Dearborn used a pen name. Probably had a good reason for that.
His bench scraper easily transferred the ruined dough to the waiting trash can. Avoiding Charlotte’s eyes, he began prepping another batch. “Can’t say.”
He kept expecting her to leave. She lingered instead. One minute. Two.
“Karl?” she finally asked again, her voice tentative.
He forced himself not to snap at her. “What?”
“Do you...” Her fingers laced together. Wrung. “Maybe I could help you back here sometimes? You work such long hours, and I’d really like to—”
“I’mfine,” he repeated, with emphasis. “Don’t worry.”
The last two things Charlotte needed? A boss dumping his problems on her and more work. The kid’s plate was already full. Overflowing.
Her shoulders bowed. “Oh. Okay.”
A knock on the door. Which was a fucking indictment, because his employees shouldn’t hesitate to enter the back area, where they had their break room. He must’ve been a real prick the last couple days. Would have to make it up to everyone somehow.
Still: Thank fuck for the interruption. He’d rather eat gravel than deflect Charlotte’s misguided pity a second time or—even worse—continue discussing the one who got away, then returned and did it a-fucking-gain.
“Come in,” he called. “Don’t need to knock.”
Johnathan poked his head inside. “Boss? You have a visitor.”
Then Molly Dearborn walked through the door with the composure of a damn queen, all calm confidence and cool serenity.Unless you looked into those pale blue eyes. Saw the uncertainty there.
Briefly closing his own eyes in relief, Karl tipped his head back and exhaled hard.
Holy shit. She’d come back to him. Again.
Karl couldn’t muster a single word. Didn’t even try to speak. In the silence, Charlotte and Johnathan disappeared out front, shutting the door with a quietsnick.
“You can have your four weeks for trust building, if you still want them,” Molly said without preamble. “I lost a bet with Lise Utendorf, so I’ll be in town through the reunion anyway.”
Seemed too good to be true. Maybe he’d misheard.
“You’re staying?” he forced out.
“Yes.”
Thank fucking Christ. “Gonna let me prove myself?”
“As best you can.” Her lips quirked faintly. “It helps that the boy I knew twenty years ago wasn’t ever a liar. A grump, yes. An issuer of illogical threats, definitely. A careless dumper of potentially fragile belongings—”
He waved that aside. “Get to the damn point, Dearborn.”
“But you were always honest. Possibly because you’re congenitally incapable of subterfuge or subtlety, but the fact remains: You weren’t a sneak or a cheat. It was one of the things I liked best about you.” Uncharacteristically restless, she fiddled with the strap of her cross-body messenger bag. “If you’d been a liar then, there’s no way I’d have agreed to this cockamamie plan now.”
“Got a head start, then.” At her look of confusion, he clarified. “Convincing you to trust me.”
She hesitated. “I suppose.”
The wariness in her voice? The tense lines across her forehead? Not optimal.
Even back in high school, she’d been guarded as hell. The past two decades had only made her more so. But she was in his bakery now, seemingly agreeing to spend the next four weeks with him. He was getting his chance, atlast, and he’d show her she’d made the right decision.
They had plans to make. He had trust to earn.
