“The cookies.” Her breasts heaved against the muscled forearm acting as a vise. “The cookies, Jase.”
“Fire department is on their way.” His tone was off. Clipped. Like he was giving orders.
Gah, no.
“That’s what’s burning.” She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “There’s not a fire. It’s the cookies.”
He held tighter. Something was wrong with him, something had changed.
She pushed harder against his arm, but he clearly wasn’t going anywhere. He shifted her, lifting her just an inch off the ground as he backed away from everything that mattered to her.
“Let go, Jase,” she said over the rushing in her ears. “I have to get in there.”
The fire alarm taunted her.Your cookies are burning. Your cookies are burning.
He held her tighter. “You’re not going in.”
“It’s just the cookies.” She fought against his grip.
He stepped backward, farther from the shop.
“Negative.” His tone was all military. She’d never heard him like this, never experienced who he’d once been.
She forced her body to go from limp to dead weight.
“Nice try,” he mumbled close to her ear.
The place wasn’t on fire. The stupid, stupid, stupid cockies were burning. Though if she didn’t get inside soon therewouldbe a fire.
“Where’s your grandmother?” Heather asked. She knew Babushka was behind her, but maybe the distraction would make him release his grip.
“Son of a bitch,” he clipped.
It worked. He let her go, setting her to the concrete.
Her feet hit the ground and she did aRisky Businessslide through the door, bolting to the kitchen. Smoke flowed from the seam of the oven door. She hit the switch to turn on the stove hood, the vacuum instantly sucking the thin gray air up through the vent and outside.
Her lungs itched with a compressed cough she refused to let out. Shoving her hands in industrial oven mitts, she squinted against her watering tear ducts to pull open the oven. Head turned to the side, she snatched a pan of black cookie bricks and tossed the whole thing in the sink.
She reached for the faucet, but a very male hand covered her oven mitt and turned the knob. Jase.
Not just Jase. Ticked-off Jase, with a murderous expression traced on his face and stone eyes holding no emotion.
She went back for the second tray of scorched cookies and tossed them into the sink, too, the cold water turning the black chunks to burnt mush.
The alarm still blared, but with the emergency averted, she let the cough she held rack her chest. Doubled over, her lungs continued convulsing. Eyes closed, she let the entire morning wash over her, effectively turning her to the same burnt mush as her cookies. She shoved open the back door to the kitchen, embracing the cool air with deep, broken breaths.
Hands braced on her knees, she sucked in oxygen. A shadow crossed in front of her, and a cool, damp kitchen towel pressed to her forehead.
Jase held the same expression from inside, but it had frayed around the edges. Little lines that had nothing to do with laughter crinkled around his eyes. His perpetual cocky demeanor had evaporated.
“Thank you.” She held the towel to her forehead and wiped her eyes.
“You okay?” he asked.
Physically? “Yes.”
“Good.” He leaned in so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. “What. The. Fuck. Was. That?”
