warmer. I swore I could feel the heat from his body through the space that still separated us. He looked so solid.
“I can tell,” he murmured.
Something in the way he said it made me want to both step back and move closer at the same time. I settled for neither, just clutching the counter and trying to keep my breathing even.
“You shouldn’t be here, Easton,” I said softly. “There will be gossip.”
“There will be talk anyway,” he said, mouth curving slightly. “I’d bet half the town thinks we’re dating because I showed up at your house last night.”
Just the thought of all the talk made my stomach curdle, not because of Easton, but because of the break-in. I didn’t want to rehash anything. My heart gave a ridiculous flutter at the thought of being associated with him and the word ‘dating’. “And what does the other half think?”
“That I’m an idiot for not asking you out yet.”
That earned him a startled look. “You barely know me.”
He shrugged. “Don’t need to know you to see you’re something.” His voice dropped, lower now, rougher. “But I’m not gonna push. Yet.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My pulse was too loud in my ears, my throat too tight. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t want someone to save me — that I just needed space. But the truth was, standing was a lot easier when someone like Easton Holt was there to catch you if you slipped.
He looked around the shop, taking in the empty cases and dark corners. “I’ll take that coffee,” he said finally, pulling a few bills from his pocket. “Sit at the corner table for a bit. Make sure your day starts off quiet.”
