Page 7

Still nothing.

My hand freezes halfway to the bag. I've seen this before. A dozen times, maybe more. Always dismissed it as a trick of the angle or the lighting or my exhausted brain filling in gaps wrong. But he has no image, of course because he’s a vampire.

I shift slightly, adjusting my position. The chrome reflection shifts with me. Shows the counter, the wall, the empty air where Mr. Rodriguez should be.

He's watching me now. "Something wrong?"

"No." I force my hand to keep moving, finish bagging the bread. "Sorry. Just tired."

"Long morning." He takes the bag, studies my face for a beat too long. "Get some rest, Kaia."

Then he's gone, the bell chiming behind him.

I stand there staring at the espresso machine. At my own reflection, clear and solid in the chrome. At the empty space where his had been.

My throat tightens. For a second, I see my deceased husband there instead. His smile. The way he used to lean against that counter every morning. Tell myself grief does strange things to perception, makes you see things that aren't there or miss things that are. Tell myself it doesn't matter.

The bell chimes again and Preston steps inside. His Italian leather shoes click against the floor. His suit probably costs more than my monthly rent. He pauses mid-step, and his eyes drop to the floor. Not at the scuffed linoleum or the worn patches near the counter. Lower. Like he's looking through it.

His nostrils flare. He’s breathing in, slow and deliberate, the way someone tastes wine.

“This location,” he says, voice softer now, almost reverent, “has always been special. Your husband knew that, I think.”

A chill runs down my spine. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” That perfect smile snaps back into place. “Just that some buildings have... history. Character. I’ve been thinking about our previous conversations.”

“I’m not interested,” I say, trying not to shudder at his tone which suggests he’s a friend.He blinks, smile faltering. “I don’t think you understand.”

“I understand perfectly.” The words come out harder than I’ve ever spoken to him. “You want to buy my shop because you can’t stand that there’s one bakery in this town you don’t own. You’ve spent two years waiting for me to fail, probably making sure I would fail, and now that I had one good morning, you’re worried.”

“That’s not true.” He forces a grin that makes my stomach turn.

“Get out.”

His perfect face goes very still. “Be reasonable, even you know this can’t last. Whatever happened today was a fluke.”

“I said get out.” The laugh that comes out of me sounds as if it belongs to someone else. “Get the fuck out of my shop.”

For a moment, we just stare at each other. Surprise flickers behind his eyes. Then his smile returns, colder this time.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Probably,” I say. “But it’s my mistake to make. Now leave before I start throwing scones at you.”

“Until next time then.” He smirks before leaving.

I stand there, heart pounding, hands shaking with adrenaline. What the hell was that? I’ve never spoken to anyone like that in my life. Every other time Preston made an offer, I crumpled afterward and cried in the back room because I knew he was right.

But this time I just laughed in his face.

And it felt incredible.

I’m still riding that high when I notice it.

A crack in the floor. Thin as a hair, running from where Preston had been standing all the way to the display case. I crouch down, squinting at it.

How did I miss this? I sweep and mop every night.