Lucky me.
THIRTEEN
CHARLES
The familiar rhythm of kneading dough usually calmed my nerves, but this morning, even the therapeutic motion of folding and rolling couldn’t quiet the anxious energy thrumming through my veins. I’d been up since four a.m., unable to sleep, and by the time I made it to Sweet Relief, I’d already put in two solid hours of baking.
The morning rush had been as busy as the day before, but around nine-thirty, it finally petered out, and I headed to the back to make cinnamon rolls while Dani and Judith, one of my part-timers, worked the register. The scent of butter and cinnamon should have been comforting, but instead it reminded me of how normal my life had been three days ago.
Three days ago, my biggest worry had been whether Mrs. Henderson would manage to decide on a flavor for her anniversary cake before the day came, and whether I’d be able to find the right teal color for Bonnie Feldmayer’s mermaid cake for her twelfth birthday. Now I was living with a fake boyfriend who was actually a cop, hiding from amurderous mob boss, and trying not to think about how badly I wanted to kiss said fake boyfriend.
Life had gotten complicated fast.
“You’re going to overwork that dough if you keep going at it like that,” Eamon observed from his spot at the small table in the back corner, where he’d been nursing the same cup of coffee for the past hour while supposedly reading something on his iPad.
“It’s therapeutic,” I replied, adding a bit more force to my kneading than strictly necessary. “And it keeps my hands busy so I don’t do something stupid like text my parents to tell them I might be in mortal danger.”
Thank god they were on a cruise because if they’d been home, I wasn’t sure I would’ve been able to keep this from them. My mom had always been able to read every emotion on my face, and she sure as hell would’ve picked up on my anxiety now.
Eamon sat up a little straighter. “Definitely don’t do that. If they’re monitoring your messages, that would be a fatal mistake.”
Fatal? As if I needed a reminder of the trouble I was in. “Not helping.”
“Sorry.” He set down his tablet and moved closer, leaning against the metal prep counter. “Want to talk about it?”
“About what? The fact that some psychopath might want to murder me? Or the fact that I can barely sleep because every time I close my eyes, I picture him showing up at my door with a gun?”
I shaped the dough into a rectangle with more force than necessary, running the rolling pin over it until it was smooth and thin. “Or maybe we should talk about how I keep wondering if this is what the rest of my life is going tolook like—constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Eamon was quiet for a moment, watching me spread the cinnamon-sugar mixture over the dough with methodical precision. “You’re scared.”
“Terrified,” I corrected. “And trying very hard not to think about it because thinking about it makes me want to throw up.”
“That’s normal. Fear keeps you alive in situations like this.”
“Does it?” I started rolling the dough into a spiral that would be cut into individual cinnamon rolls. “Because right now it feels like it’s making me crazy.”
My phone buzzed on the counter, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Eamon reached for it before I could, checking the display.
“It’s Solstice,” he said, handing it to me.
I wiped my hands on my apron before answering. “Hey, Sol.”
“Charles.” Her voice was tight with worry. “He’s here.”
The anxious knot in my stomach pulled tighter. “Who’s here?”
Eamon stepped close to me, and I angled my phone so he could hear her too. “Carlo was just here. At my shop.”
My blood turned to ice water. “What?”
“He came in about ten minutes ago, wanting to thank me for the arrangements. Said they were beautiful, asked about my process, how I put everything together.” Solstice’s voice was getting faster, the way it did when she was stressed. “But then he started asking when I delivered them, what time I was at the banquet hall. He said he lost a valuable piece of jewelry and was trying to trace who could’ve found it.”
“What did you tell him?” Eamon asked, his voice sharp.
“I told him the truth—that I set everything up the night before, then stopped by around eight that morning to drop off the bridal bouquet.” She paused, and I could hear the guilt in her voice. “He’ll figure it out, Charles. He’ll find out it was you.”
My throat was too tight to even speak. The room seemed to tilt sideways, and I gripped the edge of the prep counter so hard my knuckles went white. Cold sweat broke out along my spine, and suddenly, I couldn’t seem to get enough air, each breath coming in short, sharp gasps that made my chest feel like it was caught in a vise.
