He blanches, and I quickly add, “Notliterally. My actual heart is fine. I don’t like being scared.”
“I didn’t mean to. I thought you heard me coming.” He gestures toward the office where he now works a few doors down.
“Well, I didn’t,” I huff. Our eyes meet and hold again. The flecks of green in his are even brighter in the direct sunlight. His hair is strategically placed to cover his ruined ear, but his other scars are fully visible.
He looks away first, back to the sign. “So, whatisa Konditori?”
“I would think, if you’re unable to google it, the pastries on the sign might be a clue that it’s a bakery.”
Hunter surveys me, a disconcerting gleam in his eyes. “You’re feistier than I expected.”
“You had expectations?”
He shrugs. He’s wearing another white shirt with long sleeves today, and his tie is a beautiful jeweled green. His pants look like they cost as much as Lou’s shoes and are perfectly tailored to his powerful, long legs. “My cousin told me about you. She said you’re ‘the sweetest little thing on earth.’”
“Well, I’m clearly not little.” I gesture to my own long legs—I got my height from my dad and Farmor. I’m even taller than my grandma, almost five foot ten. “But Iamsweet—usually.”
Hunter actually laughs, a deep, throaty sound that does things to my stomach I wish it didn’t. Especially since he’s made it so clear that he has no interest inanythingwithanyone. “So you’re saying I bring out the worst in you?”
“This is not my worst.” I bristle, but then I admit, “It’s also not mybest.”
Hunter’s mouth twitches. “‘The kindest person I know,’” he says, apparently still quoting Lou. “‘She knows what it’s like to be stared at or treated differently, so she’ll be the last person on earth to make you feel uncomfortable.’ Maybe she doesn’t know you as well as she thought, huh?”
Embarrassment and frustration writhe in my stomach like snakes coiling around each other, fighting for dominance. “Well, Lou forgot to tellmeaboutyou. So you might have formed opinions and had expectations ... butIwasn’t equally prepared. And I truly apologize for any reaction you saw on my face. I promise, it wasn’t judgment. It was only surprise.”
Hunter’s lips compress, but he nods. I don’t know what this nod means; his eyes are stormy again, his brief laughter erased. He glances past me into the bakery. I wonder if I made our situation worse.
After a weighted silence, where I grasp and fail to find something to break the awkwardness, he finally says, “Richard and Lou both told me I have to come get a treat every day—corporate policy. So here I am.”
“Oh. Corporate policy, huh?”
“I guess I’ll be adding an extra mile to my runs if they’re serious.” I’d think he’s joking, except his lips turn down.
I stiffen. “It’s not like they wouldfireyou for refusing, if you’re that opposed to the idea.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I better not risk it.”
His tone is so dry, I don’t know what to do except open the door and gesture him in first. “Hope it’s not too much of a trial for you to comply.”
The familiar scents of my home away from home envelope me. My mom stands at the counter, prepping some of our to-go boxes. In the back, I can hear Frank Sinatra playingwhile Farmor finishes up the last of the baking for the day. I inhale deeply, trying to find my calm.
Hunter glances around, completely out of place in our delicate bakery—too tall, too tailored, looking like aGQcover, taking up space like he owns it. “So,Konditoriis Swedish?” He nods toward the yellow-and-blue Swedish flag displayed on the wall above the shelves with bags ofpepparkakorand boxes ofkanelbullar.
“Yes. Farmor—my Swedish grandma—and her husband opened it when my dad was a toddler. The only Swedish bakery in Scottsdale ... and probably all of Phoenix.” I lift my chin. We have clients who drive an hour for our semlorbuns and families who place orders for our cakes foralltheir special occasions.
Hunter lifts one brow before strolling over to the shelves and perusing the baked goods we’ve so lovingly cooked and packaged. “Are those a type of cinnamon roll?” He points at thekanelbulle.
“Yes. Sweden actually invented the cinnamon roll. Obviously, America has put its own spin on them, but this is the original version. Thebestversion.”
He glances at me, something simmering in his gaze that makes my neck flush. A mocking glint in his hazel eyes that makes me feel like I need to physically brace myself. But all he says is, “I guess I better try one of those, then.” He takes a box and looks between me and my mom at the counter.
Ah, my mom. His politeness becomes a bit clearer.
“Mom, this is Hunter. Lou’s cousin who moved to Arizona for ...” I glance at Hunter, but he’s peering through the glass counter at the almond cakes,semlorbuns, andprinsesstårtathat all require being chilled to stay fresh. “A while. He’s working at the office too.”
Mom smiles widely. “Yes, your uncle was telling me about your move here. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hunter.”
He straightens and smiles back at her, a smile I’ve yet to see aimed at me. It’s practiced, tight at the corners, waiting for her to notice his scars—for her eyes to widen or her face to go pale or even for her to comment on them. The way he steels himself for the sting only makes my remorse from last night sharper. But Mom is a master at social graces, and she doesn’t even flinch, her smile unwavering. Of course, if she spoke to Richard about him already, perhaps she got the warning Lou failed to give me. “Will this be all?”
