Stephen Hartley was showing me a side of himself that was burrowing under my skin, and I didn’t like it one little bit. I refused to call him Popeye. The name was ridiculous; even if his biceps were as big as the cartoon character he was named after.
I sat on the stool and stared at the swinging doors, half expecting him to walk through them after me.
Six months he’d been coming into the bakery.
Six months of his flirting, asking me to dinner, and offering to make me breakfast, as if I didn’t know what he was implying with that remark.
Six months of me turning him down.
I didn’t want to admit it, but my resolve was waning. He’d been in every day this week, drinking his coffee by the window as he read that damn journal. Forcing me to watch his emotions spiral between smiles and frowns. The way his brows pulled in with confusion and frustration. Days of watching his fist clench in anger at whatever was written on those pages.
The door swung in, and Pati shook her head at me. She didn’t say a word as she pulled ingredients off the shelves and gotto work making something. Judging by the measurements, my guess was muffins.
“Are you going to say something?” I asked when she started humming.
She shook her head without looking my way, and when I huffed out my frustration, she smiled.
“Patricia Elaine Rose,” I snapped, stomping my foot.
Her eyes blinked my way briefly before focusing back on the task she had started. I rolled my eyes and stomped out of the kitchen. When I entered the main storefront, my eyes searched the room for him without my consent.
I had no control over any part of my body when it came to Stephen Hartley. My heart raced, my skin prickled, my nipples hardened, and we wouldn’t even talk about the moisture between my legs. I was sixty-eight freaking years old; that part of me died years ago.
I remembered a conversation I had with Cash last year about Terry and what we’d promised each other. I promised my late husband I would attempt to meet someone when he was gone. And I did, at first.
Terry had been gone almost twenty-five years now. It was five years before I even considered dating someone. I loved that man something fierce and couldn’t imagine someone else taking his place. I couldn’t fathom trusting someone else enough to tell my secrets to, my dreams.
There were a few men I dated, mostly because, well, a girl had needs and I was only in my forties when Terry passed away. There were two men I thought might go the distance.
Frank was a nice man. Friendly and caring. I liked him, but I didn’t love him. Not the way I loved Terry. We had an enjoyable time together; we went to the movies and to the town festivals. But there was no spark. No flames that burned hot enough to stoke my insides.
I peeked across the room to where Stephen sat reading that damn book. Today was an angry day. His hands gripped the journal tightly, making his knuckles turn white.
The urge to rush over there and snatch it away from him was so strong. I hated seeing him this way. Hated seeing him in pain, because that was what his anger was.
Pain.
It was obvious from the way he would stop every few minutes to look out the window and take a deep breath. He’d close his eyes briefly and then turn back to the pages in front of him.
I shook my head and focused back on my work. The bell over the door jingled, and Harold Foster walked in. He was the other man I had considered letting fully into my life. He’d been passionate, attentive.
What we’d had couldn’t be described as sparks. They were scorching flames. The man knew how to please a woman. But his children had gotten between us.
They weren’t happy about their father moving on after their mother passed away. Or maybe it was just me they didn’t like. Edith, Harold’s wife, still smiled as though she’d won. As if she had been able to give Harold something I couldn’t.
They got married years ago, and every time she came in here, she was a smug bitch. Just like today.
“Hello, Trudy,” Edith greeted.
I plastered a smile on my face as Harold winced at his wife’s fake sweetness.
“Hello, Edith. What can I get you two?”
I noticed Stephen look up at the sound of my voice; the surprise on his face told me he’d been too caught up in the words on the page to hear the bell, but the sound of my voice had cut through.
I wouldn’t lie; it made my stomach flutter much like it did every time he showed me the smallest amount of attention.
“We need to place an order for a cake.”
