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Chapter Seven
Bela
Two days later I flip the lights on in my bakery and pull the curtains down. I turn the lock to closed behind me and dim the overheads to low over the small tables dotting the entrance. Normally fresh flowers from the Flower Patch decorate the little two-seater tables with a couple of candles here and there.
But not today. It kind of breaks my heart to see the shelves empty and none of my usual customers eating all the gooey confections I bake up.
Soon. Very soon I’ll be back in business. Thankfully the insurance companies work faster in a town this small and the repairs have already started.
The brick wall needs the soot scrubbed off, but the construction crew has promised my apartment and business will be ready in another five days. I can live with that.
I set my bag down by the back door. Miles has been dodging me. Getting home after I fall asleep and gone before I wake. Instead of enjoying yet another wonderful microwavable bean and cheese burrito and binge-watching cop shows alone, I came here a little after I heard him leave this morning.
Another day of his icy wall and I might start throwing spatulas at the man for stress relief. I’ll stick it out at the Manor House Hotel. At least there the food is better and I don’t have to deal with a moody firefighter who takes scowl-wearing as a new form of art.
Right now I don’t have it in me to deal with visitors so I leave only the kitchen lights on and make my way toward the back.
I’ve baked all day, only taking a break for a short walk around the fountain. An hour there, my lungs full of fresh air and I still don’t have an answer for Miles’ outburst back at the orphanage. Or for his hurtful words. That man. He drives me crazy.
But I don’t have the luxury of piecing his puzzle together right now. I re-baked, decorated and prepared the amethyst wedding cake order ruined in the fire. My shoulders ache and my back might permanently be out of alignment, but it's done.
Now, only one more to go. This stupid penis cake. Ugh, I drop my head to rest on my forearms, calling forth all the energy of every baking goddess before me to give me the strength.
I am reaching for the piping bag when I feel him. The crackling shift of energy. It’s palpable. Like a million tiny fairies sprinkling glitter over my whole body and I can feel every little speck of magic in the air.
The soft thud of his work boots on my hardwood flooring has me tensing before I pull around to face him.
“I thought you're against crime?”
I lean a hip against the counter and debate calling the sheriff just to mess with my intruder. Give back a little of what he dished out. How I wish I could be so petty.
Miles, dressed all in black and a sinful smile, prowls across the front of the bakery.
His dark gaze narrows on mine. “Yeah, but we all have a dark side, baby. All of us. I just happen to use mine for good.”
He doesn't stop, not until he’s around the front counter and the heat of his body caresses against mine. He rests strong hands on my shoulders, but I’m not ready to just fall into the big oaf's arms.
“That so? Breaking into my place? For good?”
“How else can I apologize? You weren’t there when I came home.”
“And?”
“And I want you to know I’m sorry. I’m an asshole of epic proportions. You didn’t deserve my words the other day and I truly am sorry for hurting you.”
“You were a dick when you didn’t have to be with me.”
“With you, no. I knew it then but the rage inside me wouldn’t listen to reason with those kids in danger. I’ve never reacted like that before.”
“I’m sure you’ve never seen hurt kids like that before.”
Some kind of darkness pulls over his expression and for a second, before he pulls the mask back in place I see the underlying layer he’s always alluding to. The darker side of Miles Malone he wants no one to see. “What?” I ask bravely, knowing he’ll rebuff my attempt to move another puzzle piece of the man into place.
“I’ve seen more than I care to talk about, sweetheart. Let’s leave it at that.” Like I thought. An answer but at the same time, not an answer. That’s fine. He doesn’t owe me one. But I sure wish he would open up and let me help.
He pulls me into his arms and holds me against his chest like I am a lifeline. A large hand cradling the back of my head, another over my lower back. Or, it could all be my imagination getting the better of me. Either way, it feels good to just rest my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat in my ear for several seconds. No words, but being.
“But you weren’t wrong,” I say, lifting my eyes to his. “ The director and the caregiver. They left teens alone which always spell trouble when they get bored.”
