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And my legs and ankles and feet.
Because—one more squeeze and I carefully pulled away, set the piping bag on the metal table—I’d been at this since three in the morning.
It was noon now.
And though I’d been squeezing in the rest of my duties that came from opening the bakery—namely baking the items that filled the cases so people could buy them and eat them and the business made enough money so that I had a job—the rest of the time had been spent decorating the cake.
Busy.
Always.
The job. The bakery itself. My life.
Alwaysbusy.
Now I had less than an hour to box up the cake, stow it safely in the walk-in, and get my butt over to class.
I loved decorating cakes.
It was a steady job that paid decent for a college student.
But it wasn’t my dream.
It wasn’t—
“Did you leave any icingonthe cake?”
I’d just finished boxing said cake—or the top tier of said cake. Luckily. Because the man’s voice had me jerking, my hand bumping into the cardboard.
And if the man—who, unfortunately, I knew just from that single silken question, whose voice I knew (and maybe heard in my dreams)—had made me ruin this cake—or even just one layer of it—I might very well commit hockeycide.
As in, murder of the sexy, annoying hockey player currently leaning against the doorway that led out into the front part of the bakery.
Walker Laine standing there looking sexy, with a big, strong body, tattoos and a beard, and jeans that encased his thick thighs in a way that should be illegal.
And annoying, with his kissable lips turned up at the edges into a smirk.
And his arms crossed.
And his freaking ankles crossed too.
Looking totally comfortable in my space. Invading my space.
Again.
For a man who supposedly didn’t like making connections with women, he seemed to be doing that a lot. Crowding me in the waiting room of the hospital when I’d been too upset to know what I was doing, to keep him at arm’s length. Driving me home. Showing up at my place, at my mom’s house. Sitting next to me at dinner, his thigh brushing mine, his arm pressed close, his scent in my nose. And now at…
My place of work.
I narrowed my eyes, picked up the boxed cake, and carried it to the walk-in, stowing it on the shelf with the rest of the tiers. Tomorrow I’d stay late, and then would go with Roy, our delivery guy, to the venue to set up the cake.
Then live with my hands in ice buckets for twenty-four hours afterward.
Sighing, I wiped those aching hands on my apron which—as a certain annoying hockey player had pointed out—was covered in a fair amount of icing.
Okay, alotof icing.
Probably it was a comment on me, that I worked so messily. God knew, my mom would say so. Messy life, messy mind. Which was fucking hilarious. Because my mom was…
