Cinders (6 page)

The day’s order, dictated by Maureen, was posted to the board by the door—a listing of what she wanted prepared in the morning, what was on special, and what local restaurants had ordered to have on hand for the day. Juggling it all so food was prepared before they opened at nine was all on Gina to do.

She immediately got out supplies, the routine a second nature now, and started with a cherry pie and an apple crumble as the coffee house down the road would be picking them up seven.

Just as she turned the oven on to preheat and started toward the freezer for her premade pie shells, something rattled in the front room.

Gina paused and frowned in the direction of the closed curtain leading out of the kitchen. It was barely five in the morning—no one would be up at this hour to knock on the door, and the sign posted clearly stated their hours.

Probably a stray cat pawing at the door
. There were a couple in the area—someone local fed them—and they could get a little bold when they knew food was inside. She shook her head and continued for the freezer, popping the lid and lifting a shell from the stack.

Steps shuffled on tile.

A chill walked down her spine—
that
time she’d definitely heard something. Something
near
. Not outside.

The front door was locked. It
had
to be, she locked up herself at night. Granted, yesterday had been a little...unusual. Brennen had dropped her off near home, she packed up some dry clothes and an umbrella then headed back to work to change and continue her shift. But the rest of the afternoon and evening went on without a hitch. She’d cleaned up the front, locked the door, and then cleaned the kitchen and locked the back. Like always.

Didn’t I?
That was the problem with routines—when they could be done without thinking, sometimes a slight deviation wasn’t noticed.

Gina abandoned the pie shell on the counter and stepped softly toward the kitchen. She hadn’t even been to the main area of the bakery yet—she didn’t bother until it was time to restock the displays and recount the float in the cash register. The space between the bottom of the curtain and the floor was dark, no lights on in the adjoining room and outside streetlamps doing little to break through the small windows.

She paused by the curtain, fingers trembling, and took a deep breath. It was probably nothing, and God knew what Maureen would do to her if she roused the local police for a racoon or something. Her hand wrapped around the curtain and drew it back.

Gina peered around the corner into the dark shop front. “Hello?”

The room was black with shadows, faint streetlight adding a glimmer to the glass display cases. Her heart beat painfully hard, and her curly hair shifted restlessly on her shoulders as she craned her head back and forth. The room was still and tense. No sign of movement. Front door was closed.

She’d feel a whole lot better if she double checked it was locked, however.

She swiftly stepped forward, her feet padding lightly on the smooth tile floor, making her way past the counter and displays toward the glass front door.

Then her feet halted abruptly.

The CLOSED sign hanging on the front door danced back and forth, as if impossibly hit by a breeze.

Or if someone had just opened and closed the door.

Gina stumbled back in a rush. The hell with Maureen, she needed to call—

Something hard and heavy collided with the back of her head. Her vision spun, feet flew out from under her, and she crashed on the tile floor.

Gina blinked sluggishly, her eyes blurring and the heavy throbbing pain in her head crowding black across her vision. The black shadow of a figure moved across the floor and glass shattered.

The ground swirled under her and Gina closed her eyes at last.

****

Gina didn’t actually black out.

Her memories were jumbled, but the EMT assured her she didn’t have a concussion and aside from a bruise on her skull would be just fine. “Lucky,” they had said repeatedly.

She sat in the back of the ambulance as morning wore on after repeating her statement several times. Police milled about the front of the shop, and she closed her eyes to all the chaos. She still didn’t know what happened. Someone had been behind her, that much she knew. Probably hiding in the shadows behind the cash register—she hadn’t investigated there, too focused on ensuring the front door was locked.

The register
and
the lockbox under the counter had both been broken into, every penny taken. Maureen preferred the late night bank drop to be done Saturday night, at the end of the shop’s work week, which meant a good amount of cash was lying about.

Gone. All of it gone. The thief had smashed the glass front door on his way out, tossing the old antique register—one of the last remaining pieces from when the shop was Bella’s—out onto the street to make his hasty exit.

No security cameras inside, or in front of any of the shops along Main Street. The crime rate in Midsummer was so low, no one expected robberies. Already the police were discussing how it was likely an out-of-towner, someone passing through, but Gina had to wonder. The bakery was the only shop hit. How did they know what kind of money would be there?

And why hit it early in the morning when I arrived, not late at night?

Maureen stood outside the shop speaking to a pair of officers, her hair and clothing perfectly put together and absolutely nothing out of place like she’d woken up that way. Her eyes were stern but she was playing the part of concerned business owner and stepmother, repeating, “Heavens, who could do such a thing?” But when she looked at Gina and the others weren’t paying attention, her expression made it plainly clear: Maureen thought this was Gina’s fault. Gina hadn’t locked up properly, Gina hadn’t called for help when she heard something. Maureen even went so far as to suggest someone had perhaps slipped through the kitchen when Gina went out to investigate the front and
that
was why she was hit from behind.

On top of the stolen money, the shop would have to be closed for the day pending repairs after the investigation, which meant more lost orders. If Gina
was
paid, she had no doubt all of it would be taken out of her check. Since she wasn’t, she expected it taken out of her flesh.

“Gina? Gina!”

She glanced up and looked around at the sound of Brennen’s voice, then glimpsed him working through the crowd forming around the police cars. His mustang was parked up the street near his father’s office.

She slid off the edge of the ambulance onto the pavement and sent a worried glance toward her stepmother. The woman was still engaged with a police officer but wouldn’t be for long.

Brennen pushed between a pair of police cars and rushed to her, his dark brows pulled together in concern. “Are you okay? What—”

Before his hands could reach for her, she took a cautious step back and gave him a warning look, tilting her head in Maureen’s direction.

His lips pressed in a straight line and jaw set, but he halted nonetheless and crossed his arms over his chest. He clearly wasn’t happy about the enforced distance but didn’t push and get her in any more trouble. “What the hell happened?”

“Apparently I walked into a robbery in progress this morning.”

“Are you all right?” His voice was steady and even, his crossed arms tightened as if he restrained himself from going and breaking something.

The concern warmed her. Though the police and EMT had checked her over and ensured she was okay, Maureen had taken over the bulk of the conversation—she was the shop’s owner, after all—and Gina had felt largely forgotten. But Brennen cared, focused solely on her, and some of the morning’s exhaustion dissipated under his attention.

“I’m fine. A bump on the head but it all checked out. We’re waiting for the police to finish up so we can assess the damage and I can clean up.”

“Clean up?” He leaned closer to her and she fought to hold his gaze when all she wanted was to look away. “You were just
attacked
. You should be resting—”

“Is there something we can do for you this morning, Mr. Prescott?” Maureen stepped to Gina’s side and gave Brennen a critical look.

Tension gripped Gina’s shoulders and she held her breath. This was going to go even further south in the blink of an eye—

“Actually, yes.” Brennen turned his steady gaze to her stepmother and Gina’s eyes shot between them. “You might have heard it’s my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in two weeks and they’re having a rather large party. The evening will be catered but I haven’t been happy with the dessert selection and my parents want someone who can work around dietary restrictions and food sensitivities. I’d like Gina to take care of the anniversary cake and other snacks. I think it’ll be excellent business for you but I’ll require the food prepared on the premises the day of the event, and I’d like Gina to take a look at the facilities, meet with the other caterer, and put together a menu and list of supplies. Unless, of course...”—he drew the silence out for a moment, his unblinking stare on Maureen—“...you have a problem with it?”

Gina didn’t dare draw a breath, the ice coming from her stepmother enough to freeze her in place. The Prescotts were among Midsummer’s elite and declining would definitely make Maureen look bad. On the other hand, she most certainly would not want to let Gina do it.

“Very well,” Maureen said at last with a chilly smile. “So long as it doesn’t interfere with Gina’s schedule too much. Give her the plans and I’ll draw up a contract—”

“That won’t be necessary, we have our own contract drafted. I’ll send a copy with her later.”

Maureen’s plastic smile didn’t falter. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Brennen’s hand wrapped around Gina’s upper arm and he guided her away from the shop front and police cards toward his Mustang across the street.

“Was that for real?” she whispered when they were out of earshot.

“It is if you’re interested,” he replied, his hand warm and gentle, sliding down her upper arm to caress her wrist. “Obviously I don’t want to make things harder on you but if it grants you some leeway for a while, all the better. You cater the dessert for the party, you’re in charge and the majority of the payment goes directly to you, not the shop. I’ll see that it’s in the contract.”

Though it might backfire later, for now she’d enjoy the reprieve—even if she was working for the duration of it, being out of Maureen’s influence would do wonders for her sanity for a while.

“Today, though,” he rounded the Mustang with her to open the passenger side door, holding it open for her, “all we’re sorting out is the contract for the event. You’re resting.”

Gina leaned back in the seat and smiled gratefully. Her head still throbbed but she felt worlds better. The day might actually improve from there.

Chapter Six

The house sat outside of Midsummer, one of the largest homes on a court of similar places. Doctors, lawyers, as well as those who came from money. Gina’s family home was in the older part of town and certainly nothing to frown at, but the newer mansions where Brennen lived were a different kind of stunning. The lawns were bright green and flowers cheery and colorful after the previous day’s rain, trimmed and manicured in a way Gina could never achieve with the little time she had to see to her home’s grounds.

There were no vehicles in the long curved driveway, but the doors to a separate garage to the side of the house were closed. Brennen swung the Mustang between the massive house and garage, along a narrow gravel round that wound around back toward a cottage.

“So this is my grandfather’s,” Brennen said, gesturing to the main house as they passed it to the right. “I manage his money, the staff, the nurse, and I’m his power of attorney. In exchange I stay in the guest house.”

“We’re not going to your parents’ place then? For the catering stuff?”

“I’ll email Mom about it. I got thinking that if you were attacked this morning, you probably hadn’t eaten yet—right?”

Gina nodded. God, she hadn’t even thought about it, but as if on cue, her stomach gave a sudden quiet rumble.

“I’ll make you breakfast. We can talk shop over pancakes, if you like.”

He parked in front of the small bungalow and escorted her inside. Though styled after manors of old, the area seemed far more modern—the architecture was solid in the guest house, new, decorated simple and masculine with navy walls and polished light hardwood floors. There wasn’t much to it, other than the sheer size; it opened to a massive living room space that branched off into a kitchen nook, a breakfast bar instead of a full dining area. Toward the back she guessed was the bedroom and bathroom. A perfect small bachelor pad.

If you’re ridiculously wealthy, that is.

Though he offered to have her sit in the living room, she followed him to the kitchen and drew herself up onto a barstool. The glass of water he offered helped ease some of her remaining headache—it occurred to her she hadn’t had anything to drink yet that day either.

“I will confess,” Brennen said as he rifled through the cupboards and fridge for ingredients, “I’m suffering a bit of performance anxiety. You make food for a living.”

“Things always taste better when someone else makes them.” She watched his large frame move in the small kitchen with a small smile. “And no one ever cooks for me.”

“Not ever?”

“Dad did, when he was around. And that was a decade ago.”

He had the pancake batter done, complete with a handful of blueberries in it, and butter sizzling on the pan. “I’m going to ask you again, and now you can’t run away:
why
do you stay there.”

She shifted and looked away. It seemed impossible to explain to anyone outside of the situation. “If I left, where would I go?”

Brennen cast a look over his shoulder at her. “Here, for starters.”

Right, exchange one cage for another
. Not that he meant to cage her, no, but she was not going to be beholden to another person to survive. “I wasn’t allowed to go to college and even my high school grades suffered because I had to work all the time, so I have very little education, which means very few employment opportunities.”