Chapter 5
The day after the robbery dawned bitter and bright. Frost patterned the shop windows in delicate fronds, and every merchant on the street had their door bolts inspected twice before the hour of nine.
Vicky arrived at Abbott & Sisters determined to prove she was unaffected.
If she thought too long about Hubert Stouts’s voice—you came—her stomach did things unbecoming of an Abbott.
So she would not think of it. She would, instead, lace herself in armor made of wit and carry on the campaign of kindness until he surrendered or expired.
Gracie raised her brows when she swept in with a basket draped in linen. “You’re at it again.”
“It is called neighborly goodwill,” Vicky said loftily, setting the basket on the counter. “And if Mr. Stouts is too surly to accept it, then I shall simply have to inflict more.”
“What’s inside?”
“Seed cake. I baked it myself.”
Gracie blinked, as if contemplating whether to alert the bishop. “And does it resemble cake?”
“Mostly,” Vicky said, with only the faintest blush. “It will taste better when sweetened by my victory.”
“Or by honey,” Gracie muttered.
Vicky crossed the street with the basket on her arm and cheer pasted to her face like war paint. She pushed open the stationer’s door without ceremony.
The bell gave its polite chime.
Hubert Stouts was at the counter, head bent over a ledger, sleeves rolled again. The sight of him—rumpled from the robbery, jaw shadowed, shoulders taut beneath the plain wool of his coat—struck her with ridiculous force. Broad, steady, entirely too distracting.
“Good morning, Mr. Stouts,” she trilled. “I’ve brought you cake.”
He looked up slowly, as if bracing for impact. “Miss Abbott.” His eyes flicked to the basket with suspicion. “Is it edible?”
“It is generous,” she retorted. “Which is more than can be said of you.” She whisked off the linen and produced the cake with a flourish. “See? Perfectly respectable. It even rose.”
“Like your voice whenever you quarrel,” he said dryly.
She set the cake on his counter with a decisive thump. “Kindness, Mr. Stouts. Do try not to choke on it.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded very much like a prayer for deliverance. “Miss Abbott, this—”
The bell chimed again. Mrs. Reeves bustled in, glanced between them, and broke into a grin. “How cozy! Miss Abbott, bringing treats to Mr. Stouts. I said all along you two were bound to make peace.”
Vicky’s smile sharpened. “Peace, yes. A temporary cease-fire.”
Hubert looked like a man standing before a firing squad. “Mrs. Reeves, good day.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” she said, selecting sealing wax she didn’t need. “I think it delightful when neighbors look after each other.” She left with a wink in Vicky’s direction.
The silence that followed was thick enough to stack on shelves.
Vicky folded her arms. “Well? Will you try the cake, or are you afraid I’ve poisoned it?”
Hubert closed the ledger with a snap. “Miss Abbott, I endured a robbery yesterday. Today I find you invading my shop with baked goods and mockery. Is there no limit to your interference?”
She tilted her head, sweet as treacle. “Not yet discovered.”
Something in him cracked. He rounded the counter in two strides, his height blotting out the light, his expression carved from frustration and something hotter.
“You are infuriating,” he said, low and sharp.
“And you are insufferable,” she snapped back, heart racing. “Forever lecturing, forever telling me where I may or may not be. I’ll not have it, Hubert Stouts!”
His name in her mouth undid him. He seized her wrist, not harshly but with the unyielding strength of a man who had run out of words. He pulled her against him, and before she could fashion another retort, his mouth came down on hers.
It was not neat, not gentlemanly. His kiss this time was desperate, furious, a collision of restraint collapsing. Her back struck the counter, his hand braced beside her, the other still circling her wrist.
Vicky made a muffled sound that was half outrage, half something else entirely.
His kiss melted her insides and caused her anger to mellow into something altogether foreign and exciting.
His tongue brushed hers and this time there was no interruption.
Fireworks exploded within her as the heat of her belly travelled lower.
Never before had Vicky experienced anything like this.
He had the ability to irritate and rile her up like no other person.
She shoved at his chest—unconvincing—and then clutched his coat as if she might fall without it.
There was a promise in his kiss that perhaps neither one could put their finger on.
When at last he wrenched back, breath ragged, his eyes were wild. “Forgive me.”
Her lips tingled, her pulse thundered. She lifted her chin, refusing to yield the ground he’d just taken. “For kissing me, or for enjoying it?”
“Enjoying it, clearly. I mean, that wasn’t what I meant.” Color burned along his cheekbones. “It was a mistake.”
She laughed, low and wicked, though her knees felt suspiciously unreliable. “If that was a mistake, I recommend you make several more.”
His jaw clenched. “You cannot—you must not—”
“I must not what?” she pressed, leaning close enough he had to see the triumph in her eyes. “Feel? Want? Kiss me again?”
He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair, leaving it deliciously mussed. “You will drive me mad.”
“Excellent,” she said. “Then we shall be equals.”
The bell chimed again—merciful interruption or cruel one, she couldn’t decide. A customer stepped in, blinking at the tableau: Vicky flushed, Hubert visibly discomposed.
“Good day,” Vicky said brightly, sweeping past Hubert as though she hadn’t just been thoroughly kissed against his counter. “Do mind the cake. It’s perfectly edible.”
She floated into the street, her heart still galloping, and didn’t look back until she was halfway across. When she did, she found Hubert standing motionless at the counter, staring at the cake as if it were a live grenade.