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Harper’s gaze ping-ponged between the women and the bakery.
“Is there a problem, bonbon?” he pressed and looked her over. She appeared to be breathing and cognizant, but something was off. Then again, thanks to her unique hobo attire, she seemed more than just off by any standard. Truth be told, she was a goddamned mess. But at least for the time being, she was a goddamned mess who also happened to be wearing his T-shirt. And from the aroma, it was safe to say she’d been wearing it nonstop—and had possibly completed a marathon in it or encountered a family of skunks. Still, none of that detracted from her beauty—that fierce, sassy stubbornness that had enchanted him from the first moment he’d seen her.
Dirty or freshly laundered, he’d take her however he could get her. But he couldn’t deny he liked seeing her in his shirt.
A shirt that had served as her wedding dress.
Jesus, it seemed insane to imagine it now, but marrying a panty-less Harper Presley, swimming in nothing but his shirt and a pair of boots while a bunch of drunk gladiators and tipsy ballerinas cheered, might have looked like a giant shit show, but it wasn’t. It was magical—like walking into a dream. Everything about the night he’d married her had clicked into place.
They’d clicked.
That wary, gnawing voice in his head had gotten drowned out by the voice of a sharp-tongued angel.
She might turn on the snarky persona ninety-nine percent of the time, but she’d kept his shirt.
It was a sentimental choice.
Was there a chance she didn’t regret marrying a musician?
And what did that mean?
Dammit! What did he think he was doing? Penning a love song about their whirlwind night of throwing caution to the wind?
It was a shirt. It didn’t mean anything.
That night had been extraordinary not because he’d opened himself up but because he’d still been able to hide the part of him he couldn’t allow others to see.
“They know me at this bakery,” Harper whispered, pulling him from his thoughts.
“It’s close to your place, isn’t it? It’s your neighborhood bakery,” he offered, then noticed something strange.
A pair of teenage boys sitting on a bench by the entrance spotted Harper through the windshield. The kids shrieked, then took off like the building was on fire.
“That was weird,” he commented as the pair disappeared around the corner.
Harper was back to chewing her lip. “Not really.”
“People look at you and run?” he teased, trying to lighten the mood.
It worked.
She loosened her death grip on the steering wheel and gave him the hint of a smile. That smile could put a dent in his armor if he wasn’t careful. Still, it felt like he’d won the lottery.
Her hazel eyes glinted with mischief. “It’s been known to happen.”
He didn’t doubt it.
“Come, come, you two. Let’s go inside. Mitzi just went in. They’re expecting us,” Madelyn crooned like it was commonplace for her to frequent bakery parking lots to lure people out of their vehicles.
He started to stand, when something warm touched his arm. He looked down to see Harper’s hand.
Jesus, he’d missed her touch.
“Landon?” she said, hitting a high C.
He took her hand in his and twined his fingers with hers. “Yeah?”
“No matter what happens, I want you to know I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
Something had gone down here.
What the hell could have happened in a bonbon shop?
“All right,” he answered and ran his thumb across the back of her wrist. Her pulse hammered. He needed to help her relax. “Hey, bonbon?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you yell at people in bakeries like you do in convenience stores? Is that what’s going on here? You’re not wanted for disturbing the bakery peace, are you?” He was kidding, but her wide-eyed expression hinted that he might not be far off the mark.
She cringed, looking adorably guilty as hell. “I can explain.”
