I hate crying.
I hold my head high and leave my office, making my way into the bakery, where I know I’ll find peace being in my space and setting my eyes on what I’ve created.
But the calmness I’m craving doesn’t appear when I step through the doorway.
No, it’s quickly replaced with frustration and a small bit of anger when I see the man standing just outside the front window, leaning on the brick wall next to the locked door.
I blow out a breath and stomp in his direction, the fire burning inside of me ready to spar and send him on his way.
Dutton Richford is about to regret standing outside ofmybakery.
Chapter
Five
DUTTON
Quick movementthrough the glass steals my attention from my phone. I quickly slide it into my pocket and smile at Brooke as she approaches the door.
She’s normally here doing God knows what for at least an hour or two after closing, but after standing here for more than twenty minutes, I was starting to think she actually left to have a life.
I’m glad I was wrong.
My grin begins to slip the closer she gets to the door.
Um.
Brooke is mad.
That’s clear.
It’s also clear that she’s really fucking mad. Like, mad mad, as in up until this moment, I’m convinced that she’s only been pretending to be mad at me for years, because this Brooke is?—
“What do you want, Dutton? Tell me, please. Why do youkeep coming back here?” she snaps, the door swinging open. Every train of thought in my brain crashes to a stop.
Her eyes are a faint red, and there is a small smudge of makeup under her right eye.
She’s been crying.
There’s no doubt about that.
I might be a jerk when it comes to Brooke Sloan, and she can be a real fucking brat, but that’s where the line ends. With me.
So, for someone else in this town to say or do anything that might cause her even an ounce of pain, isn’t right.
“Have you been crying?”
Her eyes roll so hard, I can guarantee she’s going to have a headache.
“Ew, don’t ask me that as if you actually care.”
She spins away from me, clearly dismissing this conversation, but she doesn’t close the door in my face, so I figure I’m welcome to stay.
And to ask more questions.
“Tell me who made you cry.”
All right, so it’s not a question.
