Chapter Four
Flour Is a Weapon
Daniel
I make it three streets before I realize I’m an idiot.
Not a normal idiot. A fucking spectacular one.
A man who finds his fated mate, manages not to scare her off, joins her for lunch, hears her say she might believe him one day, and then walks away without asking when he can see her again.
Tomorrow, I said. Like a man with a plan. I don’t have a plan.
I have a tool bag, a parts order, a wolf pacing inside my skin like he wants to file a formal complaint, and the lingering taste of Holly’s laughter lodged somewhere behind my ribs.
Very masculine. Very stable.
Excellent work, Daniel. I roll my eyes at myself.
I stop outside the hardware store and stare at my reflection in the window. Dark blond hair. Stubble. t-shirt. Work boots. Slightly haunted expression of a man who is in deep trouble and has only just noticed the water rising around his knees.
My wolf growls.
Mate.
“Yes,” I mutter. “We covered that.”
A woman walking past with a poodle gives me a wide berth. Men talking to themselves outside hardware stores don’t usually scream emotional stability.
I go inside because tools are safer than feelings. The place smells like sawdust, metal, paint, and human stress. I understand these smells. They don’t try to crawl into my chest and rewrite my future.
Carl is behind the counter, frowning at a computer like it personally insulted his bloodline.
“You look awful,” he says.
“Good afternoon to you too.”
“You need the mixer parts?”
“Yes.”
“Rush order costs extra.”
“Everything costs extra.”
“That’s capitalism.”
“That’s theft.”
Carl grunts, impressed despite himself. He prints the order slip and slides it across the counter. “Parts should be here in three days if the delivery truck doesn’t break down again.”
“Why would you say that out loud?”
“Because I enjoy tempting fate?”
I sign the slip. “Fate and I aren’t speaking.”
“Smart man.”
No. No, I’m not.
A smart man would keep his distance from Holly Black until she decides what she wants. A smart man would remember that she’s wounded, wary, and terrified of what the bond means. A smart man would stop picturing the way her mouth softened when she read that ridiculous flower card.
Unfortunately, I have never claimed to be a genius.
I leave the hardware store with mixer parts ordered, three new screws in my pocket I don’t need, and an excuse to return to Sweetique Bakery before closing.
The excuse is thin. Almost see-through, actually, but my wolf approves. That alone means it’s probably terrible.
The rest of the afternoon crawls by. I repair a sticking gate for Mrs. Bell while she asks me twelve questions about Holly. Not so subtle questions. Like, “Are you married?” and “Do you like children?” and “Do you know Holly works too hard because she has no one to help her?”
I tighten the hinge on her gate and pretend I don’t notice the way she watches me.
“She has Maisie,” I say.
“She has an employee,” Mrs. Bell replies. “Not the same thing.”
I glance at her. “Holly doesn’t strike me as a woman who wants help forced on her.”
“She isn’t.” Mrs. Bell smiles like the cat who got the cream. “So don’t force it. Offer it in a way that lets her insult you first.”
I pause. That is actually good advice. “Thank you.”
“I’m old, not decorative,” she says with a soft huff.
“I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise.”
“Smart boy.”
****
By the time I finish my jobs, the sun hangs low over town, turning windows gold and throwing long shadows across the pavement. I should go home. Shower. Eat something that does not come from a diner bag. Sleep.
Instead, I end up in the alley behind Sweetique Bakery, holding the order receipt and rehearsing words like a nervous teenager.
Pathetic.
I knock on the back door. Nothing. I knock again. Inside, something crashes.
Then Holly yells, “If you’re here to murder me, I’m armed with a rolling pin and unresolved rage.”
My mouth pulls into a grin before I can stop it. “It’s Daniel.”
A beat of silence. “That is not less threatening.”
The door swings open, and there she is.
Holly stands in the doorway with her hair half falling out of its knot, sleeves pushed to her elbows, flour dusting one cheek, and a streak of something pink on her forearm. Strawberry glaze, maybe. She smells like sugar, heat, exhaustion, and woman.
My wolf goes very still, and so do I.
Her gaze drops to my hand. “Is that paperwork?”
“Mixer parts.”
“Already?”
“I said I’d handle it.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “I didn’t ask you to rush.”
“I know.”
“So why did you?”
Because you smiled at a dying mixer this morning like it was your favorite thing in the world, and I would rather chew nails than see worry pull your mouth down again.
Because I have spent years being useful to people who never saw me, and somehow you looked right at me while pretending not to care.
Because my wolf wants to lay every problem at your feet and then bite anyone who steps too close.
I say, “Because Carl tempts fate, and I don’t trust him.”
Her brows pull together. “That makes absolutely no sense.”
“I know.”
“Good. As long as you’re aware.”
She reaches for the paper, and her fingers brush mine. Barely. A nothing touch. But it still hits like lightning.
Heat shoots up my arm and punches through my chest. The bond flares bright and hungry, and for one wild second, all I can see is Holly pressed against this door, her mouth open under mine, her hands in my hair, her body soft and warm and willing.
My wolf lunges. Touch.
I clamp down hard, and Holly sucks in a breath. Her pupils widen. She feels it too. Of course she does.
The alley seems to shrink around us. Brick walls. Fading sunlight. Her scent. My pulse. The soft hitch in her breathing that nearly ruins me. She steps back first.
I let the paper go and the receipt flutters between her fingers.
“Careful,” she says, voice thinner than before.
I nod. “Always.”
Her mouth tightens like she does not know what to do with that answer. Join the club, sweetheart.
I keep my hands at my sides, even though they ache to reach for her. “Parts should be here in three days.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“I’ll bill you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“I’m very official.”
“You brought me a flower card that mentioned carbohydrates.”
“That’s a new brand of romantic.”
Her lips twitch. “Don’t push your luck.”
“I would never.” She stares at me, and I smile. “Okay,” I admit. “I would. But only a little.”
Holly shakes her head and turns away, leaving the door open. Not an invitation but not not an invitation. I stand there like an idiot until she glances back over her shoulder.
“Are you coming in, or are you planning to haunt the alley?”
The kitchen is a war zone. A beautiful, terrifying, sugar-coated war zone.
Bowls are stacked beside the sink. Cooling racks line the counters. Trays of cupcakes wait beneath swirls of pale pink frosting. There’s flour everywhere. On the floor. On the table. On Holly. One suspicious streak even decorates the side of Patricia the oven.
I look around. “Did you fight the flour?”
“The flour started it.”
“Did you win?”
“Obviously.”
A cloud of white powder slides off the edge of the counter and lands on the floor between us. I look down. Then back at her.
“Decisive victory,” I say.
She points a spatula at me. “Sarcasm will get you stabbed.”
“With a spatula?”
“I’m creative.”
“I believe that.”
She moves past me to check a tray, and I follow her with my eyes before I can stop myself. Bad idea. Her jeans hug her hips, her apron ties tight around her waist, and the scent of her frustration mixes with the sweetness in the air until I can’t tell if I want to laugh, groan, or run into traffic.
My wolf knows what he wants, but luckily my wolf is not in charge.
“You need help,” I say.
She turns slowly. Those are clearly the wrong words.
Her eyes narrow to dangerous little slits. “Do I?”
I replay the sentence and immediately see the landmine. Mrs. Bell’s advice returns to me. Offer it in a way that lets her insult you first.
“I mean,” I correct, “I’m tall, mildly competent, and already covered in emotional damage. You could use me for labor and mock me while doing it.”
She studies me and the spatula lowers slightly. “That is better.”
“I’m learning.”
“Slowly.”
“Still counts.”
She looks at the trays, then at the clock, then at me. I can see the battle on her face. Pride versus exhaustion. Independence versus practicality. Wanting to say no because yes feels like admitting something.
Finally, she points to the sink. “Wash your hands.”
My wolf sits back smugly, and I mentally tell him not to get excited. He ignores me.
I wash my hands. The simple act of being in her kitchen after hours feels intimate in a way I don’t know how to handle. This is not like repairing a gate or fixing a roof. This is her territory. Her den. Her safe place.
And she lets me inside.
Holly hands me a piping bag, and I stare at it while she stares at me. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Pipe frosting.”
“On purpose?”
“No, Daniel. As a cry for help.”
“I fix things. I don’t decorate them.”
“Then consider these cupcakes broken.”
I look down at the tray. Tiny golden cakes stare back at me, innocent and doomed.
“You trust me with this?”
“Not even a little.” She grabs another piping bag and demonstrates, her hands sure and quick as she twists a perfect swirl of pink frosting onto the first cupcake. “Like this.”
I watch her hands. Her fingers are small, capable, and dusted with flour. She moves with confidence in this space, every gesture practiced and precise. Something is mesmerizing about it, intimate.
She glances at me. “The cupcake, Daniel. Watch the cupcake.”
“I was.”
“You were watching my hands.”
“They were holding the cupcake tool.”
“The cupcake tool?” she asks with laughter in her voice.
“I don’t know its name.”
“Piping bag.”
“I knew that.”
“You absolutely did not,” she accuses.
“No,” I admit. “I didn’t.”
Her smile appears again, quick and reluctant. Victory.