“Then why are you?”
Marina bit back a smile. His exhaustion pressed against her awareness: genuine, layered, the kind that went beyond one bad night on a too-small couch. He hadn’t slept well in years, she realized. The weariness was old, a constant companion he’d learned to ignore.
“I’m a baker,” she said. “This is when bakers wake up.”
“I thought you were exaggerating.”
“Why would anyone exaggerate about waking up at four AM?”
He pressed his face into the couch cushion and made another dying sound.
Marina left him there and went to shower.
The bathroom was barely big enough for one person, and Alessandro’s presence had invaded it completely.
His toiletries colonized her sink: Aesop face wash, a Kiehl’s moisturizer she was absolutely going to try when he wasn’t looking, a razor that probably cost more than her toothbrush collection. His towel hung next to hers on the rack, crisp white against her faded blue. Even his soap smelled expensive. She’d read the label, because she was nosy: Le Labo Santal 33, ninety dollars for a bar the size of a deck of cards. She hated that she’d already memorized the scent.
She showered fast, unable to ignore the forty feet between them, the dull ache in her skull that saidtoo far, come back. Shampoo, conditioner, a desperate attempt to feel human. The whole time, she could sense him on the other side of the wall; his groggy irritation slowly sharpening into something more alert as the coffee kicked in.
This is so weird. This is so, so weird.
By the time she emerged, Alessandro had migrated from the couch to the kitchen table, laptop open, coffee already made. He’d also changed into a fresh shirt, this one a white Oxford that probably needed dry cleaning, completely ridiculous for a bakery kitchen, and combed his hair into something approaching respectability.
“How did you…”
“I found your coffee maker.” He didn’t look up from his screen. “It took three attempts. Your instruction manual appears to have been written by someone with a grudge against clarity.”
“I don’t have an instruction manual.”
“I noticed.”
“My kitchen is fine.”
“Your kitchen is chaos with a stovetop.” He finally glanced up. “Your measuring cups are in four different locations. Your flour is stored next to your cleaning supplies. And you have no fewer than six spatulas, none of which appear to be organized by any discernible system.”
“They’re organized by vibes.”
“Byvibes.”
“It’s a valid organizational method.”
His irritation hummed at the edges of her awareness, but also something else. A grudging acknowledgment that the coffee was good, even if he’d never admit it out loud. His pride was truly remarkable.
She poured herself a cup and got to work.
The rhythm of baking was usually meditative. Flour, water, salt, yeast. The dough coming together under her hands, smooth and elastic.
But she couldn’t find the rhythm today. Alessandro’s presence kept disrupting it, not through anything he did, just through existing. The heat of him. The tap of his fingers on thekeyboard. The way her awareness kept snagging on him like a sweater on a nail.
And the emotions. His frustration bled into her every time he read an email. His stress when his phone buzzed. His desperate, grinding determination to solve whatever problem had brought him to Sweetwater Cove in the first place.
You’re stressed, the bond seemed to say.Now I’m stressed. Now you’re more stressed. Now I’m?—
“Stop that,” Marina said.
Alessandro looked up. “Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re feeling. It’s very loud.”
