Chapter 2 #2
Get lost! She typed the words inadequate for the fury and fear churning inside her. This time, she didn’t hesitate, blocking the number with a vicious tap that she wished could somehow transmit through the phone and strike him wherever he was.
But the damage was done. She was wide awake now, adrenaline coursing through her system like poison.
Her sanctuary of a room suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable.
What if he knew where she was? What if he’d been watching?
The rational part of her mind tried to argue that he couldn’t possibly know about the inn, about her life here, but panic didn’t listen to reason.
Isabella threw back the covers and padded to the bathroom, turning on the light and staring at herself in the mirror.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide and frightened.
She looked like a victim, and that made her angry.
She wasn’t that naive twenty-year-old who’d believed his lies anymore.
She was a mother, a chef, a survivor. She’d rebuilt her life from nothing once; she wouldn’t let him tear it down again.
The shower was hot enough to sting, but she needed it, needed to wash away the feeling of contamination his messages had left.
She scrubbed her skin harder than necessary, as if she could scour away the memory of his voice calling her beautiful babe, of his hands that had once touched her with fake tenderness while he plotted to destroy everything she’d worked for.
By the time she stepped out of the shower, her skin was pink and raw, but her hands had stopped shaking.
She dressed quickly in her spare clothes—jeans and a simple white T-shirt that was slightly stained.
Her movements were mechanical, automatic, finding comfort in the routine of pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail, of sliding her feet into the comfortable kitchen sneakers.
The inn was tomb-quiet as she made her way downstairs.
Her footsteps seemed too loud on the old wooden floors, despite her careful tread.
The Christmas lights were still on, casting everything in that soft, dreamlike glow that made the decorated spaces look like something from a movie.
But Isabella barely noticed the beauty around her.
Her mind was already reaching ahead to the kitchen, to the familiar ritual of measuring and mixing, of creating something from nothing.
The kitchen was dark when she entered, but she knew it well enough to navigate without full lights.
She flipped on just the under-cabinet lighting, creating pools of warm illumination over the workspace while leaving the rest of the room in comfortable shadow.
The industrial refrigerator hummed its familiar tune, and the scent of yesterday’s baking still lingered in the air.
She moved to the pantry, gathering ingredients without conscious thought.
Flour, butter, yeast, salt. Simple things that would become something beautiful under her hands.
Croissants, she decided. They required focus, precision, and patience.
The perfect antidote to the chaos in her mind.
The folding of butter into dough, the careful rolling and shaping, would give her hands something to do besides shake and her mind something to focus on besides the words that kept echoing: I’m back in Florida.
As she began measuring flour into a large bowl, Isabella forced herself to take deep breaths.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
The familiar motions of baking began to work their magic, her heart rate slowly returning to normal.
Whatever he wanted, whatever game he was playing, she wouldn’t let him win.
Not this time. She had too much to lose now, too much to protect.
The kitchen embraced her with its warmth and familiarity, and Isabella let herself sink into the comfort of creation, pushing thoughts of the past back into the darkness where they belonged.
The butter had finally reached the perfect temperature, pliable but not soft, and Isabella lost herself in the meditative rhythm of folding it into the dough.
Roll, fold, turn. Roll, fold, turn. Each motion was precise and deliberate, creating the dozens of paper-thin layers that would puff and separate in the oven’s heat.
She’d been at it for nearly an hour, the repetitive motion finally succeeding in quieting the anxious chatter in her mind.
Flour dusted everything within a three-foot radius of her workspace, including, though she didn’t know it, a streak across her left cheek where she’d brushed back a stray hair.
The kitchen had warmed from the preheating oven, and she’d pushed up her sleeves, revealing forearms marked with old burns and cuts that told the story of years spent perfecting her craft.
She reached for the rolling pin again, humming softly under her breath without realizing it, an old Italian song her grandmother used to sing while cooking. The inn was still sleeping around her, peaceful in these pre-dawn hours when the world felt suspended between night and day.
The footsteps behind her registered a second too late.
Her body reacted before her mind could process, months of anxiety and the fresh fear from those text messages triggering pure instinct. She grabbed the nearest knife from the block, an eight-inch chef’s knife, and spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Whoa!” Christopher stood frozen in the doorway, both hands raised, palm out.
His white laundry bag dropped from his grip, hitting the floor with a soft thump.
In the dim light, she could see his eyes wide with surprise, but not fear.
Even with a knife pointed at him, he looked more concerned for her than himself.
Isabella’s breath came in short gasps as recognition flooded through her. Christopher, dressed in gray sweatpants and a Marine Corps t-shirt, his hair still mussed from sleep. The relief hit her so hard her knees almost buckled.
“Sorry!” The word came out higher than normal as she lowered the knife, her face burning with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to... You startled me. I was miles away and...” She gestured vaguely at the croissant dough, as if that explained wielding a knife like some kind of deranged baker.
“I can see that.” His voice was calm, gentle even, as he slowly lowered his hands.
He stepped into the kitchen, moving with the kind of careful awareness she’d noticed in both him and Gabe, like men who’d learned to be conscious of their presence in a space.
“I was looking for the laundry room so I can get these washed before everyone wakes up.” He hiked up his laundry bag.
Isabella set the knife on the counter, her hands still trembling slightly. “I really am sorry. I don’t usually threaten guests with kitchen implements.”
“No harm done.” Christopher moved closer, and she caught the scent of him, soap and something masculine that made her stomach do that fluttering thing again. He glanced at the knife on the counter, then back at her. “Though if you don’t mind some friendly advice?”
She blinked at him, confused.
He put the laundry down and picked up the knife carefully, then held it properly, demonstrating.
“If you’re going to threaten someone with a knife, you need to hold it like this.
” He adjusted his grip, showing her the proper angle.
“And keep it close to your body, not extended. The extension gives them a chance to grab your wrist.”
Isabella stared at him, horrified. “I don’t want to actually stab anyone!”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Hopefully you’ll never need to. But if you’re going to pull a knife, you should know how to use it.” He moved closer, and before she could overthink it, he was placing the knife back in her hand, his fingers adjusting her grip.
The touch sent electricity shooting up her arm. His hands were warm, calloused, and incredibly gentle as they positioned her fingers correctly. He stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, and she had to fight the urge to lean into it.
“There,” he said softly, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. “Now you look properly dangerous.”
A nervous laugh bubbled up from her chest. “Great. Just what every chef aspires to.” She set the knife down quickly, needing to break the spell of his proximity, and took a step away from him. “I hope you weren’t planning to wash your Army fatigues?”
“Marine utilities, or cammies,” he corrected with a grin that said he wasn’t actually offended. “And no, those go to the dry cleaners later. This is just regular clothes. Though after that knife welcome, maybe I should be wearing body armor around you.”
“I really am sorry about that.” Isabella tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, accidentally adding another streak of flour to her face. “It’s been a weird morning.”
“At five-thirty in the morning, I’d say any morning is weird.” His expression grew more serious, studying her with those hazel eyes that seemed to see too much. “Are you okay? You seem a little on edge.”
The concern in his voice nearly undid her. When was the last time someone had asked if she was okay and actually wanted to know the answer? But she couldn’t tell him about the texts. That would mean explaining too much, revealing too much.
“I just couldn’t sleep,” Isabella said instead, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “Baking helps me think.”
He nodded, accepting the half-truth without pushing. “My mom was the same way. When my dad was deployed, I’d find her in the kitchen at all hours, making enough cookies to feed a battalion.”
“Where is she now?” Isabella asked, then immediately regretted the personal question.
“She passed a few years ago.” The sadness in his voice was quiet, settled, like grief that had found its place. “But she would have loved this place. She was a sucker for Christmas decorations and ocean views.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” He picked up his laundry bag from where he’d dropped it. “Could you point me to the laundry room?”
“Oh! Through there,” Isabella pointed to a door on the far side of the kitchen. “Past the pantry, second door on the right.”
“Thanks.” He started to walk away, then paused. “And Isabella? Next time you’re feeling on edge, maybe just double-check who’s behind you before going full ninja.”
Despite everything, she found herself smiling. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“Good. Hate to survive three tours just to get taken out by a chef with excellent taste in knives.” He winked at her, and then he was gone, leaving Isabella standing in the middle of the kitchen with flour-covered hands and a racing heart that had nothing to do with fear this time.
The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet, too empty. She could hear him moving around in the laundry room, the washing machine starting up with a familiar rumble. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. She turned back to her croissants, but the dough didn’t hold her attention the way it had before.