Chapter 22 #2
Mo’nique swept in on a breeze of warm morning air and her signature perfume—something with notes of vanilla and jasmine that always made me think of summer evenings.
Her collection of silver bracelets chimed a little concert as she beelined for the counter with the purposeful stride of a woman on a mission.
“Morning, sugar. I need a two dozen mix-and-match for the festival committee meeting. Put it on my tab, and don’t you dare argue with me about it. ”
“You’re going to bankrupt yourself feeding half the town.” But I was already folding two bakery boxes into shape and beginning to fill them from the array of pastries in the display case.
“Honey, I’ll start charging admission for my opinions and commentary—that’ll balance the books real quick.
” She winked, leaning against the counter with the easy confidence of someone who’d never met a room she couldn’t charm.
“Now listen up, because I’ve got two things for you: Delilah says those planters outside your front door are looking sadder than a country song, so she’ll be dropping off fresh basil and zinnias this afternoon.
And more importantly, I’m here to make absolutely certain that you and that handsome husband of yours are planning to show up for movie night. ”
“Already?” I glanced at the tiny calendar taped to the side of the register.
“First Friday of the month, baby, regular as clockwork. Community center, six o’clock sharp.
We’re doing a double feature this time. Something with explosions for the action lovers and something with kissing for the romantics.
And yes, there will be fresh popcorn, and yes, you may absolutely bring contraband cinnamon rolls if you pretend you didn’t hear that suggestion directly from me. ”
The idea of sitting still for two full movies sounded like an impossibility given the current state of my nerves.
The idea of doing it with Bodie’s solid shoulder pressed against mine in the darkness made my pulse jump in a way I absolutely did not want to examine too closely.
“We’ll be there,” I heard myself promise, the words coming out before my brain intervened.
“That’s my girl.” She slid a conspiratorial look toward the little bag by the register, her expression knowing and warm.
“And if that package is what I think it is, you might consider dropping it by the police station after the morning rush settles down. Men who take a punch for someone else’s safety deserve extra icing and a personal delivery. ”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight.
The knot of emotion had nothing to do with sugar and everything to do with the way she’d made it sound so simple, so obvious.
“He said it buys her two days,” I murmured, not entirely sure why I was sharing this particular detail, why it seemed important that someone else understand.
Mo’nique’s mouth thinned into a hard line for just a moment before her expression softened with something that looked like fierce pride.
“Sometimes two days is the difference between going back and getting out for good. Sometimes it’s the difference between surviving and not.
” She reached across the counter and squeezed my wrist once, her rings cool against my skin.
“Your husband’s a good man, Emmaline. Don’t forget that. ”
Then her smile came back—bright, businesslike, the mask of cheerful efficiency sliding back into place. “Alright, I’m gone before I start reorganizing your entire inventory system and you have to put me on payroll.”
“Threat noted and filed appropriately.” I waved her out, the bell chiming its familiar song as the door swung closed behind her retreating figure.
Before the true morning rush hit, I went back to the kitchen to check the lower oven.
The chain at my throat shifted when I bent, the rings warm where they lay against my skin like a brand.
I touched them without meaning to, my fingertips finding the smooth gold bands, and closed my eyes for one stolen heartbeat before sliding the next tray of croissants inside.
Yeast and heat and time—the reliable alchemy that transformed raw dough into something that nourished people, comforted them, brought them together around a table.
These dependable transformations had always made sense to me.
I’d built my entire life around processes I could trust, formulas that worked the same way every single time.
But there was no recipe for this thing growing between Bodie and me.
No instruction manual for navigating the space between a marriage of convenience and whatever this was becoming.
I didn’t have a name for what was happening to my carefully guarded heart, this slow unfurling that felt both terrifying and inevitable.
I only knew it wasn’t nothing anymore. It wasn’t pretend, or practical, or purely transactional.
I wanted more than a contract. I wanted more than separate bedrooms and polite distance and the safety of keeping my heart locked away.
And wanting, I knew from hard-won experience, could be its own particular kind of danger—the kind that left you bleeding on the kitchen floor while someone you’d trusted walked away without looking back.