Chapter 3
Three
River
I put the loaf of bread in the oven and rub my hands together, brushing off the excess flour.
It sprinkles down like snow, clinging to the front of my sweats, dusting the floor with white specks.
I don’t immediately clean it up like I would if I was working—careful to keep the space pristine, even if I still have more food to make, more ingredients to measure out.
There are standards to be upheld.
Expectations to exceed.
Perfection to maintain.
It used to be that those same standards and expectations and measures of perfection existed in my home.
Ruled my home.
But I’ve managed to undo some of those habits.
To create a space where I can breathe, can relax, can be me.
My apartment is small—a studio that leaves very few places for monsters to hide—and it’s mine.
The kitchen cabinets are full of baking supplies, my Kitchen Aid sits in a prime spot on the limited counter space.
Well, it takes up most of it, but I don’t mind doing what I’m doing now—prepping dinner on the kitchen table.
It’s the right height and I can spread out and…
I can get lost in my drug of choice—fantasy and Sci-Fi movies.
This goes hand-in-hand with my love of fantasy (in particular romantasy novels).
Tonight, I’m watching a favorite of mine, The Princess Bride.
Which has all of the best parts of a film: love and danger, high stakes and villains and adventure, and it doesn’t take itself too seriously.
Plus, Cary Elwes.
Perfection.
But even though I have my favorite movie playing and fresh bread baking in the oven and soup simmering on the stove and sugar cookie dough ready to be rolled out, I’m still feeling restless.
And off-center.
Because of…
“Thorn,” I whisper miserably.
I haven’t even seen him over the last week, but my mind hasn’t gotten the message to stop thinking about him.
About his soft voice suggesting ocean sounds to help me sleep, about those all-seeing green eyes, about the gentle way he’d handled Violet despite her clawing the hell out of him.
Sighing, I pull out the cookie dough, liberally flour the table and get to work rolling them out.
But even though my hands are busy and my gaze is mostly on the movie, my mind keeps drifting.
It’s annoying.
Especially because it means my cookies aren’t perfect.
The buzzer goes, and I scowl as I pull the bread out of the oven then slip in a sheet pan filled with slightly lopsided daisies cookies to bake off.
They won’t take long, so I put the finishing touches on the soup, set the bread aside to cool, and whip up a simple frosting.
I don’t bother dyeing it, but I do pull out a container of sprinkles.
Because everything’s better with sprinkles.
My lips twitch and I wonder if Thorn would agree…or what he’d do if I presented him with a sprinkle-covered daisy-shaped cookie.
Would he just scowl at it?
Or would he eat it?
And…would he like it?
“Enough,” I groan as I set the bowl of frosting aside, grabbing the cookies out and putting in the last tray to bake.
I slice the bread, dish up my soup, and when the timer goes, I pull out the last sheet of cookies.
Then I eat with my friends Princess Buttercup and Westley—and best of all—Inigo Montoya.
After justice has been served and true love saved, I decorate the cookies.
And though I’m telling myself it’s not for him, I pick the best daisy and decorate it to perfection…including using tweezers to place the sprinkles.
“Dumb,” I whisper as I bag it up.
But dumb or not, I still place it carefully aside as I finish off the rest of the cookies, clean up, and retire to the couch. I’m not feeling another movie, so I grab my kindle and see about getting lost in a different fictional world.
Alas, it doesn’t help that the hero is tall and broad with a thick brown beard, a soft Scottish accent, and a penchant for well-fitting suits.
Ugh.
I flop back on the couch, stare up at the ceiling. “I am so totally messed up,” I inform it.
Unfortunately, the ceiling offers no useful feedback in return.
With a sigh, I flop to my side.
Thankfully, my phone buzzes and I seize the distraction, snagging it from the table and looking at the screen.
Briar’s name on the front makes me smile.
Her message even more so.
brIAR: Look what I did!
The picture beneath shows a loaf of bread. It’s slightly misshapen and maybe a bit burned in spots, but my heart still squeezes with happiness.
RIVER: The looks awesome, sweetheart. Great job!
brIAR: Definitely far from awesome, but it smells edible.
I laugh then type out,
RIVER: Maybe find out if it tastes edible too, honey.
brIAR: Planning on it.
She sends a picture of a knife and a bowl of whipped honey.
My lips twitch and I roll back over to my back again, waiting for her to reply.
As I do, there’s a loud thunk out in the hall, one that has me jumping, my pulse speeding, my lungs seizing. I freeze, falling silent as I wait, every muscle tense. But there are no further sounds and the resultant silence settles in around me, the quiet becoming heavy and stifling.
My gaze drifts automatically toward the locks on the door.
Deadbolt engaged.
The chain in place.
A sturdy wooden chair tucked under the knob.
Old habits.
Open this fucking door right now, you stupid bitch!
I jerk at the sound of Preston’s voice in my head, but as hard as I try to force the memory away…it lingers.
And God, I hate how easily that fear still lives inside my body.
It’s over.
I’m safe.
So why do I keep double-checking locks and searching the shadows for monsters?
Groaning, I cover my face with both hands.
I need hobbies.
Preferably hobbies that don’t involve thinking about my ex or mentally casting emotionally unavailable businessmen as fantasy romance heroes.
My stare lands on my kindle, slides to the stack of books on the coffee table, to my full bookcase of pretties tucked against the far wall.
Books have always been safer.
Romantasy novels end happily. The heroes protect people, the main characters overcome seemingly insurmountable odds, the women are badass and take on the world.
Real life—
I cut the thought off sharply.
No.
I’m not doing that again tonight. Or ever.
I’m not a heroine who can wield magic or a sword. Thorn isn’t a dashing knight who’ll be steadfast by my side.
Fiction is all I’ll ever have.
And that’s enough.
“Is it though?” I whisper to the room.
Which—spoiler alert—doesn’t answer.
Luckily, though, Briar does.
And when she tells me she somehow swapped salt for sugar, I laugh so hard that I forget about the past and the very confusing future.
But I still don’t manage to forget about the look in Thorn’s eyes.