AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Fuck it, I’m really not. No one I know shops there, and I doubt anyone is going to care that I look like I’ve been baking in hell with the bodies of my enemies. Hell, maybe it’s a good look for me.
The timer goes off and I slide to my feet, go to the oven and hit the button with one finger before pulling the door open with my other hand. My mother looks at me in disapproval, hating the way I let the oven door bounce on its hinges. According to her, I’m flirting with disaster by giving the door the opportunity to come back up and close around my wrist.
I disagree. The urge to be lazy and use as little effort as possible is much more important than the possibility of being burned. Quickly, I pull my last two trays of red velvet cupcakes out of the oven, setting them on top of it with the others before I turn the heat off completely. I know this isn’t thebestway to cool cupcakes, but I’m not Julia Childs, nor am I trying to get my own baking show. I let them sit as I prowl to the bags one more time, looking through them as Mom opens the refrigerator door.
“I have to run down to the store,” I announce, standing up with a grimace. My lower back isn’t thrilled about today’s baking feats, but she’ll just have to suck it up. “I need sugar for my broken glass.”
Mom glances at the bags, her own eyes hunting for the missing ingredient. “Could you grab us some orange juice?” she requests thoughtfully, looking at the door to make sure she isn’t missing a sneaky carton.
“Sure. Anything else?” When she shakes her head, I check the oven once more, my finger brushing over the button just to ensure the heat is off. The light is off as well, and I remind myself the oven can’t lie to me.
It’sfine.
Tearing myself away from the kitchen, I grab my hoodie from the night before and shrug it over my shoulders, not caring I’m dressed in just a tee and leggings under it. My sneakers are by the door and I toe them on, making sure everything I need is in my pocket before opening the door and yanking when it wants to stick.
One day, I’ll ask Santa for a working front door, just to see if I get my first ever Christmas miracle. But until then, I push and pull with extra oomph, moving the door past the spot that it always catches, no matter what direction it’s moving.
It’s warmer than it was yesterday, if only by a few degrees. The sun’s rays sink into my black hoodie the moment I step outside, and I stay on the porch to soak it in for a few moments, reveling in the feeling. The sun won’t be out for long, I’m sure. Not with the weather forecast that calls for more clouds than sun for a while.
While it’s difficult to force my legs to move, I manage. The sun makes it easier, still beating against my hair and clothes as I walk down the sidewalk toward our little local convenience store that’s stood the test of time for fifty years or better. Thankfully, my parents have no issue with me going here, even with a curfew in place while Jack’s death is investigated by the police. It’s close enough that they could probably see me with government grade binoculars, and well-lit enough that, even at night, I could read every marker-written message on the back of the small, house-turned shop if I wanted to.
Even the ones with half scratched out phone numbers.
My eyes linger on them as I walk, hands jammed in my pockets. When I was younger, I’d tried to read some of them, to the exasperation of my parents every single time. But now my eyes barely skim the faded words that are marked over, some of them in handwriting I couldn’t read if I had a magnifying glass. They usually repaint over the words every few years. But I guess the owners are running late.
The business itself is old, but not ugly. The brick is always as clean as possible, and shines with the work put into it a year ago, save the writing on the back. Even the door, which looks like a very proper front door of a house like mine, is brand new and hung with a welcome sign and a Halloween wreath attached to it. I pull the door open easily, rocking back on my heels before stepping inside and turning to look for the aisle that might have sugar suitable for what I need. While the shop looks like a house on the outside, Lauren had completely redone the inside so it’s much more suited to a small convenience store layout, with her bakery counter near the front along with the cash register. In my experience, the shop and bakery combo is good about keeping things in stock that aren’t expired or two days from it. But I know that doesn’t negate the need for me to check, and I glare at the bags of sugar with my nose scrunched in scrutiny.
I could just pick one. Ishouldjust pick one, since the brand I normally buy isn’t here and anything else probably tastes just as good as the one beside it. The bell clanging against the door only makes me stand on my tiptoes, while still focusing on the blue and red bags of one brand, and the light purple of another. Have we bought either of these before? Surely we’ve come to Lauren’s for sugar—
A long arm moves into my vision, smoothly reaching out beside my face toward the options. Fingers pluck a small cylinder of sugar from the shelf, and then slide down just enough to reveal a few inches of pale, flawless skin.
Somehow, I know it’s Phoenix even before I turn around.
But I don’t expect him to be so close.Phoenix stands there, just out of reach, his arm still over my shoulder as he drops his gaze down to mine. And unfortunately, I’m not quick enough to avoid his eyes before they can catch mine. Their coldness is just as palpable as it had been the night before.
At least…I think it’s the cold that seethes in the depths of his gaze. If it isn’t, then it’s an emotion I can’t name.
“Why are you staring at the sugar?” he asks, bringing his hand and his own cylinder of sugar back over my shoulder. “Especially likethat.”
“Like what?” I ask, hating that I can’t pull my damn gaze off of his. This close, I’m reminded that his eyes aren’t black, but the darkest blue I’ve ever seen. Wisps of sapphire show themselves in the light from the sun that peeks through the windows before retreating when he tilts back into the shade.
It should be a crime for him to be this gorgeous, quite frankly.
“Like it’s disappointed you and you’re trying to glare it into submission,” he murmurs, quieter than the situation calls for.
“They’re not the brands I know. The brand we use,” I explain, trying to play it off like the most normal thing in the world, like I’m not obsessed or something about brands.Even if I sort of kind of am.
“Oh.” He says it so simply, like I’ve said the most reasonable thing in the world. My brow arches at the casualness of his tone, and the way he looks up over my shoulder and scans the shelf. When he reaches out again, his arm brushes my cheek so lightly I could have imagined it, if not for the way his eyes flick to mine to look for a reaction.
But I don’t give him one.
He plucks a bag of sugar off of the wall behind me and pulls it back to his chest; cradling the five-pound bag between us. “This is what we’ve always used. It’s as fine as sugarcanbe.” Then Phoenix holds it out to me, as if he’s a consumer expert on the type of sugar I should be buying.
But considering the way I take it and holster it more firmly in my grip, maybe he is.
“I’m surprised you didn’t tell me that sugar is sugar,” I say, trying to go for my own version of casual while following him to the register. On the way I snag a bottle of orange juice for my mom, belatedly remembering she’d asked.
He shrugs one shoulder and slides the cylinder toward the young cashier, then lets his gaze fall on me once more. “Different things matter to different people. Who am I to judge? After all, I’m buying my boyfriend sugar from a convenience store because he doesn’t like the sweetener at the hotel.” He turns with the plastic bag the cashier had put his sugar in looped over his fingers, and I’m sure he’s going to leave.
