Chapter 6
Marcus
I stop by the bakery again.
Third time this week. I tell myself it’s routine. That I’m only checking on a business owner who recently experienced a loss. Making sure everything’s in order. It’s part of the job. Community policing, or whatever term the brass likes to throw around to make it sound official.
But I know the truth… I just want to see her.
It’s early. The scent of cinnamon rolls hits me before I even push open the door. The overhead bell chimes as I step in, and Julie looks up from behind the counter. Her eyes brighten for a fraction of a second before she catches herself, schooling her expression into something more neutral. But I saw it hit my chest with a wave of warmth I wasn’t prepared for.
"Officer King," she says, her voice light, teasing.
"Marcus," I remind her, fighting a smile.
She grins. "You keep showing up like this, people are going to think you’re addicted to sugar."
"And caffeine… don’t forget the caffeine."
She laughs, and the sound wraps around something tight in my chest and makes it loosen.
"Black coffee and a danish? Or are you going to be bold and try the peach turnover today?"
"Just the coffee and raspberry danish," I say.
She tsks. "Creature of habit."
I accept the paper cup and pastry she hands me. Our fingers brush. It’s less than a second, but I feel the sensation shoot through my body. I tell myself to walk away, to get back to work, but my feet stay planted.
"You doing okay?" I ask.
She shrugs. "I have my moments. The funeral’s coming up. That’s been rough."
I nod, unsure what to say. I don’t do grief well. I know how to bury it. Box it up and shelve it for later. But Julie? She wears it on the outside for the world to see and somehow it makes her stronger.
"Do you ever build tables?" she asks suddenly.
I blink. "What?"
She jerks a thumb toward the back. "I could use a sturdy worktable in my storage room. The folding one I have now wobbles like it’s got a death wish. You know... if you’ve got the time."
"I might."
She smiles, bright and warm and utterly disarming. "Well then, Officer Marcus King, if you have time, I’d like to commission one."
"Are you commissioning it with cash or baked goods?"
"Depends. Are you more motivated by money or muffins?"
I arch a brow. "Depends on the muffins."
"You haven’t lived until you’ve had my lemon blueberry."
A beat of silence stretches between us, not awkward, just charged. The air shifts.
"Alright," I say, surprising both of us. "I’ll build you a table."
Her smile could power the town and the wall of ice around my heart starts to melt.
* * *
I’m absolutely convinced that Delgado’s sole mission in life is to make mine as difficult as possible. We’re seated in the breakroom, surrounded by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the aroma of leftover takeout. He eyes me with a smirk, taking a hearty bite of his sandwich. "So let me get this straight," he starts, his voice dripping with amusement. "You’re crafting a table. A custom-built, solid wood masterpiece for a woman you’ve exchanged words with what, five times? Maybe six if we're stretching it?"
"Ten," I correct, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Dude. Just ask her out already. This is getting pathetic," he quips, crumbs sprinkling the table as he speaks.
"It’s not like that," I insist, though my words are hollow and I know it.
He snorts, a sound that echoes like a bark. "Sure, it isn’t. That’s why you keep showing up at her bakery like a sugar-starved golden retriever."
"Are you done? Are you so lonely and miserable that you feel the need to harp on my life?"
"Not even close to being done, and your love life is a comedy goldmine right now." For the next ten minutes, he regales me with a list of all the telltale signs that I’m deeper in than I care to admit.
According to Delgado, my tell is the way I smile without realizing it when I talk about her, which is bullshit because I don’t smile. Then there’s the way I apparently hover at the bakery door like a 'nervous teenager hoping for a prom date.' He embellishes his point with air quotes, not once but twice.
"You’re so far gone, man," he chuckles around a mouthful of chips. "You’re practically baking muffins in your dreams. Admit it. You’ve got it bad for the bakery lady."
"I don’t bake," I mutter defensively.
"No, but you build tables. Which is like baking’s manlier, woodier cousin. You’re nesting. Next thing I know, you’ll be knitting her a damn potholder."
I shoot him a glare, but he grins wider, unperturbed. "Let me know when you’re done."
"Nope. This is too much fun," he retorts launching into a tale about the last officer who 'just wanted to help a girl out' and ended up married with three kids and a minivan.
I try to drown out his voice after the third example. Deep down, I suspect he might be onto something. Or am I hoping he is?
* * *
The table is my new excuse to stop by the bakery often.
A damn good one.
I take measurements the next afternoon while Julie shadows me, rattling off details about shelf height and weight capacity like she’s reading off a sacred scroll. I sketch out a plan that night in my garage, then spend the next few hours cutting, sanding, and assembling.
Each time is to check a dimension or ask her preference on finishes, and it becomes more than a check-in. It becomes routine and we talk… a lot. And I like it.
She tells me about her dad, about how he would bake with her on Sunday mornings and how she misses him since he passed away a few years ago. She confesses she’s scared she won’t be able to keep the bakery going without Mrs. Waverly’s advice. I don’t have answers, but I listen.
She listens, too.
She asks about my woodworking and about my time in the military. She never pries, never pushes. Just offers quiet curiosity and when I dodge a question, she lets it go.
The more I’m around her, the more I realize I want to be. Even if it terrifies me.
Tonight, I finished the table, so I load it into the back of my truck and drive it to Seaside Sweets. Julie’s locking up when I pull into the lot. Her eyes go wide when she sees what I’ve brought.
"That’s it?"
"That’s it. Solid maple. Reinforced legs. It should hold a hell of a lot more than flour."
She walks around to the back, running her hand over the smooth surface. "It’s beautiful. You made this?"
"Told you I was handy." My body tightens as her fingers trail along the wood, and I can’t stop myself from wondering what it would feel like to have her hands on me.
"This is more than handy, Marcus. This is… wow. It’s beautiful."
She glances at me then, and the look in her eyes is soft and open and entirely too dangerous.
I lift the table out of the truck, and she opens the back door to the bakery. We maneuver it inside, set it against the wall, and stand there, shoulder to shoulder for a second, just staring at it.
"You didn’t have to do this," she whispers.
"You asked."
"I wasn’t expecting something so beautiful."
Her words hang in the air like an invitation. I don’t move. I don’t trust myself to.
She edges closer, her fingers brushing mine.
"Thank you, Marcus."
I nod, my throat tight.
"I owe you at least twelve dozen muffins."
"I’ll take a muffin, now."
She grins and heads to the case, pulling out a lemon blueberry muffin and handing it to me like it’s a sacred artifact.
And it is because the look in her eyes tells me this isn’t about baked goods anymore. It’s about trust. It’s about something real.
I just hope I’m ready.