Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Trudy
I woke to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and the weight of a man’s arm draped across my waist.
Stephen.
The memories of last night came flooding back. His mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the way he’d made me come apart on my sofa. Heat flooded my cheeks even as something deeper, something more dangerous, twisted in my chest.
God, you’re an idiot.
There he was, sleeping like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just turned my entire world upside down. Seventy-two years old with gray in his beard and lines around his eyes that deepened when he smiled that cocky, knowing smile that had been my undoing.
And I’d fallen for it. Just like I’d fallen for Harold’s charm, his intensity, the way he made me feel like the only woman in the room. Just like I’d ignored every red flag, every warning sign, every rational thought screaming at me to keep my distance.
You never learn, do you, Trudy?
This was exactly what I’d sworn I wouldn’t do again. Jump in with both feet. Let attraction override common sense. Convince myself that this time would be different, that he would be different. That a man like Stephen Hartley would somehow be the exception to every mistake I’d ever made.
But no. Here I was, naked in my own bed, having just given him access to places I’d kept locked away for years, and already spiraling into the same pattern of self-sabotage and denial.
You’re predictable. You’re foolish. You’re exactly the kind of woman who deserves to get her heart broken.
The worst part? I knew it. I could see it happening in real time and I couldn’t stop it.
And yet.
And yet.
There were moments that reminded me of Terry.
The way Stephen had wrapped his arm around my waist at the bakery when Harold and Edith walked in, claiming me without hesitation.
“We’re together,” he’d said, so casually, so confidently, saving me from the humiliation of admitting I’d be attending their anniversary party alone, if I attended at all.
Terry would have done that. Terry had done things like that—quiet acts of protection that made me feel safe.
But what I felt for Stephen wasn’t quiet.
It wasn’t safe.
It burned.
Terry had loved me steadily, reliably, for decades.
He’d been my partner, my companion, the man who held my hand through raising Judith and building a life together.
I’d loved him. I had. But it had been...
comfortable. Peaceful. The kind of love that settled into your bones like warm tea on a cold morning.
What I felt for Stephen was raw whiskey.
It burned its way through me, left my throat raw and my chest on fire. It made me feel alive in a way that was almost painful and impossible to ignore. The kind of heat that demanded everything, that wouldn’t let you hide or pretend or settle for less than surrender.
And the guilt was eating me alive.
Because I’d never felt this way about Terry. Not once in all our years together. I’d never ached for him the way I ached for Stephen. Never felt my pulse race when he walked into a room. Never wanted to crawl out of my own skin just to get closer to him.
What kind of woman does that make you, Trudy? What kind of wife were you if you can feel more for a man you’ve known six months than you felt for your husband of twenty-four years?
Terry had deserved better than that. He’d deserved a wife who burned for him the way I burned for Stephen. And instead, he’d gotten... me. Steady, practical Trudy who’d loved him in the only way she knew how.
But it hadn’t been this.
It had never been this.
Stephen shifted beside me, his arm tightening around my waist, and I froze. His eyes opened slowly, focusing on my face. Before I could prepare myself, before I could build my walls back up, he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t a good morning kiss or a show of casual affection. It was hungry and deliberate, his hand coming up to cup the back of my head, pulling me closer as his mouth claimed mine with an intensity that stole my breath.
My hands found his chest without my permission, fingers splaying against warm skin and hard muscle. I wanted to push him away. Desperate to maintain some semblance of control, of distance, of self-preservation.
Instead, I pulled him closer.
The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against mine, and I felt that familiar heat ignite low in my belly. This was what I’d been spiraling about, this inability to resist him, this feeling of being consumed by something so much bigger than myself.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing hard. His eyes were dark, satisfied, and when that familiar grin spread across his lips, I felt my heart clench.
“Morning, darlin’.”
“Morning,” I managed, my voice rougher than I intended.
He studied me for a long moment, his expression shifting from satisfied to concerned. “You okay?”
No. I’m terrified. I’m wondering if I just made the biggest mistake of my life.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Trudy—”
“I need to get ready for work.” I pulled away from him, sliding out of bed and grabbing my robe from the chair. “The bakery opens at six.”
He sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist, and I forced myself not to look at his bare chest. Refused to remember how it felt beneath my fingertips.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle but insistent.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Bullshit.”
I tied the robe tightly around my waist, armor against the vulnerability threatening to swallow me whole. “I said I’m fine, Stephen.”
He watched me for another moment, then swung his legs out of bed. “All right. Then I’m coming with you.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’m coming with you,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. Because Stephen Hartley didn’t take no for an answer.
And I didn’t know if that made me feel better or worse.
We dressed in silence, the easy intimacy of last night replaced by something heavier, more complicated. I caught him watching me in the mirror as I brushed my hair, his expression unreadable.
What was he thinking? Did he regret knocking on my door? Was he already planning his exit?
“Trudy.”
I turned to find him standing in the doorway, fully dressed, his leather jacket slung over one arm.
“Yeah?”
“Whatever’s going on in that head of yours,” he said quietly, “we’re gonna talk about it tonight. Right now, I’m following you to work, and we’re gonna pretend everything’s normal.”
“Everything is normal.”
“Sure it is, darlin’.” He crossed the room, cupped my face in his hands, and kissed me—slow and deep and devastating. When he pulled back, I was breathless. “Let’s go.”
The drive to the bakery was torture. Stephen followed on his motorcycle, the rumble of the engine a constant reminder of his presence. Of what we’d done. Of what I’d let happen.
Pati was already inside when I unlocked the door, her eyes widening when she saw Stephen walk in behind me.
“Morning, Nana,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. Then, to Stephen: “Morning, Popeye.”
“Morning, Pati.” He grinned at her, then turned to me, wrapped his hand around the back of my neck, and kissed me.
Not a peck. Not a quick goodbye.
A full, claiming, possessive kiss that left no doubt about what had happened between us.
When he finally pulled back, I was flushed and flustered and completely undone. Pati was grinning like the cat who’d caught the canary.
“I need to work,” I said, my voice shaky.
“I know.” Stephen’s thumb brushed my jaw. “I’ll be right here.”
“You’re staying?” I asked absently.
“I am.”
Pati handed him a cup of black coffee and a bear claw, and I watched as he walked to the window table. The same table he’d been sitting at for six months. The same table where Grace and Karlyn had been sitting just before the Death Dogs came through that door.
The same table where everything changed.
He settled into the chair, pulled out the leather-bound journal, and opened it.
And just like that, I was forgotten.
The morning rush came and went. I served customers, made small talk, refilled coffee pots. Pati worked the kitchen, shooting me knowing looks every time I walked back there to restock the display case.
But my attention kept drifting back to Stephen.
He sat at that table for hours, his focus entirely on the journal. Sometimes his jaw would tighten. Sometimes his hand would curl into a fist. Once, I saw him close his eyes and take a deep, shuddering breath that made my own breath catch in my throat.
What is in that journal?
The question gnawed at me, but it wasn’t about curiosity or suspicion; it was about concern.
Because whatever was written on those pages was hurting him.
I could see it in the way his jaw tightened as he read, the way his shoulders carried tension that hadn’t been there when he’d kissed me this morning.
The way his hand would curl into a fist on the table, knuckles white, before he’d force himself to relax and turn another page.
Each gesture was a small act of violence against himself, a physical manifestation of whatever pain those words were inflicting.
My heart began to pound in a way that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with the desperate need to fix something I couldn’t even see.
I wanted to go to him. Wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, ask if he was okay, offer him...
what? Comfort? Understanding? I didn’t even know what he needed.
My hands trembled as I wiped down the espresso machine, my movements jerky and distracted.
A customer asked me a question twice before I heard them.
My chest felt tight, constricted, like I couldn’t quite draw a full breath.
Whatever was in that journal was private, personal. I wasn’t entitled to that information simply because we’d spent the night together. I knew that. Understood it intellectually.
And I respected that.
I did.
That didn’t stop me from worrying about him. Didn’t stop the ache that bloomed in my chest every time I caught sight of him hunched over those pages, lost in whatever darkness they contained.
I watched him close his eyes again, his hand coming up to rub his face.
The gesture was weary, defeated in a way I’d never seen from him before.
Stephen Hartley was confidence and charm and cocky grins.
He was the man who’d walked into my bakery six months ago and decided I was worth pursuing, worth the excessive tips and the crass flirtation and the relentless presence.
The man who’d made me feel alive in ways I’d thought were long dead.
This man, the one sitting at the table by the window with grief etched into every line of his face, was someone different.
Someone vulnerable. Someone carrying a weight I couldn’t see but could feel radiating off him in waves.
And seeing him like this, broken and hurting and unreachable, made something inside me crack open.
And that terrified me. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because I cared about him more than I’d admitted to myself until this moment.
Because seeing him hurt made my chest ache in a way I hadn’t felt in decades.
This wasn’t the comfortable, steady ache of losing Terry.
This was sharp and immediate and all-consuming.
This was the kind of caring that could destroy me if I let it.
I wanted to take that pain away. Wanted to cross the room and wrap my arms around him and tell him he didn’t have to carry it alone. But I also knew that some things couldn’t be fixed with words or gestures or even love.
Some things just had to be endured.
So I stayed behind the counter, serving customers and refilling coffee, my movements automatic while my mind spiraled.
I smiled when I needed to smile, made change with shaking hands, and all the while I watched him read.
Watched him hurt. Watched him carry whatever burden those pages held.
Each moment felt like a small eternity, each second stretching out as I waited for him to look up, to acknowledge me, to give me some sign that I mattered more than whatever secrets were written on those pages.
And I waited.
Because when he was ready—if he was ready—I’d be here.
He looked up then, as if he could feel my gaze, and our eyes met across the bakery.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The connection was electric, immediate—his dark eyes finding mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.
In that single moment, I saw everything: his pain, his struggle, his need.
And I saw something else too. Something that looked like recognition.
Like he was seeing me, really seeing me, and understanding exactly what I was feeling.
My heart hammered against my ribs. My hands gripped the edge of the counter to keep from shaking. This was it. This was the moment where I had to decide if I was brave enough to let him matter this much. If I was willing to risk the kind of heartbreak that could shatter me completely.
Then his gaze dropped back to the journal. His hand moved to the next page, turning it slowly.
And whatever was written there, whatever words were waiting on that page, hit him like a physical blow.
His entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle working beneath his skin. The color drained from his face, replaced by something darker. Something that looked like rage. Or grief. Or both.
For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the page, his breathing shallow and controlled in a way that terrified me more than any outburst could have.
Then he closed the book.
The sound was sharp. Final. Like a door slamming shut.
He stood up slowly, deliberately, his movements stiff and mechanical. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me at all. His eyes were fixed on some distant point beyond the bakery walls, somewhere I couldn’t follow.
He walked toward the door, the journal clutched against his chest like a weapon.
And he left.
No goodbye. No explanation. No glance back in my direction.
Just gone.
I stood there behind the counter, my heart still racing, my breath still caught in my throat, staring at the empty chair by the window. The coffee cup sat abandoned on the table, still half-full. The bear claw Pati had given him lay untouched on the plate.
I realized, with a sickening clarity, that I’d been fooling myself. This wasn’t just attraction or companionship or even the thrill of being pursued by a man who wanted me.
Somewhere between the bear claws and last night, I’d given Stephen Hartley my heart. And now he’d walked out the door with it, leaving me standing alone behind the counter with nothing but questions and the terrible, aching knowledge that whatever was in that journal had just changed everything.
And I had no idea what it was.
Or if he’d ever come back.