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He holds my gaze for a few long moments, then lets out a bitter snort. “Fine,” he says, and turns on a heel to walk away. When his hand is on the door handle, he pauses and glances over his shoulder. “For the record, Amanda’s staying at the hotel this time, just like every other time she comes to town from now on. I made sure of that.”
He waits for me to reply, and when I say nothing, he strides out into the night.
I jump when the door bangs, then stick my tongue out at it. Yes, I’m a grown woman. But I’m not thinking straight.
How else am I supposed to react when I have to choose between a man and my career?
I take my aggression out on baking more cakes than I’ll ever need.
CHAPTER 11
Fiona
The first thing I notice when I walk into the Four Cups Café on Friday morning is that Jen has been busy. Like, really, really busy. The display cabinet is so full of baked goods there’s barely any space left. There are baskets of muffins, jars of cookies, and new, handwritten little cards proclaiming half a dozen new recipes scattered over the counter.
There’s a three-tiered chocolate cake displayed on top of the glass cabinet under a cake bell. It looks incredible.
Jen shuffles out of the kitchen with a tray of croissants, her mouth set in a grim line. Angry, purple bags have bloomed under her eyes, and she doesn’t even lift her head to greet me.
That isn’t unusual in itself—Jen isn’t much of a talker—but there’s something about the hunch of her shoulders that doesn’t sit right with me.
“You okay, hun?” I round the counter and grab an apron off a hook on the wall, tying it around my waist as Jen places the croissants in the overflowing display cabinet. “Did you stay up all night baking all this?”
“Yeah,” she replies. “Figured out my chocolate cake recipe and needed to take some anger out on baking for a little bit longer.”
My eyes run over the hundreds of new baked goods littered all over the place. I bite my lip. “Looks like you succeeded.”
Jen snorts.
I tilt my head. “Want to share what made you so angry?”
The door opens, and Fallon strides through with a face full of thunder.
I glance at Jen, whose eyes have narrowed to slits. The air in the café is so thick, it feels like soup. Welp. There’s my answer.
“I gotta go,” Jen mumbles, then drops her empty tray in the kitchen and leaves out the back door.
Fallon watches her go, jaw set in a grim line, then starts wordlessly helping me take chairs down from tables and open the café up for business.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Peachy.” A chair bangs onto the floor, then Fallon stomps to the kitchen with long, angry strides.
Okay, then.
Thankfully, Sven, our barista, arrives wearing his usual pink T-shirt with a glittery Heart’s Cove Hottie written across the chest, sleeves ripped off to reveal his tattoos and a carefree grin tugging at his lips. At least someone is in a good mood.
I open the café and get swept up in the usual hubbub of early risers needing their daily dose of the black stuff. It’s not until ten o’clock in the morning or so that Grant, my soon-to-be husband, walks in looking good enough to eat.
Pushing a strand of hair off my forehead, I let my lips slide into a smile. I love that man. I love the way his broad body moves so gracefully. I love how he has eyes only for me, and even though I’m sweaty and frazzled from the morning rush, he still looks at me like I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
His thick, corded arms wrap around me as his lips dip down to kiss the soft skin below my ear. “I enjoyed this morning,” he growls softly.
My cheeks warm, and a curl of heat knots in my stomach. I woke up before Grant this morning and decided to use an—ahem—creative tactic to wake him up which involved my mouth…and not for talking, if you know what I mean.
“Me too,” I tell him.
“Do you have time for me to return the favor?” Grant asks, pulling away slightly before dropping a kiss on my lips. “I can’t focus on work when I’m like this.”
