“Your mom taught you this when you were what, twelve?”
“Fourteen. Took me six months to get it right.” Brie watched Sophie fold the dough with growing confidence. “You’re picking it up faster than I did.”
Wednesday afternoon, Mrs. Chase collected her weekly order of dinner rolls and lingered at the counter.
“You look happy, dear,” the elderly woman observed, studying Brie with knowing eyes. “That young man of yours must be treating you right.”
Heat crept up Brie’s neck. “He’s...”
“Don’t even try to deny it. I’ve seen how you two look at each other.” Mrs. Chase patted Brie’s hand. “About time you found someone. Your mother would be thrilled.”
After Mrs. Chase left, Brie caught Hunter’s amused expression. He’d heard every word, of course. She stuck her tongue out at him, and his low chuckle rumbled through the bakery.
That evening, they fell into what had become their routine. Brie sketched festival designs while Hunter read reports on his laptop. Her feet rested in his lap, and he absently rubbed her arches while scrolling through documents.
“These gingerbread templates are driving me crazy,” she said, erasing a line for the third time. “I need a break from architectural drawings.”
She went to the closet and pulled out her watercolor set, something she hadn’t touched in weeks. The portfolio of mountain paintings came with it, and she found herself carrying both back to the couch.
“These are beautiful,” Hunter said as she shuffled through her collection. “You captured the light perfectly.”
“This one’s from last winter.” She pointed to a piece showing the mountain at sunrise, all purple shadows and gold highlights. “The morning after the first snow.”
His hand found her waist, pulling her onto his lap. She went willingly, her bear purring at the contact.
Thursday dragged with festival preparations. Brie tested royal icing consistency, made lists of decorating supplies needed, and fielded calls from vendors. By the time she got home, flour dusted every inch of her clothing and frosting had somehow gotten in her hair.
“You had a long day,” Hunter said, already moving toward the bathroom.
“The longest.” She heard water running and saw steam beginning to escape from under the door. “What are you doing?”
“Running you a bath.” He emerged, sleeves rolled up. “Come on.”
The bathroom smelled like lavender from the bath salts he’d added. Candles flickered on the counter, casting dancingshadows on the walls. She didn’t even pretend to protest when he helped her out of her flour-caked clothes.
The water was perfect, hot enough to ease her aching muscles without scalding. She sank in with a groan of pleasure, eyes closing as the tension began to drain away.
“Scoot forward,” Hunter said.
She opened one eye. “What?”
“Forward.”
She moved, and he slipped in behind her, pulling her back against his chest. His hands found her hair, working out the elastic before beginning to massage her scalp. She melted against him, a sound escaping that was almost a purr.
His fingers continued their magic, working shampoo through her hair with careful attention. By the time he rinsed it clean, she was liquid against him, her bear completely content.
They moved to the bedroom eventually, skin still damp and warm from the bath. His hands mapped her body with familiar reverence, knowing exactly where to touch to make her gasp. She knew him too now, knew the spot behind his ear that made him growl, and the way his breath caught when she scraped her teeth along his collarbone.
They made love slowly, all gentle touches and soft sighs. No urgency, just the deep satisfaction of knowing they had time. When she came apart beneath him, it was with his name on her lips and his teeth gentle on her shoulder. He followed her over, face buried in her neck, her name a prayer against her skin.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Dom called earlier,” he said, fingers trailing through her hair. “The feds found Brennan’s car near the Canadian border.”
She lifted her head to look at him. “When?”
“It’s been there at least two weeks. His blood is in the trunk.” His expression was grim. “The cartel probably got to him.”
