Nathan frowns. “What was that?”
“The door,” I say, already jiggling the handle. “I’ve been fixing things all morning … and I installed the handle wrong…well, backwards….”
He stares at the handle. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. We’re stuck.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Hmmm… there has to be a way to open this. Do you have any tools in here?” he asks.
“I have an Allen key in here somewhere,” I offer in my most calm voice.
He stops fussing and watches as I turn toward the shelves. I scan through storage bins, random tools, and backup coffee filters.
There it is. Small, silver, stupid.
“I found it,” I say, then I turn back to him.
He’s staring at me like I’m a puzzle he’s desperate to solve. Like I’m both the question and the answer. Like he’s trying to memorize me.
I stop breathing, staring back. I keep my expression as neutral as I can, though.
He steps forward. The sound of the step echoes in the small room. He takes the Allen key from my hand. And without looking away, sets it back on the shelf.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The room goes from large to small in an instant as a tension so thick you could drown in it fills the air.
I don’t know who moves first, only that suddenly we’re crashing into each other, mouths desperate, bodies impossibly close.
His hands slide up my sides, up my arms, curling into my ponytail and tugging gently until my head tilts back. He kisses my neck, bites my chin, then my lower lip like he’s trying to brand himself into me.
I jump up, legs wrapping around him instinctively, and he pins me back against the door with a deep growl in his throat.
I gasp.
He sets me down just as quickly, and I push him backward toward the shelves, fingers already working his belt free, sliding it slowly from the loops.
His breathing’s ragged.
Mine’s nonexistent.
And then,knock knock knock.
“Ella?” Ashton’s voice. Sharp. Suspicious. “Why are you locked in the storage room?”
My eyes go wide.
Nathan steps back, already refastening his belt. “Are you closing tonight?”
“What?”
He buttons his shirt. “Are you closing the bakery tonight?”
“Yes,” I say, flustered, wiping my mouth, adjusting my apron. “I can be.”
He smirks. “Good. I’ll see you at seven.”
