“This is the right thing to do.” Kay chuckled. “And you get to visit the seaside.”
Zach grunted. He needed to find Emma. He needed to get close to her and assess exactly how involved she was with Gordon’s plans. In the worst case, perhaps he could follow her to her father. In the best case, maybe he could use their former friendship to convince her to help. Either way, no one else could do it.
“Okay. I’ll go.” He rolled his shoulders back and sat up straighter.
He’d take a trip to the beach. Find a woman he used to know. Follow her to Gordon. Help save their entire Order. Simple.
ChapterThree
The scent was everything.Yeast, sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon permeated the warmth of the kitchen as the world slowly woke up outside. This was her home and Emma loved it. Especially when her head was clear and her body was buzzing with energy.
She’d come such a long way since those first early years. The grueling hours working in the kitchen of the tiny Parisian Brasserie, first as a dishwasher—seventeen years old, alone and desperate for a job, battling migraines and grieving for her Shadows—before slowly moving up. She’d done everything from bussing tables to cleaning mushrooms, gradually earning more responsible roles, until one day, she’d finally been given the chance to apprentice with the pastry chef and her life had started fresh.
She’d put in the many, many hours required. She’d wept and bled and sweated. She’d learned and grown and saved. And eventually, she’d been able to come here. To start her own bakery.
She couldn’t have the Shadows, but she hadthis.
It was everything she’d dreamed of. Especially now, when she felt well and whole and the pastry under her palms was smooth and warm. She was surrounded by the delicious aroma of baking bread threaded through with the rich bitterness of coffee steaming from her mug where she’d balanced it on the windowsill.
The previous week’s disrupted sleep had culminated in one truly horrific night of terrifying dreams. Dark shapes, swirling Shadows, and the sound of someone screaming in agony had ripped her from her sleep. She’d woken with tears running down her face and her throat burning, and she’d wondered if the screams were her own. Thankfully, after that, her nightmares started to improve. She still dreamed of screaming, but the horrendous sense of danger had slowly lifted.
Then, halfway through yesterday afternoon, the prickle behind her eye suddenly cleared, and the feeling that something was terribly wrong disappeared.
She had stopped in the middle of the bakery floor and slowly tipped her head from side to side, half terrified that if she moved, even a millimeter, that conviction that she was missing something vital—possibly even life-threatening—would flood back in. But it hadn’t.
Something had changed. She’d had a great afternoon laughing with Becky, joking and flirting with her regulars, and feeling better than she had in weeks. She’d finished her day, gone home, climbed straight in her bed, and slept deeply and peacefully for hours, and then she’d woken full of energy.
A sense of hopefulness had tingled down her spine since she opened her eyes. Not even her four o’clock alarm dampened it. She had no idea what it meant—if it even meant anything at all—but she would take it.
The air was fresh and clean, with the perfect tang of salt. The sky was vivid blue with long streaks of windswept clouds. It was the beginning of June, the longest day of the year only a couple of weeks away, and the early summer air was soft and fragrant. Inside The Holly Tree’s kitchen, croissants were proving, bread was baking, and the whole bakery was filled with the settled warmth and peace that she’d worked so hard to create.
Becky arrived before eight o’clock with her usual flurry of warm smiles and cheerful greetings. They settled into a friendly routine of banter and hard work, and the hours passed quickly while they conducted their usual dance between the coffee machine and the counters, the kitchen, and the customers.
Jake and Oscar, her part-time staff, arrived and got to work serving tables and cleaning the kitchen, giving Emma a chance to catch her breath and spend some time in her tiny office catching up on paperwork.
The breakfast rush passed, and she was back in the bakery storefront when the bell over the door tinkled. Emma looked up—half her concentration still on the choc chip cookies she’d been adding to the display—and froze.
Zach was standing in the doorway. Her Zach. The boy from her childhood. The boy whose friendship had meant the world to her. Whose friendship still meant the world to her. Was this why she had felt so much hope and joy this morning? Had she somehow, against all odds, known he was coming?
Emma slid the tray into place and stood slowly, watching him make his way inside. He hadn’t seen her behind the display case, and she watched him as he looked around. His face was stern as he took in the hardwood floors, the small tables and chairs, and the vibrant original art from local artists that she had spread out in a gloriously chaotic display of joy and color.
He was older, obviously. His hair was a shade darker than it had been—more honey than blond. Mostly, he was much, much bigger. Tall, with wide shoulders and heavy biceps that strained against the charcoal jacket of the suit he was wearing. God, he was so attractive, it almost hurt to look at him. But even more striking was the heavy frown he wore. The hard line of his mouth made him look as if he never smiled. His suit was severe, dark and pristine, and entirely out of place in her little seaside bakery.
What had happened to her laughing best friend? Where was the cheeky boy with his gleaming blue eyes? This man was so similar and yet so different to the boy she’d built sandcastles and shared ice creams with. She wanted to run her fingers along his lips and tease them into a smile. She wanted to pull off his jacket and muss up his neat hair. To wrap her arms around him and tell him that he would be okay.
Emma’s throat closed around a huge aching lump. How many times had she imagined seeing him again? So many. And now he was here.
More than anything, far more than she’d ever imagined would be possible, she wanted to touch him. God. It was the one thing she could never have.
Zach’s gaze traveled along the walls, over the tall displays of bread and pastries, across the counter, and then to her. And stopped.
It should have been a moment. Time should have paused. The world should have fallen silent. And maybe it did, for a second, because everything in her screamed that she knew him. That broken, aching place where her Shadows twisted in on themselves throbbed painfully. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and hold him tight. But he just looked at her. Face blank, eyes narrowed, frown deepening into harsh furrows, showing no recognition whatsoever.
Emma’s breath shuddered as she tried to contain the two competing drives. The need to reach out and hold him—even though she knew she never could—and the need to step back, away from his dismissive stare.
Zach strode across the counter, long steps that ate the ground beneath him, and then stopped directly in front of her. “Can I get a coffee please?”
Up close, he was even more stern. His jaw was firmer. The blue of his eyes was darker and stormier than she remembered. His gaze was infinitely colder. She blinked, caught between the past and the present.
