I could get used to it. I could get addicted to the way she fits against me. How the sharp edges soften when I touch her. The fire in her eyes that makes me feel more alive than I have in years.
The security system dings when the front door opens again,and I force myself to step back, dropping my hands to my sides. By the time Sloane rounds the corner with a plate of cookies in her hands, Avah and I are standing three feet apart with carefully neutral expressions.
But my heart is still pounding. Based on the shallow rise and fall of her chest, Avah’s is too. And I’m damn sure that whatever this is between us, it’s just getting started.
16
AVAH
Three daysafter the encounter in Jeremy’s kitchen, I’m leaning against the prep counter in the kitchen behind The Sugar Shack’s cozy storefront. My lower back is screaming while my arms feel like I’m spending my mornings in hand-to-hand combat with pastry dough. Not too far off from the truth.
Closing my eyes for just a second, I savor the ache in muscles I forgot existed. The space still holds the warmth from six hours of ovens running, the air scented with cinnamon and the toasted sweetness of caramelized sugar. My hair has escaped its stubby ponytail in at least four places, and I dab at a streak of cream cheese frosting on my wrist that I missed during my last wipe-down.
Stress baking in Sloane’s kitchen was therapeutic. Baking for a daily morning rush—a job I’m totally unqualified for—borders on masochistic. The summer sun rose hours ago, but I’ve been submerged in the deep underground tunnel of flour and butter like a bakery mole rat. But here’s the weird part: I feel lighter than I have in years.
Maybe lighter isn’t the right word. I’m sore in places I didn’t know could hurt. But there’s an absence of the heaviness I carried for so long with Jon, the continual low-grade dread of waiting forhis mood to shift or his eyes to narrow at something I said wrong. That weight had become so familiar I’d stopped noticing it, the same way you stop noticing a too-tight bra strap until you finally take it off.
In my old life, Fridays meant morning strategy meetings and acting charming at client lunches where I pretended to enjoy salads with a spritz of lemon as dressing. Networking events where I had to be Jon’s perfect accessory in heels with a smile that never quite reached my eyes. Chipped nails and the simple joy of watching a tray of chocolate chip cookies emerge golden and gooey from the oven are a huge improvement.
Joy.What a novel concept.
The thought of resuscitating my marketing career holds zero appeal. I spent years proving myself in rooms full of executives who assumed I was blonde window dressing until I opened my mouth. And my douche nozzle ex burned it all down in a matter of weeks.
Maybe I won’t be able to do this forever. But coming down from my simple apartment into the quiet of the bakery at 4:30 in the morning and losing myself in the work of feeding what seems like most of the town feels like I’m hiding in plain sight in the best way possible.
After wiping down the stainless-steel prep table one last time, I hang my apron on its hook. Tomorrow and Sunday are my days off, though I’m not sure what I’ll do with two full days that don’t involve dough. Sleep is at the top of the list.
As I push through the swinging door that leads to the front of the shop, my heart does a little skip at the sight of the nearly empty bakery case.
Three lonely muffins huddle in the corner, while the cinnamon roll tray is bare except for scattered crumbs and a smear of icing along one edge. The scones I baked at 5:47 a.m. are gone, even the lemon ones I worried were too tart.
“You did that.” Winnie doesn’t look up from where she’scrouched by the refrigerated cooler, sliding bottles of juice onto the lower shelf.
“My cinnamon rolls bring all the boys to the yard.” I immediately cringe at the silly song lyrics.
Winnie straightens, one eyebrow raised. “And they’re like, it’s better than yours.” She points at herself, her lined face crinkling with amusement.
“You get the reference?” I can’t quite hide the surprise in my tone.
“I’m not that old, girlie. Also, I have daughters.” She closes the glass door with a soft click. “You’re good for business, bringing in all the people. But there’s one boy—man, I should say, since he’s over six feet and looks like he could fling a gal over his broad shoulder—who’s become a new regular at the Shack this week.”
My heart hammers so hard that I cross my arms over my chest like I can physically hold it in place. Jeremy has come into the bakery each morning since our dinner, arriving just after opening with that purposeful stride that used to annoy me and now makes my pulse do inconvenient things.
“You don’t need to keep inviting him into the back. I’m not exactly at my finest.”
I’m so very different from the polished image I spent years curating, but every time he enters the kitchen, his eyes follow me like I’m already the most interesting part of his day. As if the mess of me is somehow more appealing than the put-together version.
It’s unsettling and flattering. Neither of those feelings is comfortable.
“I’m not sure he’d take no for an answer. Sloane’s brother looks at you like he wants way more than your milkshake.”
A laugh escapes despite my best efforts to stay detached. “I’m helping him close a business deal.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
The door chimes before I can respond, and a young mother holds it open for her preschool-age daughter—who’s clutching apaper bag against her pink shirt like it contains treasure—to exit. “We’ll see you next week,” the woman calls over her shoulder.
Winnie waves. “Those two do a mother-daughter date every Friday. Been coming in since that little one was in a stroller.”
