Chapter 17 #2
And admitted the secret torment he combats every minute of every day.
My stiffened spine softens. “Hunter . . . why do you care if I go out with him again?” I repeat more quietly.
His gaze is unwavering. He’s silent for so long I think he’s going to ignore me. Then, quiet and husky, he says, “You know why.”
Every nerve in my body is attuned to his—to the subtle shift of his stance that brings him close enough that when I inhale sharply, our shirts brush.
My veins feel as though they’ve filled with fire.
His free hand moves at his side, the edges of his fingers slide along mine.
I can barely draw breath. There’s no way he’s unaware of the effect he has on me. But I can’t bring myself to care.
He lifts his hand, it hangs in the air near my face for a moment, and then he hesitantly brushes my forehead, his touch featherlight, and yet I feel it in every nerve in my body. He murmurs, “There’s flour . . .”
Sparks ignite where Hunter’s fingers linger on the skin of my temple and race straight to the depths of my body. He’s so close his warm, minty breath caresses my lips. His gaze drops to my mouth, and everything in me goes taut.
His fingers trail down my face until his thumb grazes my lips. His eyes return to mine. The fire in his gaze steals the breath from my lungs. Almost involuntarily, my mouth parts beneath his touch. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat and—
The sound of a pan banging in the kitchen fractures the haze. We spring apart as if we are caught doing something wrong. In a repeat performance of last night, Hunter’s face shutters as he retreats to the other side of the bakery. Cool air—and reason—swoop back into the sudden space between us.
What was that?
“I should get back to the office.” Hunter won’t meet my eyes.
I rush back behind the safety of the counter on unsteady legs. I hope he doesn’t notice the way my fingers tremble as I ring up his purchase. My heart thumps unevenly in my chest. My skin is still aching for his touch. My lips burn for a kiss that didn’t even happen.
Hunter slides me the corporate credit card, and I silently run it. He signs the receipt, picks up the baked goods . . . but doesn’t turn to go.
When the silence stretches to the breaking point, making my hands slick with nervous sweat, I finally look up and find his eyes on me.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat. “Look, if you tell me that you really like Austin, I’ll back off. But I don’t think you do. And if you go out with him again, I’m afraid you’ll end up regretting it.”
I glare at Hunter, my heart thudding, caught between anger and longing.
“Are you giving me advice on dating someone else after . . . after . . .” I gesture wildly into the air, hoping he understands that my gesticulation encompasses whatever it was that almost happened between us.
“I need you to be honest with me. I need you to stop confusing me and looking at me and—”
“I don’t want you to go out with him,” Hunter cuts in, sharp and raw, “because I want you to go out with me.”
I’m stunned into silence. I’m afraid my mouth might actually be hanging open.
His pupils dilate, and a flicker of disbelief darkens his eyes, like I somehow forced the confession out of him. His voice is as rough as sandpaper when he adds, “But what I said last night is still—”
The kitchen doors swing open right then, and Rebecca hesitantly peeks her head out. “I’m sorry to, uh, interrupt you . . . but there’s someone at the back door asking for Siv, for a sugar delivery?”
Hunter and I stare at each other. A muscle in Hunter’s jaw works, making the striated skin of his scars stand out even more prominently against the tan of his unmarred skin.
“Okay, thank you, Rebecca,” I say without breaking eye contact. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”
But once she’s gone, Hunter merely says, “I . . . I have to go,” and without another word, he turns on his heel and strides out of the bakery, the happy jingle of the bell at complete odds with the tension left in his wake, the air thick with all the things still left unsaid.
I stand behind the counter, Hunter’s admission—and all the questions I now have—swirling through my mind.
But there’s no time to dwell on any of it.
I force myself to walk on trembling legs through the kitchen to the back door, where Randy—Farmor’s sugar supplier—waits with a clipboard, his bushy eyebrows pulled together.
“Hey there, Olivia. Rebecca said Siv is in the hospital?”
I brace myself for another round of having to answer all the questions without letting the emotions hit me.
Once I’ve explained what happened and how little we know, Randy lets out a low whistle. “That’s awful. Wow. I don’t know what to say.” He glances down at his clipboard. “Well . . . I hate to bring up work, but . . . I have your order here.”
“Thanks, let me go get your check.” Even though I do the books, Farmor is ridiculously old school, forcing me to continue using actual ledgers to track the cost of her food shipments, not a computer.
Letting me type up her recipes was one thing, but asking her to use a computer daily was too much of a leap, apparently. “I’ll be right back.”
Randy nods, and I head to Farmor’s office, where we keep the ledgers and checkbook.
My stomach feels like I swallowed rocks, a heavy pit of dread inside me.
I ran the most recent numbers, and though we didn’t take as big of a hit as I thought we did, we’re definitely down for the last two weeks, since Farmor’s stroke and all the closures.
I can pay for the sugar and flour and the other expenses to keep the bakery open—but only if I cut my own check in half.
I swallow down the anxiety as I open the drawer with the checkbook.
As I’m grabbing it, my gaze lands on a small, dark-blue leather-bound book I’ve seen before but have never taken out.
I don’t know why it grabs my attention today, but for some reason, I feel a pull to it I haven’t before.
Even though I know Randy is waiting, I take out the small book and flip it open partway through.
Farmor’s slanting, lovely penmanship fills the pages, but it’s not a ledger—and the words filling the page are written in Swedish.
I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s because I’m so scared of losing her and desperate to feel connected to the woman I so badly wish I could talk to right now.
I open my translating app and quickly take a picture of the page.
Before the app can finish the translation, there’s a knock at the door.
Rebecca pokes her head in. “Everything okay? Randy is wondering if you need help?”
I toss the blue book back in the drawer and slam it shut. “Yep—coming!”
After I pay Randy, Rebecca and I carry the bags of sugar to the storage room, and then she goes back out front.
Once I’m alone, I sit on the chair in Farmor’s office and let myself remember Hunter’s shocking admission—I want you to go out with me—and the heat in his gaze and the way he touched my mouth . . .
A hot shiver slips over my spine. I think I might actually want to go out with him too. I want him to look at me like that and have him touch me and—
But that would mean risking falling for him—the man who told me he doesn’t do scar buddies—and risking letting him fall for me.
He’s already admitted he’s scared, and he would be stupid not to be.
Somehow, I know this man has the power to hurt me deeper than any other before him.
But far worse is knowing that if by some miracle he fell for me, despite my obvious drawbacks, eventually I would hurt him in the cruelest way possible.
I’m confused, aching and longing for a future I know I can’t have. I glance at the photo of Farmor with my dad and grandpa, and my heart sinks even lower.
That’s when I remember the picture I took of her Swedish notes. Hoping for a distraction, I pull my phone back out and open the translation from the blue book.
Warmth spreads through me at the thought of getting this glimpse into Farmor’s life.
Until I start reading.
My veins turn to ice as I stare at the screen of my phone, my body pumping a frigid blast of shock straight to my heart. It must have translated it wrong.
With trembling hands, I swipe back to the original picture and study the Swedish. It clearly is a journal entry, I see that now, even though it’s not dated. I can read a little Swedish and speak quite a bit more than I can read; it’s enough for me to parse out some of what she’s written . . .
And to ascertain that the translation didn’t get it wrong.
My stomach plummets as if I’ve been dropped out of a plane, the ground pulled out from under me so that I’m hurtling through the emptiness where my former reality used to hold firm beneath my feet.
Fairy-tale love really is a myth—even for my grand-parents. Because Farmor lied to me about her marriage.