Page 58 of Heat Lightning

Slam!

Ugh. I was pathetic. And I refused to continue being pathetic over a man who crawled through people’s windows at night.

Slam!

What a loser.

Slam!

What did he even do all day, anyway? I couldn’t picture him with a regular nine-to-five. Was he a finance bro? Maybe an IT guy? Oh no, what if he’s one of those LinkedIn freaks?

Kill me. I refused to be hung up on someone who posted about the #grind three times a day. How humiliating for us both. Get help.

Slam!

I’d shoved my phone to the bottom of my bag an hour ago—because I had a lot of things to do, obviously—but maybe when I finally checked it later, I’d find a text he’d sent hours ago, unable to stand being away from me any longer.

I’d make him wait before replying, just so he’d squirm. Hell, maybe I wouldn’t even respond today at all. Would he go mad, wondering if I’d already gone into heat? Would he be jealous, obsessing over who I’d chosen to spend it with?

Slam!

Fuck. That only reminded me I hadn’t chosen anyone yet, and the prospect of doing so was so depressing I could cry. In my jealousy and hurt, I hadn’t really considered that there was literally no one else I wanted to touch me, let alone spend a heat with.

What was I going to do?

“Max? Max! Are you alright?”

Startled out of my Olympic-level spiral, I twisted to the open kitchen door just in time to see Mr. Marino storm in, wielding a bat over his head.

“What’s going on in here?” he yelled, frantically looking around. “What’s happening?”

I dropped the dough and held my hands up like I’d been caught stealing. “Uh, nothing? It’s just me. Is there something wrong?”

Wild-eyed, he cast around as if he didn’t believe me. He looked genuinely terrifying.

Once he’d taken in the whole room, his shoulders sagged, and he dropped the bat to his side. “What the hell was all that noise?”

I cringed. “I’m making bread. Er, kneading dough. I might’ve gotten a little overzealous. Sorry! I’ll be quiet; I know you’re in meetings all day.”

Scanning the counter behind me, he took in the scene. “You were… kneading dough? That loudly? It sounded like someone was breaking the door down.”

Clasping my hands behind my back, I cringed again. “No broken doors. Just bread.”

He looked over my shoulder, eyebrows raised. “That’s a lot of bread.”

I turned and took everything in. It felt a bit like waking from a fever dream. Yesterday, I’d started the homemade full puff pastry, and a batch of pains au chocolat was proofing on the counter alongside a dozen brioche buns.

Vaguely, I recalled a pan of sausage rolls chilling in the refrigerator.

I pursed my lips. “So… There was a sale on the good butter.”

He nodded cautiously, as if afraid to spook me. “Uh-huh. And all of this is for the four of us? Or are we expecting guests that I’ve forgotten about?”

“No guests.” I cleared my throat. “Just us. I didn’t realize how carried away I’d gotten. I’m sorry.”

His eyes softened. I rarely saw him outside of our brief interactions and casual small talk around mealtime, so it took me off guard. “No need to apologize. I was just worried. Are you feeling alright?”

Tears sprang to my eyes. Fuck. Why did he have to ask in such a nice way? My emotions were all over the place, but I refused to cry at work. With a deep breath to compose myself, I nodded. “I’m fine.”