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My story and the black eye were flimsy at best. The longer I remained at Paths of Purpose, the better my chances of getting caught, but no amount of makeup would cover this shiner. Plus, I’d just found that dream closet downstairs. All those clothes and shoes . . . for free. That alone was hard to walk away from, never mind the food, accommodations, and the fact that Sam had a safe place to stay.
Worse, in the three days I’d come out of my shell, I’d met more women, ones I liked very much, even though they made me feel guiltier. The shadows that lurked behind the hope in their eyes were genuine. That was how I found myself taste-testing recipes, giving an opinion on clothing designs, and quizzing them with flashcards for upcoming exams. These women had dreams and goals—tangible ones. I’d never given a shit about helping anyone but myself—a necessity to survive—yet I couldn’t seem to stop from offering help where it was needed. Because these women were survivors too . . . just doing life differently.
I knew what it was like to have dreams and watch them shatter in an instant. In a way, I felt a different kind of guilt for encouraging them when there was a better chance of failure than success. These women had had enough of the real world and just how nasty it could be. They needed hope to keep going.
“You look good with flour on your face,” Trish said as she turned off the large mixer.
I flicked the white stuff in her direction. Trish ducked, though some of it stuck on her dark shirt. “Now we match.”
“Nope. You’ve got some in your hair too.”
“You never mentioned this was a dirty job.” She’d recruited me to bake strawberry, chocolate, coconut, and champagne chiffon cakes. Her mentor had secured her an interview with another potential investor, and Trish was in a panic to perfect her sweets for the meeting. And I was in uncharted territory. Friends were few and far between for me, but it seemed I’d made one without meaning to.
“And thankless too. You can’t even taste-test.”
“I’m out,” I said, playfully tossing down an oven mitt.
“You can’t go. Okay, okay.” Trish held up her hands in surrender.
“It was implied I could try all of them,” I said, arching a brow. “And you wouldn’t let me lick the bowl. Keep this up, and you’ll lose your help.” My stomach growled. “See? Starving. It smells like a confectioner’s shop. I had no idea that, under that sweet little façade, you’re a torturer.”
She stiffened but relaxed so quickly I almost missed it. “This one is almost ready. If you’ll watch the mixer, I’ll finish frosting it, and we’ll get to the fun stuff.”
“Eating?” I asked hopefully, already moving in her direction.
“Exactly.”
We were feastingon strawberry cake when Ella, who had napped through the entire ordeal, got fussy.
“I’m going to change her. I won’t be long,” Trish said, scooping her daughter in her arms, automatically cooing at her.
“I’ll hold down the fort.”
She pointed at me accusingly. “That doesn’t include another piece of cake.”
“What are you, a mind reader?” I teased, knowing there was more to come once the others finished baking.
She laughed and disappeared, the swinging door slapping a few times before it shut. I scraped a glob of icing off my plate and was licking the fork clean when I heard the door again.
“I haven’t had any more yet,” I said and turned to find Drew. He had on dark jeans and a gray Henley shirt, looking mouthwatering and like hell at the same time.
Without a word, he swiped his finger in the decadent icing, smeared it on the edge of my mouth, and licked it off with the tip of his tongue. “That’s good, sugar. Almost as sweet as you.” There was something lethal about him tonight. He was on edge.
“I’m amazed you don’t have a trail of women following you with those lines.”
He glanced over his shoulder, a puzzled expression on his face. “Where’d they go?”
I swatted at him, and he took the opportunity to swipe my fork and dig into the remainder of my strawberry cake. “Bastard,” I muttered, sliding the plate out of his reach.
“And to think I was going to give this bite to you.” He popped it into his mouth and hummed his approval. “If you ask nicely, I’ll let you have some more.”
“What are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you usually gone by this time?” I parked my hands on my hips, which stretched my baby tee across my chest. His eyes dipped, and the smirk that seemed to be a permanent fixture returned.
“I’m flattered you pay attention to my schedule, but that is an excellent question.” Drew put an index finger to his lips, as if in deep concentration. “Why am I here at nearly eight in the evening?”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Oh, sugar, of course you do.” He circled me, a hair’s breadth from my back. When he spoke against my ear, a shiver rolled through me. “What if I made up that I needed to speak to Mrs. Quinn after hours just so I could see you?”
