“Margo, is she safe?”
She nodded. “Yes, she is safe.”
She was safe.
She was safe.
She was safe.
She wasn’t dead or being held captive still. She was here, in Astoria, safe from the monsters who’d hurt her.
In the end, that was all I wanted and it was my fault for trying to romanticize the act of saving her life. It was unfair to her—to Angel.
She doesn’t want anything to do with you. She’s here to forget the past.
And finally, it was time for me to do the same. Like everything else in my life, this pain in my chest would eventually fade into a dull ache before disappearing all together.
“All right,” I muttered. “That’s all I needed to know.” I put my hands on Margo’s shoulders, thankful for her honesty, her friendship, and the way she loved Hayes. Out of all of us jackasses, he needed his happy ending the most. I was grateful he’d found that with her. I pressed a long but hard kiss on her forehead. Then I made my way to my bosses, jaw tight. I looked at Grayson first, then Hayes as I said, “I’m heading back to Portland. Angel wants me to leave her alone, but I need—”
A new voice sounded from the doorway, full of promise. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”
I turned to find Carrie, her blue eyes shining with tears. Tears for me, for my agony, for the loss of something I never truly had. My family would watch Angel. They’d keep an eye on her not only for her sake but for my sanity.
I nodded and moved to the back door, knowing what I had to do now. With my hand on the knob, I looked over my shoulder, knowing that when I returned, they’d be here waiting for me.
A little pissed off, but waiting, nonetheless.
“You guys are the family I never had.”
Then I disappeared into the summer sun.
Five hundred and forty-seven days later, I finally returned to Astoria, still broken and in love with a stranger. Prisoner in my own heart, chained down the cries of my soul calling out for her.
My Angel.
Chapter One
Angel
“Good morning,” I greeted my boss and head chef, Margie, tying my apron around my neck.
She turned in her office chair, revealing a mess of flour all over her face and neck and in her gray hair. My eyes widened and sheblew out a breath, sputtering flour in the air. “Hello, dear.” She sighed.
“Uh.” I cleared my throat and took a tentative step into her cramped office. “What happened?”
She threw her hands up and looked to the ceiling. “My body doesn’t work anymore. That’s what happened.” She shook her hands, looking at me now. “I didn’t have the strength to lock the mixer. It hurt my hands too much, so I thought if I put it on low, things would be all right,” she explained before blowing a gray curl out of her face. “Now look at me.”
I winced. “I’m sorry. If I’d been here on time, I could’ve helped you with that.”
Margie sighed, standing up and dusting the flour off her front. It fell down to the floor like snow, reminding me of the quiet snowfall I’d had the pleasure of watching just a few weeks ago, my feet curled under me, the fire cracking softly beside me. Sundays were always a joy for me. I looked forward to them every week. Wednesdays, however, were a bit of a pain for me due to my doctor appointments.
“I told you to never apologize for that. Your health should always be your number one priority.” She gestured for me to follow as she waddled past me. “Now, come on. I need you to help me finish making these pies. If I don’t have them ready by the time the fishing crews get back to land, there will be hell to pay.”
I’d been working at Margie’s Place for the last year and some change, first as a hostess, then a waitress. Until the night she let me bake cookies here because my oven had gone out. One bite, and I was her new pastry chef. She raved all evening, crying out and thanking the heavens for sending her a baker with the skills to replace her. Margie was well into her sixties and had been running this place for over forty years. Her desserts, along with her famous home-style meals, were staples in thistown. When she was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, it was a devastating blow, and she was fearful of not finding a replacement. Then I came into the picture, looking for a place to put down roots. Somewhere safe and far away from my old life.
“Were you planning on having a special dessert this weekend?” she asked over her shoulders as we weaved through the dining room. The wall of windows on one side gave everyone in the house a perfect view of the sea, blue and everlasting. “Something for the holiday?”
“Yes,” I answered, rushing forward to hold the kitchen door open for her. “Felix and I were pondering over the idea of a pear and apple crumble with a cinnamon drizzle.”
