She reached for the rolling pin again, humming softly under her breath without realizing it, an old Italian song her grandmother used to sing while cooking. The inn was still sleeping around her, peaceful in these pre-dawn hours when the world felt suspended between night and day.
The footsteps behind her registered a second too late.
Her body reacted before her mind could process, months of anxiety and the fresh fear from those text messages triggering pure instinct. She grabbed the nearest knife from the block, an eight-inch chef’s knife, and spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Whoa!” Christopher stood frozen in the doorway, both hands raised, palm out. His white laundry bag dropped from his grip, hitting the floor with a soft thump. In the dim light, she could see his eyes wide with surprise, but not fear. Even with a knife pointed at him, he looked more concerned for her than himself.
Isabella’s breath came in short gasps as recognition flooded through her. Christopher, dressed in gray sweatpants and a Marine Corps t-shirt, his hair still mussed from sleep. The relief hit her so hard her knees almost buckled.
“Sorry!” The word came out higher than normal as she lowered the knife, her face burning with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to... You startled me. I was miles away and...” She gestured vaguely at the croissant dough, as if that explained wielding a knife like some kind of deranged baker.
“I can see that.” His voice was calm, gentle even, as he slowly lowered his hands. He stepped into the kitchen, moving withthe kind of careful awareness she’d noticed in both him and Gabe, like men who’d learned to be conscious of their presence in a space. “I was looking for the laundry room so I can get these washed before everyone wakes up.” He hiked up his laundry bag.
Isabella set the knife on the counter, her hands still trembling slightly. “I really am sorry. I don’t usually threaten guests with kitchen implements.”
“No harm done.” Christopher moved closer, and she caught the scent of him, soap and something masculine that made her stomach do that fluttering thing again. He glanced at the knife on the counter, then back at her. “Though if you don’t mind some friendly advice?”
She blinked at him, confused.
He put the laundry down and picked up the knife carefully, then held it properly, demonstrating. “If you’re going to threaten someone with a knife, you need to hold it like this.” He adjusted his grip, showing her the proper angle. “And keep it close to your body, not extended. The extension gives them a chance to grab your wrist.”
Isabella stared at him, horrified. “I don’t want to actually stab anyone!”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Hopefully you’ll never need to. But if you’re going to pull a knife, you should know how to use it.” He moved closer, and before she could overthink it, he was placing the knife back in her hand, his fingers adjustingher grip.
The touch sent electricity shooting up her arm. His hands were warm, calloused, and incredibly gentle as they positioned her fingers correctly. He stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, and she had to fight the urge to lean into it.
“There,” he said softly, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. “Now you look properly dangerous.”
A nervous laugh bubbled up from her chest. “Great. Just what every chef aspires to.” She set the knife down quickly, needing to break the spell of his proximity, and took a step away from him. “I hope you weren’t planning to wash your Army fatigues?”
“Marine utilities, or cammies,” he corrected with a grin that said he wasn’t actually offended. “And no, those go to the dry cleaners later. This is just regular clothes. Though after that knife welcome, maybe I should be wearing body armor around you.”
“I really am sorry about that.” Isabella tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, accidentally adding another streak of flour to her face. “It’s been a weird morning.”
“At five-thirty in the morning, I’d say any morning is weird.” His expression grew more serious, studying her with those hazel eyes that seemed to see too much. “Are you okay? You seem a little on edge.”
The concern in his voice nearly undid her. When was the last time someone had asked if she was okay and actually wanted toknow the answer? But she couldn’t tell him about the texts. That would mean explaining too much, revealing too much.
“I just couldn’t sleep,” Isabella said instead, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “Baking helps me think.”
He nodded, accepting the half-truth without pushing. “My mom was the same way. When my dad was deployed, I’d find her in the kitchen at all hours, making enough cookies to feed a battalion.”
“Where is she now?” Isabella asked, then immediately regretted the personal question.
“She passed a few years ago.” The sadness in his voice was quiet, settled, like grief that had found its place. “But she would have loved this place. She was a sucker for Christmas decorations and ocean views.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” He picked up his laundry bag from where he’d dropped it. “Could you point me to the laundry room?”
“Oh! Through there,” Isabella pointed to a door on the far side of the kitchen. “Past the pantry, second door on the right.”
“Thanks.” He started to walk away, then paused. “And Isabella? Next time you’re feeling on edge, maybe just double-check who’s behind you before going full ninja.”
Despite everything, she found herself smiling. “I’ll try toremember that.”
“Good. Hate to survive three tours just to get taken out by a chef with excellent taste in knives.” He winked at her, and then he was gone, leaving Isabella standing in the middle of the kitchen with flour-covered hands and a racing heart that had nothing to do with fear this time.
