Chapter Three
Dating Is a Trap
Holly
I don’t think about Daniel Reed for the rest of the day.
Not once. Not while I’m kneading dough. Not while I’m boxing lemon bars.
Not while I’m scraping dried batter off the side of the mixer he temporarily resurrected like some stupidly attractive bakery necromancer.
And definitely not while I’m lying facedown on my bed at eleven o’clock that night, groaning into my pillow because my entire apartment smells faintly like cedar, sawdust, and bad decisions.
That is not Daniel’s fault. Probably.
Maybe he left his scent on my apron. Maybe my traitorous wolf has decided to replay every second of him standing in my kitchen with his hands full of tools and his eyes full of restraint.
Disgusting.
Men should not be allowed to be hot and respectful. It’s confusing. It ruins a perfectly good spiral.
My wolf stretches beneath my skin, smug and warm. Mate.
“No,” I mumble into the pillow.
She thumps her tail.
“No. Absolutely not. We talked about this.”
We did not talk about this.
Mostly because talking to my wolf out loud makes me sound one bad day away from being adopted by the town’s weird crystal lady, and I already have enough problems. I own a bakery.
Daniel’s prayers are holding together my mixer and what I’m pretty sure was a piece of copper wire.
I have bills stacked on my little kitchen table like a tiny paper mountain of doom.
I don’t have time for a mate. More importantly, I don’t have trust for one. The last time fate handed me a mate, he handed me my heart back in pieces. No, thank you.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My apartment is above the bakery, small but mine. One bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in. The living room has a secondhand couch that sags in the middle like it has given up on love, life, and lumbar support.
It’s not fancy. It’s absolutely not impressive. But the lock works, the rent is paid, and no one can walk in unless I let them.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I know who it is before I even look because apparently the universe has become predictable in its torment.
Maisie: Soooooo.
I stare at the message. Nothing good has ever followed that many o’s.
Me: No.
Maisie: I didn’t ask anything.
Me: Your punctuation did.
Maisie: He called the bakery after you went upstairs.
I sit up so fast my blanket falls to my waist, and my heart does something embarrassing I’m not willing to think about right now.
Me: Why?
Maisie: To give you an update on mixer parts.
Me: That is normal business communication.
Maisie: He also asked what time you take lunch tomorrow.
I stare at the screen while my wolf sits up inside me like someone just rang a dinner bell. Absolutely. Fucking. Not.
Me: Why?
Maisie: I believe this is what scholars refer to as “asking you out.”
Me: Gross.
I don’t care. I’m indifferent. Unmoved. A stone wall wearing pajamas and moisturizing lip balm.
My phone buzzes again.
Maisie: He said he can bring the estimate and lunch. He asked what you like.
Me: Poison.
Maisie: I told him chicken salad.
Me: You’re fired.
Maisie: You can’t fire me. I know where you hide the good chocolate.
Me: That is blackmail.
Maisie: That is friendship.
I toss the phone onto the bed and fall backward. My ceiling remains unhelpful.
The problem is not that Daniel asked what I like. The problem is that he asked Maisie. He did not corner me. Did not assume. Did not push his number into my hand and grin as if I owed him attention. He went through the safest person near me and asked a question that gave me room to say no.
Thoughtful bastard.
That is much harder to hate than arrogance.
I cover my face with both hands and groan.
Mate.
“Stop saying that,” I tell my wolf.
She does not, of course she does not. She’s a fluffy menace with no respect for trauma or business hours.
Sleep eventually takes me, but it’s not restful. I dream of hands. Strong hands streaked with grease. Hands fixing broken things. Hands holding themselves still instead of reaching. A warm voice saying, “No. But that simple.”
When I wake before dawn, I hate him a little more, mostly because I’m well-rested.
By five, I’m downstairs in the bakery pretending everything is normal.
It is not. The mixer works, and that alone is suspicious.
It chugs along, grumbling like an old man denied a chair, but it works.
Dough folds and stretches beneath the hook, soft and glossy, and I try very hard not to think about Daniel’s hands inside the machine.
That sounds worse than I mean it ... probably.
Maisie arrives at six with two coffees, a grin, and the energy of a woman who lives to see me suffer. “I brought peace offerings,” she says.
“Unless one of those cups contains the blood of my enemies, I’m not interested.”
“Vanilla latte.”
“Fine. One enemy may live.”
She places the cup beside me and leans against the prep table. “So.”
I point at her. “Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I’m excited.” She does a little bounce on the balls of her feet.
“I can tell. It’s upsetting.”
“He asked about lunch.”
“I heard.”
“And?”
“And he can bring the estimate.”
“And lunch?”
“I’m an independent woman who can feed myself.”
“You ate frosting with a spoon for dinner last week.”
“That was self-care.” I defend my dinner choices vehemently.
“That was a cry for help.”
I ignore her because she’s correct, and correctness is unattractive in an employee.
****
The morning rush comes hard and fast, which is good because it leaves no room for thoughts. Thoughts are dangerous. Thoughts lead to feelings. Feelings lead to choices. Choices lead to men with tool belts sitting across from you while your wolf tries to throw rose petals at his feet.
Instead, I sell pastries, steam milk, refill the display case, and scold Patricia the oven when she starts running hotter than usual. By ten, my feet ache. By eleven, the rush has thinned to a steady trickle. By eleven twenty, I begin watching the door. By eleven thirty, I hate myself.
At eleven forty-two, the bell jingles, and my body knows before I look. The bond lifts its head, and my wolf finally goes still.
Daniel steps inside carrying a brown paper bag, a folder, and a small bouquet of flowers.
I blink. No. Not flowers. That is not allowed.
That is too much and not enough, and my chest does a stupid little squeeze that makes me want to throw a croissant at him.
He looks different today. Still in work boots and jeans, still broad and unfairly solid, but his dark blond hair is damp like he showered before coming here. His t-shirt is clean, stretched across his shoulders in a personally offensive way. The flowers look ridiculous in his big hand.
Soft purple asters, yellow daisies, and tiny white blooms tucked between them. Not roses.
Thank Goddess. Roses would have been too much. Roses are romance with an agenda. But these look like he stopped and thought about color. Dangerous, very dangerous.
Maisie makes a sound behind me that I choose to pretend is a cough and not the dying squeal of a woman delighted by my downfall.
Daniel’s eyes find mine and the bakery tilts. It is less violent than yesterday, but somehow worse. Yesterday was shock. Today is anticipation. Today I know what his scent does to me. I know what his voice does. I know he can make me laugh when I’m trying to be unlikable.
Another unforgivable quality he possesses.
He stops on the customer side of the counter and holds up the folder. “Estimate.” Then the bag. “Lunch.” Then the flowers, expression suddenly uncertain. “And these. Which might have been a mistake.”
“Why?”
“Because the woman at the flower cart asked what message I wanted to send, and I panicked.”
I stare at him. “You panicked?”
“I said, ‘Please don’t run away, I brought carbohydrates.’”
A laugh bursts out of Maisie, and I close my eyes. “Please tell me she didn’t put that on a card.”
Daniel winces. Oh no. I snatch the bouquet from him and find the tiny card tucked between the stems.
Please don’t run away. I brought carbohydrates.
I read it once. Then again. Then I start laughing.
Not a small laugh this time. Not the rusty little slip from yesterday. A real laugh. A helpless, ridiculous, hand-over-my-mouth laugh that bends me slightly at the waist while Daniel watches me like he has forgotten he’s supposed to breathe.
Maisie clutches her chest. “That is the most romantic thing I have ever seen.”
“It’s not romantic,” I say, still laughing. “It’s deeply stupid.”
Daniel nods. “Absolutely.”
“And weird.”
“Also true.”
“And possibly the most honest card anyone has ever given me.”
His smile softens. “Then I’ll take it.”
I should not like that, but I do. I like it enough that my chest hurts.
He’s so damn annoying.
I clear my throat and set the flowers on the counter, pretending they have not immediately improved the entire bakery. “They’re not terrible,” I say.
“I’ll aim for that on all future dates.”
The word lands between us. Dates. Maisie suddenly develops a compelling urge to reorganize the napkins at the far end of the counter.
Coward.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “This isn’t a date.”
Daniel’s brow lifts. “No?”
“This is lunch with paperwork.”
“Romantic paperwork?”
“Expensive paperwork.”
He nods solemnly. “My favorite kind.”
I take the folder from him and open it because looking at numbers is safer than looking at his mouth. It’s not safe. The estimate makes me wheeze.
“Is the mixer lined with gold?”
“Not unless Patricia has been hiding secrets.”
I glare. “Don’t drag Patricia into this.”
“You’re right. She’s innocent.”
“This is a lot.”
“I know.”
I scan the parts list again, my stomach sinking. “Can it wait?”
His expression shifts, humor fading. “A little. Not long.”
“Define little.”
“A week. Maybe two if you’re careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
From the back, Maisie coughs, “Freezer.”
“Employees are so replaceable,” I call.
Daniel’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay serious. “I can do the labor cheaper.”
I stiffen. “No.”
“Holly...”