Chapter Four #2
I pick up the bag and attempt a swirl. It comes out looking like a sad pink mountain after a landslide, and Holly goes perfectly still.
I frown. “That seems wrong.” She makes a tiny sound, and I look at her. “Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m grieving.”
“For the cupcake?”
“For your dignity.”
I look down again. “Can I eat the evidence?”
“No. It goes in the ugly pile.”
“There’s an ugly pile?”
“There is now.”
She takes the bag from me, her fingers brushing mine again. The spark jumps between us, hot and immediate. Not as fierce as the alley, but enough. Enough to make her breath hitch. Enough to make my chest tighten. Enough to remind us both that this lightness sits on top of something wild.
Her smile fades, and I take one slow step back. Not because I want to, but because she needs me to. Her eyes track the movement. There it is again, that look, like she expected me to move forward and does not know what to do when I don’t.
I hate him. I don’t know his name, but I hate him. I hate the man who taught her to brace for being cornered. I hate the man who made my patience feel like a miracle instead of the bare minimum she deserves.
Holly turns back to the cupcakes, clearing her throat. “You can box the finished ones.”
“I can do that.”
“Try not to injure them.”
“I make no promises.”
For the next hour, we work. I box cupcakes, label orders, carry flour sacks, and reach everything on the top shelves because apparently Holly has been climbing onto counters like a feral raccoon instead of buying a step stool.
“I have a step stool,” she says when I mention it.
“Where?”
“Storage room.”
“Why don’t you use it?”
“It offended me.”
“How?”
“It wobbled.”
“So you climb counters?”
“They don’t wobble.”
“They absolutely do when you climb them.”
“You’re very judgmental for a man who can’t frost a cupcake.”
“I’m still healing from that.”
She snorts, and the sound wraps around me like sunlight.
****
By nine, the bakery is quiet except for the hum of refrigeration and the soft clatter of pans. Maisie left hours ago, not before giving me a look so pointed it should count as a weapon.
Holly rolls her shoulders and winces. I notice, and she notices me noticing.
“No,” she says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something helpful.”
“That is a terrible accusation.”
“You were going to offer a shoulder massage.”
“I was going to ask if your shoulders hurt.”
“Same thing with more steps.”
I lean back against the counter. “Would you say no?”
Her lips part, and the air changes again.
Damn it.
Her gaze drops to my hands, and my fingers flex before I can stop them. I’m suddenly very aware of how close we are. Of the silence. Of the door locked against the rest of town. Of the flour on her throat, just above the flutter of her pulse.
Holly swallows. “I should,” she whispers.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her eyes lift to mine. There’s fear there, but not only fear, but also want too. The want is worse.
My wolf presses forward, lower this time. Quieter. Not demanding. Waiting.
I keep my voice even. “You can say no, Holly.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Her breath catches. The question sits between us, heavier than I intend. For a second, she looks away, jaw tight, and I know I have touched something bruised.
Then she looks back. “I’m learning,” she says.
I nod once. “Then learn with this. Do you want me to rub your shoulders?”
A faint flush climbs her cheeks. “Yes.”
One word. Soft and clear.
I move slowly, giving her plenty of time to change her mind. She turns around and braces her hands on the counter, her spine straight, body tense. I step behind her but leave an inch of space between us.
I place my hands on her shoulders, and she stiffens. So do I.
The bond flares at the contact, a deep, glowing pull that slides beneath my skin and straight into my blood. Her heat seeps into my palms. Her scent rises around me, sugar and woman and wolf, and I have to close my eyes for a second to keep my head.
“Okay?” I ask.
Her voice is strained. “Yes.”
I press my thumbs into the tight muscles at the base of her neck, and she groans. The sound nearly drops me. It’s not sexual. Except it is. It’s also tired and relieved and painfully human, and that makes it worse.
“Daniel,” she breathes.
My cock hardens instantly. I grit my teeth and focus on her shoulders. Safe. Respectful. Shoulder muscles. Nothing else.
“You’re tense,” I say, because apparently I enjoy stating the obvious.
“I own a bakery and recently discovered fate still has my address.”
“Fair.”
My thumbs work slow circles into her muscles, and bit by bit, she relaxes under my hands. Not fully. Holly does not seem like a woman who knows how to be fully unguarded. But she softens. Trusts me with a fraction of her weight, and it feels like an honor.
“You have good hands,” she says softly, and my control slips a notch.
“I’ve been told.”
Her head turns slightly. “By who?”
The bite in her tone is small. Adorable but dangerous.
I lean closer before I think better of it, my mouth near her ear but not touching. “Jealous?”
She scoffs. “Of course not.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Because there’s no one to be jealous of.”
Her breathing changes. Mine does too. The inch between us disappears somehow. Her back brushes my chest. Barely. Just a whisper of contact. It still feels like being struck.
Her scent sweetens, and I freeze. “Holly.”
“I know,” she whispers.
“We should stop.” My voice is a low rumble.
“I know.” But neither of us stops.
Her hands tighten on the counter. My hands still on her shoulders. Her head tips back just enough that her hair brushes my jaw, and the small contact tears a low growl from my chest before I can bury it.
She shivers, not with fear, with desire.
“Daniel,” she says again.
This time, my name sounds different. Like a question. Like permission. Like trouble.
I turn her slowly, carefully, giving her every chance to push me away. She does not.