Chapter 3 Zale
THREE
ZALE
I now knew Hawthorn's routine better than my own heartbeat.
At two-thirty he'd already have the ovens warming, the sourdough starter bubbling on the counter and three cups of coffee in his system.
At two-forty-five the first batch of bread dough was mixed and rising.
The croissants were rolled and ready for proofing at three-fifteen, and the baking would begin at four-thirty.
I learned to move around him as if we were dancing so when he reached left, I stepped right. As he bent for the flour, I had the measuring cups ready and when he opened his mouth to ask for something, I was already handing it to him.
It should have taken weeks to develop that kind of synchronicity. Instead, it felt as natural as breathing.
My wolf was unbearably smug about this, saying we fitted together perfectly.
"Oven mitts," Hawthorn said without looking up from the dough he was shaping.
I held them out. His fingers glided over my skin and my hand tingled as it did every time we touched. Hawthorn's jaw tightened in response and I wondered, did he feel it too? Or was it a nuisance? Or worse, something that turned his stomach?
"Thanks." He took the mitts and turned away abruptly.
I was beginning to recognize his tells. His shoulders became rigid when I got too close and his hands moved faster and more aggressively through the dough when he took a deep breath and caught my scent. And a muscle ticked in his jaw when our eyes met for too long.
Was he counting the days until I left town? Sometimes I wanted to ask him if I made him uncomfortable. But I tamped down those questions because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
My wolf kept urging me to get to know Hawthorn better. But he was my boss. He'd taken a chance on me, and this job was temporary. I couldn't allow any relationship complications to derail my life even if that rich espresso scent made my knees weak every morning when I walked through the door.
Hawthorn pulled out a tray of gingerbread cookies from the oven. The smell of molasses, ginger and cinnamon filled the air. He set them on the cooling rack, and the subtle ripple of muscle along his forearms caught my attention.
"Those are the last of the cookies for the Axley’s Christmas party." He wiped his hands on his apron. "Two hundred cookies shaped like snowflakes but they need to be iced."
"I can help with that."
"You don't know how to ice cookies."
“Teach me." I moved close enough that the heat radiating from him blazed over me and the espresso scent was intensified by the warmth of the ovens. "I’m a fast learner, remember?"
Hawthorn's nostrils flared. Was he scenting me? I was aware of my scent getting stronger when I was near him. My body was advertising my interest whether I wanted it to or not.
"Fine." His voice had that gravelly edge and again a flush crept over my skin. "But if you mess them up, you're starting over."
He showed me how to mix the royal icing and fill the piping bags which was simple enough.
But creating delicate snowflake patterns on each cookie required skill.
His hands were steady but I was concentrating on something other than the technique, especially his long fingers when he squeezed the piping bag.
Goosebumps crawled over my skin as I wondered how those fingers would feel digging into my bare flesh.
“Are you paying attention?"
I jerked up. Hawthorn was watching me with those dark eyes, and his wolf was at the forefront, making his gaze almost predatory. My cheeks flamed and I wished I could dunk my head in ice water.
"Yes." My voice came out breathier than usual. "You want snowflake patterns. I’ve got it."
“Show me.”
There were a few things I’d like to show him, but none of them were appropriate for the workplace. Sweat dribbled down my spine into my briefs.
He handed me a piping bag. I focused on the cookie in front of me, trying to ignore how close Hawthorn was standing and how good he smelled. The espresso aroma was so uniquely him and it made my mouth water.
My mind wasn’t on what I was doing but rather what I wanted to do to him and the snowflake came out lopsided. Damn. I was tempted to blame my wolf but he said it was all me.
"Try again." Was that amusement in his voice and was it because of the cookies? "Slower this time and keep the pressure steady."
I tried again. It was better, but still not great. I was acing everything else at the bakery. Why couldn't I get this right?
"Here." Hawthorn moved behind me, and his hand covered mine as he guided the piping bag. His chest pressed against my back while his breath warmed my neck. Oh gods, every nerve ending in my body lit up like Christmas lights and I hoped I wasn’t sparkling.
My wolf was doing backflips because he was so excited.
"Steady." His husky voice in my ear sent blood surging into my length. "Don't rush it."
The snowflake formed under our joined hands. But I couldn't breathe or think of anything other than his hands on mine. My wolf was practically howling with joy at being in Hawthorn’s arms.
Then I felt it. The unmistakable hardness pressing against my lower back. Hawthorn was aroused. So it wasn’t just me. He wanted what I did.
But with no warning, he let me go and put three feet of space between us.
"Keep practicing. I need to check the bread."
He almost scurried away to the other side of the kitchen.
With a piping bag in hand, I tried to get my heart rate under control. My hands were shaking and heat surged through my veins. That brief moment of contact had left me aching and wanting more.
That had definitely not been my imagination. The tension between us was real. He wanted me and the evidence had been pressing on my back.
But what was I going to do about it? I gulped because was I prepared for a one night stand or a casual hookup?
Despite my wolf clamoring for me to get serious with Hawthorn, I needed to get my life in order before I thought about a relationship, even if my body was demanding I follow him across the kitchen and finish what we'd started.
I forced myself to focus on the cookies and to breathe through the lingering arousal while ignoring my wolf's complaints.
By the time the morning rush started, I'd gotten my body mostly under control. But Hawthorn's scent lingered on my skin and my clothes. Every breath reminded me of how he'd felt pressed against me.
The usual customers came into the bakery but this time several of them lingered.
"So." Mrs. Trent leaned on the counter while Hawthorn bagged her sourdough. “Is your new helper from around here?"
"No." Hawthorn's tone indicated the conversation was over.
Mrs. Trent ignored it. "Where's he from?"
"Does it matter?"
“I’m just making conversation." She smiled sweetly. "You know how it is in a small town. We like to know our neighbors."
From where I was standing in the doorway to the back room, I noted Hawthorn's shoulders tensing. He disliked the nosiness and people feeling entitled to information because they bought bread from him.
"He's helping with the Christmas rush," Hawthorn repeated. "That's all you need to know."
Mrs. Trent wasn’t put off by his brusque response. Her gaze found mine over his shoulder. "Well, hello there! I'm Denise Trent. Welcome to Ridgedale.”
"Thank you." I kept my smile friendly but not too encouraging. "It's a lovely town."
"How long are you planning to stay?"
"Not sure yet."
"Oh? So you might stick around?" Her eyes gleamed with matchmaker interest. In a town this small, she probably didn't get many opportunities. "That would be wonderful. We could always use more young people here. Are you single?"
"Mrs. Trent.” Hawthorn's tone suggested he wanted the conversation to end. "Your bread."
"Of course. See you tomorrow, Hawthorn. And nice to meet you, dear."
The moment she left, three more people came in with the same barely disguised curiosity.
By the time the rush ended, I'd been asked where I was from, how long I was staying, if I was single, and if I had family nearby.
I avoided and deflected most of the questions and refused to be drawn into giving any details about my family.
"Sorry about that," Hawthorn said when we were finally alone again. "Small town inhabitants mean well."
“But they're nosy?"
"Extremely." He scrubbed at a spot on the counter. "You don't have to answer their questions if you don't want to."
"I don't." I grabbed a cloth and started wiping down the display case. "My family is complicated. I'd rather not get into it."
Hawthorn glanced at me but his expression was unreadable. "Fair enough."
We worked in silence for a few minutes. I'd never been comfortable with silence before and I was usually the one filling it with chatter. But with Hawthorn, the quiet felt right.
"My ex used to hate the small town thing," he said suddenly. “Roland. He said it felt like living in a fishbowl because everyone knew everyone's business."
This was the most personal information Hawthorn had volunteered all week.
"Is that why he's your ex?"
"Part of it." He scrubbed harder at a spot on the counter. "Mostly it was the hours. He wanted a normal life where we had dinners together and weekends. He preferred someone who didn't smell like yeast twenty-four-seven. And that wasn’t me."
"That wasn’t fair to you.”
He shrugged. "It's the reality of running a bakery alone."
"You're not alone now." Oh gods, the words were out before I could stop them, and I couldn't take them back. The universe wouldn't allow it.
Hawthorn's hand stilled. He looked at me and his eyes were wide and unguarded, before they shuttered.
"No," he said quietly. "I guess I'm not."
My heart was galloping. I put a hand to my chest and asked my wolf to make it stop. But he was paying attention to Hawthorn. This was supposed to be a professional relationship. And I was supposed to be figuring out my life, not falling for a grumpy baker who made my wolf howl with longing.
But when Hawthorn looked at me, as though I was something to be treasured and also terrifying, professional was the last thing on my mind.
The bell above the door chimed, and a woman walked in, bringing a blast of cold air and the scent of perfume that cut through Hawthorn's lingering scent on my skin.
"Hawthorn!" She beamed at him. "I heard you hired someone new. Are you going to introduce us?"
Hawthorn's expression shuttered. "Zale, this is Marg. She runs the bookshop across the street. Marg, this is Zale. He's helping out for the holidays."
"Just the holidays?" Margaret looked between us with interest. "That's a shame. From what I’ve heard you two are working well together."
"We manage." Hawthorn was already moving toward the back. "Zale, can you handle this? I need to start the next batch."
He disappeared before I could answer.
Marg smirked. "Don't mind him. He's always been prickly. But I've known Hawthorn for years, and I've never seen him let anyone else work the front counter before."
"Really?"
“Yes.” She leaned in. "He must trust you. That's not something he gives out easily."
Her words pleased me more than they should.
I sold Marg a baguette and when she left, I glanced toward the back room where Hawthorn was moving around.
One week down and however many more to go.
My wolf was counting on forever. I wanted to believe in forever too. But I'd run from one complicated situation. I couldn't let myself fall into another one.