"I want to help," I insist, setting my mug down. "Blake, please. I need to do something with my hands or I’m going to scream."
He pauses, a carton of eggs in one hand, a cast-iron skillet in the other. He assesses my mental state with terrifying precision.
"Flour."
"What?"
"Top cupboard to the left of the sink. I bought flour. Sugar. Baking soda." He turns to the stove, igniting the gas burner with a click. "I figured you’d need to... do whatever it is you do."
I stare at his broad back. He bought baking supplies? He’s been stalking me, yes, but the attention to detail disarms me. He planned to keep me sane. I move to the cupboard. Brand new bags of high-quality flour, sugar, and creamy maple and warm spice sit on the shelf. My throat tightens. Kindness I didn't expect from a man who looks like he eats nails for breakfast.
I grab a bowl and the flour. I don't even know what I’m making—biscuits, maybe. Something simple. I just need to knead dough. I need to beat something up that won’t hit back.
We work in silence. The sizzle of bacon hits the pan, the scent rich and savory mingling with the yeasty smell of the flour I’m measuring. Domestic. Perversely, terrifyingly domestic.
"My sister," I say, cutting butter into the flour. "I need to call my sister. She’ll worry if I don't open the shop. She's going to think he got me."
Blake flips a strip of bacon. "I took care of it."
My hands freeze in the dough. "What do you mean?"
"I had my cousins send a message from a cloned number," he says calmly. "Told her you were taking a mental health break. Going to the coast for a week. Told her not to call."
"She won’t believe that."
"She will. Because they attached a photo of a coastal rental confirmation." He turns to look at me, leaning his hip against the counter, spatula in hand. "I’ve been planning this contingency for three months, ever since I saw the black sedan parked across from your shop the first time."
I stare at him, hands coated in sticky dough. "You invasive jerk," I breathe, though the anger is warring with relief. "You saw him three months ago?"
"I saw his scouts," Blake corrects. "I ran the plates. I knew they were looking, but Ramon is thorough. He wanted a constant lock. I found a military-grade GPS tile magnetized to the underside of your car’s frame. Even without your phone, they had a breadcrumb trail leading straight to the base of this ridge. I knew it was a matter of time."
"You should have told me," I snap, my voice rising. "I’m not a child, Blake. I could have handled..." I trail off, knowing it's a lie.
Blake drops the spatula. It clatters on the granite. He moves so fast I don't process it. One second he stands by the stove, the next he’s in front of me, invading my space. His hands grip the edge of the counter on either side of my hips, boxing me in.
"Run where?" he challenges. He leans down until his face is inches from mine. "Where would you go, Tiffany? Another town? Another state? He found you here. He’d find you there. You can’t run from money like that. Not alone."
"I was doing fine," I argue, though my voice turns breathless. My heart pounds against my ribs like a trapped bird. He’s so close. His eyes burn into mine, searching for cracks.
"You were shaking every time the door chime rang," he counters, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "You were sleeping three hours a night. I saw the bags under your eyes. I saw you check the locks four times before you went upstairs. You weren't handling it, Tiff. You were surviving it."
He lifts a hand, ignoring the flour dust in the air, and brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers are rough, calloused, but his touch is shockingly gentle. A tremor runs down my spine and curls my toes on the rung of the stool.
"You weren't living," he murmurs. "You were waiting to be caught."
"And now I am caught," I whisper, looking up at him. "Just by a different man."
His gaze drops to my mouth. The air in the kitchen thickens like syrup. The smell of burning bacon is faint in the background, but neither of us moves to fix it.
"I am not keeping you in a cage, Tiffany," he says. His voice vibrates in his chest, resonating through my own body. "I am the wall he has to break through to get to you. And he won’t break me."
He leans in closer. His lips hover near mine. I can smell the coffee on his breath, the heat radiating from his skin. My lids flutter heavy. My body betrays me, leaning forward just a fraction of an inch, seeking the contact. I want him to kiss me. I want him to claim me. I want to feel something other than fear.
His hand slides from the counter to my waist, his thumb digging deep into my side through the thin fabric of my shirt. His grip is possessive. Absolute. He jerks me forward until my hips slam against the thick, heavy ridge of his cock.
A wrecked moan breaks from my throat as I feel the sheer size of him through his denim.
Blake freezes. He hears it. His eyes flare with a dark hunger. He inhales sharply, nostrils flaring as he breathes in my scent—flour, sleep, and arousal.
