~*~
Maggie lifted a soapy hand and reached for a scrub pad. The faint whirring sound of the drill laid over the woeful tones of a trumpet solo. Jazz warmed her soul. The woeful tunes were an outward voice to her inward pain and nothing she had musically experienced before or since rivaled the peace she found in the melodies. She squeezed the scrub pad to eliminate some of the excess water before attacking the burned caramel coating a large cookie sheet. She was thankful to have the culinary interns, but they were both still learning her ovens and their timing was not quite right.
Today, Anna-Beth, a perky twenty-two-year-old from Portsmouth, Ohio, tried to make a new recipe she was developing for caramel apple cookies. She misjudged the temperature in the convection oven and the cookies ended up as a giant, charred slab of caramel without a speck of recognizable apple to be found. Nothing had been salvageable. Instead of the chewy, apple goodness Anna-Beth promised, Maggie was left with pruned fingers as she attempted to rescue the sheet, scrubbing the pan back to shiny.
The sound of steel wool against metal scraped at her ears, but she released a dreamy sigh. She was living her dream. She owned her own business in a town that was starting to feel like home. Life was peaceful and calm with the exceptions of a certain landlord and unexpected envelopes.
When she opened the package from Florida that morning, her mind had skittered through various exit strategies. She always had a plan. She had multiple. Today's message sent her from high level future concepts into deep dive tactics. She'd run dozens of scenarios through her mind before noon, all while playing happy hostess to her unaware patrons. She shouldn't need any of the plans, her initial design was nearly flawless, but one could never be too cautious.
She hoped she was right; that she was untraceable. Maybe she could finally stop running.
She liked this new dream; this new life.
Maggie's life.
Pruned fingers and burned cookie sheets were a small price to pay. For the first time, in more years than she cared to think, she felt settled and safe, almost unafraid. She wasn't about to let today's little note rob her of stability. She needed to stay calm and alert. If she didn't, the monster would not only haunt her dreams, but she would give him the power to leap into her hours among the living.
She flipped on the faucet, lifting the heavy metal pan under a stream of water to rinse, and then settled it on the large drying rack. She released the stopper and the dirty water swirled down the drain. The popping sound of the water from the expandable sprayer against the metal sink mixed with the whirring of the drill, drowning out the jazz and sucking Maggie's thoughts back to her landlord.
Not that she should have thoughts about her landlord. Well, at least not beyond when the rent was due and maintenance issues, but she couldn't seem to stop. He was like the last brownie in the pan, too tempting to resist.
Sean Taylor. The middle child of Lorraine and Frank Taylor was the only Taylor boy still living in Gibson's Run, not that his status made the family's presence any less tangible. Even though their parents had passed, everyone in town still talked about Frank and Lorraine and their boys as if they were going to walk into her shop any day. There was something all-American, real and sprawling about the Taylor family.
Something Maggie always wanted but never had. She wanted a slice of Americana, simple, sweet, and quietly uncomplicated. And thanks to her little shop and the man fixing her back door she could sense it nearly in her grasp. Maybe Sean was more than just the holder of the key to her building? Maybe he was part of her dream, too? “Well, that's just silly,” she muttered as she wiped down the inside of the stainless steel sink.
“What's silly?”
Maggie whirled around at the deep timbre of his voice, flopping soap from her hands onto the floor.
He wore a Henley T-shirt that had seen better days and equally well-traveled jeans slung low on his hips. He leaned against the tall metal shelf that held various cake pans, cookie sheets, and mixing bowls, and crossed his arms. He looked annoyed. “What's silly?” he asked again.
Heat rose from Maggie's belly, flaming up her neck. “Oh, nothing. I tend to talk to myself.”
He stepped away from the shelf, closing the gap between them.
Maggie's stomach dropped. When was the last time she had been this close to a man?
Him.
A shot of ice through her veins slowed her heart to its normal pace. She turned her back. The slow burn of bile replaced the flutter of nerves. A healthy reminder of how quickly butterflies twisted into a swarm of hornets ready to sting. “Are you all finished?” She asked over her shoulder.
“Yep. I'll have to come back later this week to fix the toilet or I'll send someone. It needs a new wax ring and Bauserman's closes at 6:00 PM. I should be able to pick up what I need tomorrow. If you don't mind, I can send Mr. Thompson over first thing in the morning. Just don't distract him, OK?” His voice cracked as he spoke.
“That'll be fine.”
He could have suggested that Sissy Jenkins, the town busybody, whom Maggie avoided like a root canal, would be her new barista and she would have agreed. She would agree to anything to give her the space she needed to return to neutral. Nice, happy neutral. “Do you want me to walk you out?” she asked without turning from the sink. She happily would carry him firefighter style back to the police station if he would grant her the space she craved.
The jazz trumpeter's trademark trill seeped through the crowded space as she waited for his response. Gritting her teeth, she turned with the final cookie sheet in her hand. With a sigh, she stretched around him to stack the pan on the rack. Her back against the sink, she looked him in the eye. She always made eye contact. She refused to be frightened of anyone. Not ever again.
He smelled like the outdoors, the kind of aftershave that made her think of men chopping wood, strong men who rescued damsels in distress.
Her heart started fluttering again.
Get it together, girl.
His eyebrows scrunched as if he was trying to solve a problem.
She didn't think it was the wax ring on her leaky toilet.
“Umm, soâ¦ummâ¦have you noticed anything missing recently?” he asked.
HE'S OUT.
The bold scrawl of the morning's note flashed through her mind. She sucked in a deep breath as the two ton weight of her past crashed down on her. Scrubbing a hand over her face, she tried to keep her voice light and unconcerned. But she wanted to run.
“I'm sorry. My mind's distracted. What did you say?” She misjudged the space as she moved and her foot landed on the bottom shelf of the baker's rack next to a stack of metal mixing bowls. Instinctively, she lifted her foot to save the bowls from clattering to the ground and tumbled forward into Sean.
He reached out his hands, gently touching her arms to steady her. “Whoa. Are you OK?”
She broke away quickly. Heat bulleted from her toes through her body, flooding her cheeks with color â exploding the butterflies permanently housed in her stomach into a riot. “I'm good. Just a bit clumsy,” she mumbled, biting her bottom lip.
He shoved his right hand through his hair and tucked his left in his front pocket, letting out a sigh.
Swallowing, she sidled around him until she stood behind the stainless steel prep table and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Now what were you saying? Am I missing stuff?”
His brows drew closer together, deepening the crease in the middle of his forehead. “Huh?”
“You said something about missing stuff. Why would I be missing stuff?” She released her arms and rested her hands on the smooth metal surface.
“Oh, yeah. Ummâ¦it looks like someone tried to tweak your backdoor.”
Every hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. Shallow spurts of breath thrust past the knot fighting to rise in her throat. Her hands gripped the edge of the table. She willed her stomach not to reject the chocolate chip cookie she'd eaten just before Sean came. She swallowed, forcing the lump back down her throat. “What do you mean, tweak?”
“The backdoor lock was pretty messed up. Why didn't you mention that earlier?”
A wave of frustration engulfed the fear growing in her belly. “I believe, Chief Taylor, that I've requested a new door lock for the last two months. Wouldn't that qualify as âmentioning' it to you?”
Sean lifted his hand to his neck and methodically kneaded the space just above his collar bone. “Sorry. But why didn't you tell me that someone tried to break in?”
Lacing her arms, she slowly turned from the table. With a soft push of her shoulder, she opened the door and walked into the café. “Because I didn't know,” she said. She dropped onto the nearest chair. The heavy thud of male footsteps stopped to her right. She twisted in her seat, rested her chin in her hand, and lifted her focus to him. His gaze locked with hers and the concern reflected in them tilted her balance.
He's a cop. Don't forget. Sharing isn't always caring. Keep your troubles to yourself.
He slid a chair away from the table and slowly lowered his long body onto the seat. Leaning back, his arms casually draped across his legs, he waited.
She dropped her focus to the mosaic table top and traced the tiny lines of grout holding the intricate picture together. Her mind raced as she tried to develop a story. Something to appease the questions she could feel brewing behind his focused, police-worthy stare. She should be better at it now, creating new stories. She had been telling stories for most of her adult life. Her finger stopped following the pattern, and she leaned back in her chair, matching his pose.
Shifting forward in his seat, he rested his elbows on the table. “Do you have any idea who would want to break in to the bakery?”
A flash of thick glasses and a twisted grin shot through her mind. She hugged herself tight, shook her head in the negative, while her heart screamed, “Yes!” She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe someone was super hungry and couldn't wait until I opened?”
A grin lifted Sean's lips and deepened his left cheek dimple. “I haven't had much of your baking, not being your favorite person and all, but I can't imagine committing a crime for a loaf of bread or a muffin.”
“Jean Valjean did.”
“Who?”
“Jean Valjean,
Les Miserables
, the Hugo novel? They turned it into a musical and a movie and it won all kinds of awards?”
“Not much of a musical theater guy.” He shook his head and winked.
“Oh.” Biting her lip, she tried to think of a reason to kick him out. She needed time alone. Time to review her plan. Strategizing and scenarios would grant her the peace she required. “Guess you have a busy day tomorrow?”
He nodded and again with the furrowed brow. She was tempted to offer him advice on an anti-wrinkle cream she just discovered. At this rate, he would need a vat of the stuff before he reached his next birthday.
“I don't want to keep you.” She moved to stand.
He reached out his hand to stop her. “Maggie, I would like to clear the air.”
A bubble of panic seemed to expand to dome-size, causing her breaths to shift from slow and steady to a short staccato rhythm. Clear the air? She relied heavily on her air being just a bit foggy. “What do you mean?”
“You and me.”
At warp speed, her panic bubble burst as her resident swarm of butterflies dive bombed her stomach. “You and me?”
Releasing her wrist, he lifted his hand to his neck, kneading it as if he was trying to press the air out of a batch of twelve grain bread. “Wellâ¦what I mean is that you and I, we don't seem to get along very well.”
A subtle, soft mist of sweet calm washed over her.
He wanted to talk about their business relationship.
She relaxed against the back of her chair. “You could say we don't always see eye-to-eye. Sometimes you make me a little, what's the right word, angry?”
“Just a little bit.” His smile stretched into his eyes, again deepening the dimple in his cheek. “How about we start from scratch? Truce?” He extended his hand to her and waited.
She fought against the tremor of delight that shimmered through her as his strong fingers wrapped around her hand. In his warm grasp, her hand felt tiny, as if he could crush every bone with the slightest squeeze. And yet, with the simple touch, she felt his protective strength race through her. This was a man who protected women. She had almost forgotten about his species.
“Truce,” she said, lifting her gaze to meet his. Those chocolate brown eyes melted the last block of the wall of ice she raised around her heart, a makeshift fortress against her attraction to him. She was in trouble.
His grin deepened. He released her hand and stretched his long legs under the table, linking his fingers at his waist. “It'll be nice not to have to drive to a fast food joint every morning to get my coffee.”
She stood and moved to the display case, breathing deeply, thankful for the separation a few steps gave. “You go to a drive-through every morning instead of buying a cup coffee from me? Now I am offended.” She slid open the door to retrieve the plate of salted caramel brownies, the last dessert standing in the refrigerator case, forgotten with his arrival an hour earlier.
With her free hand, she shifted a French press under the hot water tap attached to an elaborate coffee and espresso machine, and flipped the lever to a slow stream. With a plop, the ground coffee settled on top of the water and she stirred. She placed a brownie on each of two small plates. Balancing the plates and forks in one hand and the French press and mugs in the other, she crossed the half-dozen steps to the table and set the coffee in the center.
“The coffee will take a couple more minutes to brew, but then it will go perfectly with these.”
Placing one brownie in front of Sean, she slid onto her seat, the other decadent dessert wooing her. She pressed the tines of her fork into the soft gooey texture. With the small bite of brownie, her eyes closed as the symphony of sweet and salty flavor melted over her tongue and reminded her of why she selected pastry arts over savory cuisine. “Mmmm.” Everything was better with a little chocolate and caramel. She opened her eyes and stared straight into wide, dark brown ones. She could feel her cheeks grow warm. “Sorry. I really like brownies.”