Cinders (7 page)

“Yes,
but
,” he flipped a pancake over, “you can bake.”

“And there is precisely
one
bakery in town. Food service would be a fine option but no one in town is going to hire me with Maureen’s word against mine.”

“So you look outside of town.”

“With what money?”

He frowned but kept his focus on the pancakes, flipping the finished ones onto a plate. “Didn’t your dad leave you any?”

That’s the question, isn’t it?
But she held her tongue. “Let’s assume I manage to pick up and walk ten miles to a town near Midsummer. I apply for a job with, once again, nowhere to live so I can’t offer a permanent address on my application, which I can’t afford without a job.”

“Vicious cycle,” he filled in.

“Exactly. I have no references other than Maureen.”

“And my family after you cater their party.”

He really was persistent, she had to give him that. “Fine, and them. And do I live under a bridge while I’m applying for jobs? With no phone number?”

Brennen set a white dish with four big pancakes stacked in the middle in front of her, along with flatware and local maple syrup, then moved toward the refrigerator with a glass. “You use my address and phone number.”

“Brennen,
you don’t know me.
”

He set orange juice in front of her and brought his own plate around the breakfast bar to sit next to her. “I am trying very hard to rectify that.”

She busied herself with her fork, running its side through the stack of fluffy warm pancakes, the smell of blueberries drifting up to her. A decade with Maureen echoed in her head, and even as an adult, even knowing the woman was abusive and wrong, rewriting years of being told she was worthless and useless was difficult to do.

Brennen pushed a hunk of pancake through the syrup on his plate and frowned. “I think the blueberries kind of exploded. Sorry.”

“Freeze them overnight before adding them to the batter,” she said. “Trade secret.”

“When you feel better, I think it’s definitely your turn to make me breakfast.”

“I think I’ll have a hard time getting here early enough.”

“Not if you stay overnight.”

His devilish grin was infectious; she looked away and returned her attention to her food.

****

Brennen wouldn’t even let her help load the dishwasher after breakfast; he scooped up their dishes and did so himself, telling her to take a seat. But she didn’t know
how
to relax, how to have someone feed her and wait on her like that. Anxiety rushed through her and she couldn’t sit still, pacing in the tiny kitchen while he puttered about languidly. Her eyes were continually drawn to the clock—even though Maureen knew full well she wouldn’t be back later, she couldn’t shake the habit of looking. Micro-calculations constantly went on in her head, figuring out how much time she had for certain tasks and when she had to be certain places. Even Sundays, when the bakery was closed, she had housework to do that took her all day, and then there were meals to prepare, and—

“If you don’t sit down, I will force you off your feet,” he warned as he closed the dishwasher door and turned to her.

Her feet halted but hand fidgeted in front of her. “Maybe you should call your mom about the—”

Brennen stepped forward, cutting off whatever she was about to say by cupping her face in his big hands and tilting her head back to better meet gazes. Her back was pinned against the breakfast bar, her front practically pinned by him, and her heart beat extra hard. Like the walk home the other night, this close made it clear precisely how tall he was, and the warm protection of his strong arms beckoned to her.

“How’s your headache?” His eyes darted between hers, brows pulled with concern. “It seems odd they didn’t take you to a hospital.”

She swallowed, her throat and mouth suddenly parched, and reached up to fold a hand over his. She’d meant to pry his fingers from her jaw but instead found her hand lingering there, drawn to his. “I don’t have a concussion and I feel a lot better having eaten. And I’d feel even
more
better if you let me get started with some initial prep for the catering job.”

His lips quirked into a grin. “Working relaxes you?”

“When it’s just me in the back of the shop baking? Yeah.”
Everything else, well...
She didn’t mind the prep and the planning, but the pressure Maureen had her under was generally unbearable.

He took her hands in his. “I’ll keep worrying about you.”

“I know. If you can get me some paper and a pen, outline the plans you know of, I’ll ask you some questions and get started on ideas for the dessert menu. We’ll sit on the couch and I promise to let you know if I’m suddenly feeling concussed after all.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Seven

Keeping on top of the housework and cooking, the work at the shop,
and
catering preparations for the Prescotts’ anniversary party would’ve been impossible if Maureen hadn’t relaxed her usual demands.

But she
had
, oddly, though Gina couldn’t figure out why.

Perhaps she worried about losing face with one of Midsummer’s top families or perhaps she gained something else from it. Regardless, Gina was grateful when her stepmother eased back a bit. Her chores around the house were non-negotiable, of course, but after working mornings in the shop, she had a few afternoons free the first week to start organizing her end of the catering for the party, and then was permitted even more time in the second week. She’d spoken to the Prescotts and conferred with the dinner caterers, then drafted up a dessert menu; she’d made samples for the Prescotts to taste; she’d planned to the last detail how long it would take the day of the party to prepare last minute items. And despite the usual exhaustion that plagued her throughout the day, she found herself looking forward to the catering. She was completely in her element and enjoying every minute of it.

Still, she became lost in it, and frequently reminded herself that when it was over, she’d likely pay in some way or another. But Brennen was right—it gave her more experience, more options.

And more opportunities to spend time with him, even if much of their time was spent with her working and him watching with a smile. It became a familiar rhythm, something she looked forward to all day, and a bright spot of light in her otherwise dark life.

Of course, there was still time to be spent at Sweet Haven, and she spent the Thursday before Saturday’s party filling the supply shelves and ensuring things were neat and tidy. She cautiously checked the entire store in the mornings now before setting to work, flipping on all the lights, inspecting the locks, and ensuring she was alone before setting to work. Gina never did hear precisely how much cash was taken or what the repairs cost, but Maureen was more irritable than usual about it, taking in an impossible number of orders that she had to know no reasonable baker could meet in a day. Still, Gina didn’t say a word, keeping her head down to work.

As the early hours passed, the sun grew brighter and the clock on the wall ticked steadily. When Tatum didn’t show to work cash, Gina opened the shop, checked the float in the new cash register, and kept an eye on the front as she stocked the shelves with loaves of fresh bread, biscuits, tarts, and cupcakes. A handful of people stopped in on their way to work to pick up breakfast, then the pace slowed—from about nine-thirty until eleven, the store usually grew quiet enough that she could work in the backroom peacefully and still not miss much out front. When the lull hit as usual, she decided to go back and tidy up a bit—she was due to meet Brennen early afternoon.

Just as she was about to head back through the curtain to return to her work in the kitchen, the bell over the door jangled.

Gina turned and paused, watching as a middle-aged man and woman, both Caucasian and in suits, entered the bakery. They both glanced around just briefly but didn’t browse, instead heading straight to the cash register. Gina went to meet them, plastering on a smile no matter how uncomfortable their appearance made her—whoever they were, they didn’t strike her as customers.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked pleasantly, folding her hands on the counter in front of her.

The woman carried a brown leather suitcase, slung over her shoulder with a matching strap, and her pale fingers tapped the side of it as she looked at Gina. “Is Ms. Chandler not here?”

Uh, no, she never is
. But Gina kept the snark aside and maintained the grin. “She isn’t, no. But I work here every day—I’m sure I can assist you.”

The pair of them exchanged a look, one Gina couldn’t interpret. When the man gave the woman a slight nod, she removed a large manila envelope from her briefcase and set it on the counter. “Please see that she gets this.”

“Of course.” Gina kept her head lifted and smiled at the both of them until they exited the bakery, then her expression fell into one of confusion. She watched them move past the window toward a black Town Car...

Wait, wasn’t that the one I saw around here the other week?

Very strange.

She looked down at the envelope and turned it to face her. Nothing but Maureen’s name and the bakery’s address on the front. And it was sealed.

Gina lifted the envelope and tapped the edge on the counter, glancing up to watch the car pass the shop and disappear down the street. She
could
call Maureen and tell her the envelope was there. But the whole situation didn’t sit right with her—who the hell were these people and what were they doing hanging around the store? Some kind of insurance thing, maybe, due to the robbery? But then she’d seen that car around
before
the place was broken into.

Even as the plan entered her mind, she tried to talk herself out of it but knew, on some level, it wouldn’t work. Forewarned was forearmed, after all. She
had
to know.

The lull in the front of the bakery would last a little longer—the faster she moved, the more time she’d have, however. Clutching the envelope, Gina swiftly rounded the counter and headed through the curtain to the back. An electric kettle sat near the double sink at the back, which she filled and turned on, waiting while the water boiled, listening carefully just in case someone arrived. When the bubbling water and whistle filled the air and she heard no indication anyone else was near, she took a deep breath and held the edge of the envelope over the threads of white steam.

It took just moments for the edges to curl. She shut the kettle off and set the envelope down, easing the seal open. Her heart hammered hard and she swallowed dryly, fingers all but trembling as she carefully pulled out the sheets within.

They were a stack of legal-sized paper, bound with a clip. She frowned and glanced over the page of text, scanning. Some kind of contract.

A purchase agreement.

Her lips parted in a gasp, her gaze darting back and forth across the page as she fully tore it from the envelope. God, it couldn’t be—she wouldn’t.

She was.

Maureen was selling the bakery.

Gina didn’t know how long she stood there staring at the contract in horror but a sharp cold voice cut through the silence, shaking her from her thoughts.

“
What
do you think you’re doing?”

She twisted and saw Maureen standing just inside the doorway, her hard eyes narrowed on Gina and the contract in her hand.

“Opening mail not addressed to you is a federal offense, you realize.”

For a long moment, Gina was too dumbfounded to be afraid. She simply held the contract toward her stepmother. “What do
you
think you’re doing? You’re selling my parents’ bakery?”

Maureen’s heels snicked on the tile threateningly, but the tremors shaking Gina’s hands and rattling the stack of papers wasn’t from fear this time. No, rage coated her skin and heat crawled up her cheeks.

Her stepmother stopped before her, slender fingers lashing out and jerking the contract from Gina’s hand. “I’m speaking to a buyer about
my
bakery because it’s not turning a profit and the robbery that occurred under your watch last week made the decision that much easier.”

She couldn’t be hearing this. The woman was completely mad—she had to be. “What are you talking about? How can it not be turning a profit? I work
all
day here, taking more orders than ever before—”

“Yes, I’m sure it seems so simple from your limited perspective.” Her smile was all ice. “From
mine
, it’s a very difficult business decision.”

This couldn’t be happening—Gina couldn’t believe it. She clenched her hands into fists and forced them at her side before she did something she might regret, but couldn’t keep the words from striking out. “You bitch.”

The air between them tensed and thickened, just the ticking clock and the slowing bubble of formerly-boiling water sounding.

Maureen tilted her head to the side, eyes casually glancing toward the electric kettle on the counter just a foot away.

Icy terror blasted through Gina, her shoulders tensing as she expected her stepmother to reach for it. The memory flashed in her mind, remembering the day she’d argued back with the woman and Maureen grasped the pot of boiling water on the stove. Gina had twisted and raised her arms to protect her head, which left her side exposed when the water came splashing down.

An accident
, had been her stepmother’s explanation at the hospital.
She was playing in the kitchen and I warned her not to touch anything on the stove
. And Gina had been eleven—who would believe her? She’d cowered and sobbed and nodded through the doctor’s questions.

Now, though, she wasn’t a child. And if Maureen left one mark on her, Brennen would see, and she wouldn’t be able to keep back the truth this time.

“Go ahead,” she said in a low voice, meeting her stepmother’s glare. “Try it.”

But rather than reach for the kettle, Maureen simply gave her a broad, chilly smile. “Whatever are you talking about, Gina?” She lifted the envelope from the counter and turned to cross the kitchen once more, disappearing to the front room. Muffled voices sounded—one of the stepsisters must’ve finally arrived to work cash.