Chapter 7
My alarm goes off at four fifty the next morning—I wasn’t lying when I told Austin I had the early baking shift.
I want to roll over and go back to sleep, but I have no choice except to get up.
The three Karlsson women take turns getting to the bakery first, and if I don’t show up on my days, the bakery will suffer.
More than it already is.
When I throw off my blankets, my dress is still in a crumpled heap on the floor.
The memories from last night rush back, along with a sudden headache.
Ignoring the pain, I grab my robe out of the closet and pull it on.
It’s made of the softest fleecy material with little pink hearts on it and hits me mid-thigh.
Lou has teased me mercilessly about it in the past, saying it’s every eight-year-old girl’s dream robe, but I love it.
It was a gift from Talia when I was living in the hospital.
A bright spot in a sea of dismal gray and hospital blue.
It’s a little worn and battered after all these years, but I’m never getting rid of it.
Plus, it’s obscenely early, so there’s no way either Lou or Hunter is awake to see me.
I slowly make my way downstairs, the carpet soft beneath my toes.
I grab a mug to quickly make some peppermint tea to help wake me up—and hopefully mitigate my headache since I can’t take ibuprofen—but I can’t find the tea bags where I usually keep them.
I’ve searched through every cabinet when I finally find them tucked behind boxes of unfamiliar, super--healthy, gross-looking cereal.
“Whose crap is this?” I grumble as I shove the cereal aside to get a tea bag.
“That crap would be mine.”
I scream and whirl, chucking the tea bag. My aim is spectacular—it bounces off Hunter’s chest as effectually as a gnat. “What is wrong with you? Have you ever heard of making noise like a normal person instead of creeping around like a freaking murderer or something?”
“What are you doing awake, banging cupboards at five in the morning in the dark like a freaking psychopath?” he counters, flipping the switch and filling the kitchen with light.
I wince at the onslaught. “I have the extra-early shift at the bakery. And someone moved my tea bags.”
Hunter barely seems to hear me. His gaze is caught partway down my body, his eyebrows raised and lips parted.
I glance down and shriek again, whirling to face the counter.
Not only am I wearing my small, fluffy, covered-in-hearts, worse--for-wear robe, but it’s not high enough to cover my scarred sternum, which means Hunter can see half of my chest. “I, ah, what was the question?”
“I didn’t ask you a question.” I yank my robe to my collarbones, hiding the ruined skin and blushing furiously, but thankfully, he can’t tell from the back of my head.
He clears his throat. “Okay . . . well . . . I’m going to go for a run.”
“Great.”
“Yep.”
“Okay.”
There’s a pause of silence, but I can still sense him standing behind me.
“Nice robe, by the way.”
“Shut up, jerkface.” I hold the edges of the robe in my fist to make sure there are no more scar flashings and turn to face him.
“Jerkface?” He’s barely suppressing a laugh. “What are you, four?”
Admittedly, it’s not one of my better comebacks. But it is five freaking a.m.
Our gazes meet. A charged silence fills the kitchen with an invisible current.
A wave of awareness skates across my skin.
The tiny hairs on my arms stand on end. It reminds me of when he grabbed me last night—which also reminds me of how angry I am with him.
He has no right to stand there all sleep-mussed, a hint of stubble shadowing the unburned edges of his jaw, his muscles looking far too muscly in his gray tech shirt and black Nike shorts.
“You owe me an apology,” I blurt.
“Excuse me?” His eyes narrow; the current goes cold.
“For last night.”
Hunter crosses his arms over his chest. I’m very sure if I ran my hands up his biceps, they’d be even bigger than Austin’s.
Stupid muscles.
“I didn’t do anything that requires an apology.”
All thoughts of his muscles flee. I’m about to tell him exactly how many things he did that very much warrant apologies when the kettle I put on the stove begins to whistle behind me. “You know you did, so don’t act all innocent and dumb.”
“I’ve never claimed to be innocent, but did you just call me dumb?”
I shrug.
Hunter barks a laugh. “If you don’t like how I acted last night, then maybe you shouldn’t date scumbags.”
“I’ve been on one date with the guy.” I level a glare sharp enough to cut glass at him. “What did he do that warrants an accusation like that? Besides being interesting, funny, and generous enough to pay for you—even after you were nothing but rude?”
A tendon tics in Hunter’s jaw. “I told you, I know guys like him. You are a challenge to him—nothing more.”
I feel like the kettle that is now shrieking angrily behind me, my blood boiling hotter and hotter until I might erupt. “Noted, roomie. And filed right next to when you said we’d never be scar buddies or anything else. Which was when you lost the right to weigh in on my love life.”
“Fine with me.”
“I think you better go for that run now,” I bite out.
“Great idea.” Hunter whirls on his heel. “Next time you’re up at five, try not to be so loud. You woke me up even though I live next door,” he calls in a half shout as he storms away, his back tensed beneath his straining T-shirt.
I grab the kettle handle and move it off the burner.
My hands shake so badly I nearly spill the boiling water trying to pour it into my mug.
I don’t take time to add honey or any other sweeteners to my tea, refusing to run the risk of seeing Hunter again.
Instead, I rush back to my room so I can get ready and leave for the bakery as quickly as possible.
But when I’m halfway through changing, my phone dings with a text from Lou.
Is a freakishly early-morning fight going to be a daily thing for you two?
I sigh. I really wish it were a gym day. I have a lot of steam to burn off. But I’ll have to settle for kneading dough—and try extra hard not to ruin today’s orders.
Only when I begin the morning baking do I remember Farmor asking me to give Hunter a second chance because they want to use his supposed marketing genius to help us at the bakery.
But wasn’t that what I did last night? Offered him the chance to be a normal, decent human?
And he was the one who was a jerk—again.
I take way too much anger out on the dough I’m kneading, and it ends up overworked. I can only hope no one notices the decline in quality for the batch of kanelbullar for the day.
I do my best to avoid my mom when she arrives at seven, sticking AirPods in as I bake, claiming I’m listening to a really fascinating audiobook when really it’s a variety of angry music.
Around eleven, I get a text from Austin, telling me he had so much fun on our “fake date” he wants to take me on a real one—that he gets to plan—and asks if I’m free tomorrow night.
I stare at the screen for far too long before I set it aside without responding.
When I think of going out with Austin again, I feel unaccountably nervous.
And it’s Hunter’s warnings, not Talia’s, that are echoing through my mind.
I hate that Hunter’s voice is somehow in my head at all. That his words are making me hesitate. The fact that he somehow got under my skin makes me itchy and hot, as if my T-shirt is suddenly suffocating me.
I turn up my music even louder, and it almost works to distract me from my tumultuous thoughts—until Farmor shows up half an hour later and taps me on the shoulder while I’m doing dishes.
I pull out one AirPod with soapy fingertips.
“Finish up that cookie sheet and join me in my office, please?” It’s not really a request, even though she framed it as a question.
A wave of anxiety breaks over my body, a swoop of heat, like I’m on a roller coaster in a sauna, followed by a clammy coldness.
I quickly set the clean cookie sheet in the drying rack and grab a paper towel for my hands.
Did I do something wrong when I was balancing our business account and finishing payroll yesterday?
Did we get more bad news on the ever-increasing cost of ingredients?
But when I walk into her office, Farmor doesn’t look -worried—she’s actually quite calm, leaning back in her large leather chair that was once my grandpa’s.
Her hair is pulled up into an elegant white coif; her crystalline blue eyes are bright.
She even smiles, the well-worn creases lining her mouth crinkling. “Have a seat.”
As I drag a folding chair closer to her desk, I hear voices—-my mom’s familiar tones and a deeper male voice. One that makes my stomach twist, a coil of tension tightening like a violin string pulled too taut.
“I’m happy to come up with some ideas. There’s always an angle to bring new life into a struggling business, if you’re willing to think outside the box,” Hunter is saying as they walk through the door into Farmor’s office.
“I hope you’re right, young man,” Farmor says, standing to greet him. “Because we definitely need to breathe new life into this place if we’re going to survive long-term.”
Hunter smiles at both of them, which makes me scowl. Maybe I should have told my mom exactly how awful he was last night instead of my avoiding her all morning. I wasn’t expecting them to meet with him this fast.
I stay firmly planted on the hard, metal chair, arms crossed over my chest as he steps into the office.
It’s not a big room to begin with, and with all four of us in it, I’m suddenly claustrophobic.
With his broad shoulders, tapered hips, and muscled thighs (visible through yet another pair of designer pants tailored to fit him as perfectly as if our bakery is a stop on the way to a red-carpet event), Hunter takes up far more space than is humanly possible for one person.