23. Coraline
23
CORALINE
The morning sun filters through the bakery’s windows, casting a warm glow over the polished countertops and the racks of freshly baked mini tartlets. I’m elbow-deep in raspberries and walnuts, working on Mrs. Weatherby’s special order.
Vegan raspberry cheesecake with a toasted walnut crust.
The aroma of vanilla and crushed raspberries fills the air, a comforting reminder of why I love this place so much. But today, the usual peace of my morning routine is overshadowed by the whirlwind of last night.
Folk music serenades me through the speakers, giving words and sounds to my conflicted emotions.
I left the clubhouse in a daze. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, my libido cooled by the sheer absurdity of the situation. I still can’t believe I was the one to kiss him first.
I keep telling myself it was self-preservation. If people are going to believe we’re really dating—if Grant’s going to believe it and leave me alone—then we have to be believable. Which means I can’t snap at Jagger all the time. And I have to be comfortable with his touch.
So, my subconscious was just testing me, right? I realize now just how ridiculous my proposed no touching rule was.
I roll out the walnut dough with more force than necessary, trying to push the memory of Jagger’s smug grin and those damn sweatpants out of my mind.
Honestly, gray sweatpants have no business being so attractive on a man.
But the way he looked at me, like he could see right through my bravado, made my heart race in a way that both excited and terrified me.
I half-expected him to charge after me and demand we go on a public date right then. He seemed so, I don’t know, eager, before. I hate that I feel disappointed he didn’t track me down yet.
Which is seriously so stupid.
We have an arrangement—a fake relationship. Which means it’s all pretend. So I don’t need to do that thing I always do in relationships where I overanalyze everything.
I shake my head and blow out a breath, focusing on the task at hand. I have more pressing issues to worry about.
Like my new landlord and his merry band of assholes, and the new raised rent prices due soon.
I bite my lip, debating the idea of asking one of my brothers or maybe even Abby to front me the money. I can’t decide which one of them I can trust to keep their mouths shut about it. I almost brought it up to Abby the other day, but she sounded so worried and stressed. I didn’t want to add to her plate.
There’s always Evie. But . . . she’s sleep-deprived and currently existing in her newborn bubble of bliss. I just can’t bring myself to pop that for her. Not yet. I can’t ask her to fix a problem for me. Not when she and Nana Jo both believed I could do everything on my own.
But I know one thing for sure: I cannot ask my parents. The twenty questions they’ll have will be nothing compared to the years of my mother muttering about how she told me so. She wouldn’t do it maliciously, but she’d throw salt on the already open wound of shame.
This is supposed to be my big thing. The one thing that was mine alone. Nana Jo believed I could do it, and I’m not going to disrespect her memory by failing.
So I’ll just have to figure it out. Get a small loan from the bank to cover it. And then take on more custom orders, pull longer hours. Maybe I could leverage my socials somehow.
I glance at the clock, noting I’ve only got a few hours before Mrs. Weatherby comes to pick up her order and the cheesecake needs two hours to chill.
I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of baking, hoping it’ll drown out the chaos in my mind. The gentle hum of the freezer, the soft clatter of utensils, and the steady whirr of the mixer provide a soothing backdrop.
But the memory of Jagger’s touch, his teasing words, and that insufferable grin keeps creeping back. I groan inwardly, frustrated with myself for letting him get under my skin so easily.
There’s a knock on the front door, and I wipe my dirty hands on my apron as I cross the room. There’s a fleeting moment of panic, fear that it’s going to be my new landlord again, but I shake my head to dismiss it. I don’t think they’d knock. Even though I changed the locks, they’d probably find a new way in.
It’s probably just Mrs. Weatherby, earlier than she thought she’d be.
My steps slow as I near the front door, the silhouette of someone visible through the colorful frosted glass panes on the front door. I thought about replacing the door with something more secure, but then I realized it’s original to the space.
And now I’m grateful I left it because it allows me to glimpse the man on the other side of it.
I turn the lock and swing open the door, ignoring the way my heart skips a beat inside my chest—she’s a traitor.
Jagger leans against the doorframe with that same infuriatingly charming smile.
“Morning, baby,” he drawls, his tone deep and raspy.
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to mask the effect he has on me. “What are you doing here?”
He saunters in, looking entirely too comfortable in my space. “Thought I’d stop by and see my girl.”
My girl . The words send a thrill through me, but I shove it down. This is just pretend. Just a means to an end. I can’t let myself forget that.
I close the door, leaning against it to watch him look around. I stomp out any self-consciousness that crawls up my throat when I try to imagine what he sees.
“Plus, I brought gifts,” he calls over his shoulder, heading straight for the counter. “Love what you did with the place, baby.”
“Right, I’m sure.” I roll my eyes and push off the door. It’s a throwaway compliment.
I haven’t done much of anything with the front of the bakery. Except for the counter, but that’s only because I take all my social media photos there.
“How well do you know your fellow neighbors here?”
My brows fall toward one another. “Why?” I drag the word out, caution heavy in my tone. There’s no way he can know about the new landlord, right?
He lifts a shoulder, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut at the movement. “Thought I saw some people I recognized a couple doors down, at the old tailor’s place.”
My mouth parts in surprise, the blunt edges of fear scraping against my ribs. Avalon Falls doesn’t have a motorcycle club like Rosewood does. It’s one of the reasons I picked this neighboring town for Sugarplum. But after last year’s walk down Hell’s pathway, I now have a healthy dose of fear when it comes to being collateral damage in a club war.
I swallow roughly. “Like other clubs?”
His shoulders tense as he turns around slowly, head tilting to the side. “You get a lot of kuttes in here, baby?”
“Not unless you count.”
He nods, his grin slow to bloom across his face. “You let me know if you get any trouble, yeah? I’ll take care of it for you.”
I shift my weight to my other foot, my mouth feeling drier than the desert. “I can take care of myself.”
He rocks back on his heels with a slow dip of his chin. “Just playing my part, yeah?”
“The protective boyfriend, right,” I murmur.
There’s a beat of silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. “ Spitting Off the Edge of the World today, hm? Someone’s feeling angsty this morning.” He leans his ass against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. Forever the image of chill and calm.
It takes me a second to realize he’s quoting the caption for my post today. I stroll across the room, my steps slow and deliberate. The corner of my mouth curls into a self-satisfied smirk.
“So you follow me online then,” I murmur, stopping in front of him. “You checkin’ up on me?”
He flashes me a bright grin, winking. “I’m your man, yeah? Looks weird if I’m not following you.”
My smirk falls into something more serious, my heart picking up inside my chest. “So we’re really doing this then?”
His grin fades a little, his eyes softening as he looks at me. “I’m in if you are.”
I nod a few times to myself, content with that answer, and look at the coffees on the counter. “What’s all this?”
He reaches behind his back and grabs one of the drinks. He holds it out to me with a flourish. “An iced matcha from the Coffee Shop. Oat milk and sugar free vanilla.”
I dust my hand on my apron once more and take the drink from his hand, our fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. I look up at him through my lashes, his words from yesterday echoing inside my mind.
It’s already a challenge keeping my hands off you.
“How did you know this is my favorite drink?” I take a sip, letting the frothy latte ease my nerves.
He drums his fingers against the countertop and he grins. It’s all male satisfaction, like he’s so pleased with himself. “What answer would be more impressive? That I knew your drink because I’m observant as fuck or that I asked the barista what your usual order is?”
“Neither.” I grunt with a light laugh and take another sip of my drink to give myself something to do. I don’t even know how to respond.
If he would’ve said that to me last week, I would’ve replied with some cutting remark that brought his ego down a few notches. But those same clapbacks don’t rise to my tongue so easily today.
I probably just need more caffeine. Yeah, that’s definitely it, I think as I take another long sip. I can already feel my claws coming back.
I salute him with my to-go cup, my grin a little too sharp to be misinterpreted as flirty. “I appreciate the coffee, but I have to get back to work.”
He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Whatever you say, baby. One more thing.” He slips something from his back pocket, pinching it between his thumb and index finger to fan them out. They look like concert tickets.
“What’s that?” I jerk my chin toward them as I take another sip. The Coffee Shop really does make an amazing matcha latte.
“Tickets.”
“Yeah,” I deadpan. “I got that part. I mean why do they say Grand Avenue and nothing else? Who’s playing?”
“No one. It’s their infamous haunted tour.” He grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Oh.” I pause, trying to understand the strange emotion fluttering inside me right now. I glance at him, suspicion heavy in my gaze. “Why.”
“Couple-y things.”
“Couple-y things?” I parrot, the question thick.
“Yeah, baby, you said we gotta do couple-y things, PDA and all that. Let the town see we’re together for real, right? Make sure your shitbag ex gets green enough to eat crow.”
“And a haunted tour of Grand Avenue checks all those boxes?”
He slips the tickets into his back pocket and pushes off the counter. “It’s a start.”
The bell above the door rings, and I feel like I blink and Jagger’s halfway in front of me. I look from Mrs. Weatherby in the doorway to him and back again.
“Coraline, dear, I know I’m early, but I was in the neighborhood and I—” She stops herself when she spots Jagger. “Oh my, what a surprise it is to see you here.” Her gaze ping-pongs between the two of us, a knowing grin on her face.
One that promises all kinds of trouble.
My gut tightens uncomfortably, and I glance at Jagger, surprised to see his smile matches Mrs. Weatherby’s.
Sly and secretive, like the two of them are in on some joke.
I shake off my suspicions and round the front counter. “No problem, Mrs. Weatherby. Let me package up your tartlets. I think you’re going to be happy with how they turned out.”
Jagger’s hand lashes out, banding around my bicep and stopping me in my tracks. I start, turning my head to send him a dark glare.
“I’ll pick you up tonight at seven, yeah?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer, lifting my chin with his index finger and dropping a soft kiss against the corner of my mouth.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Weatherby gasps.
As he leaves, I allow myself a small smile. Maybe, just maybe, this whole pretending thing won’t be so bad after all.