Chapter 6 Violet
VIOLET
Iwake up on Saturday afternoon feeling more rested than I have in months, which immediately makes me suspicious. Good things don't just happen to me. There's always a catch, always a price to pay later.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet after days of highway noise and the constant hum of anxiety that's been my soundtrack since leaving California.
My stomach growls, a sound so loud it echoes off the walls and reminds me I haven't eaten since Garrick's soup last night. That incredible, soul-warming soup that tasted like someone actually gave a damn about whether I lived or died.
Stop it, Violet. Don't read into kindness. Mark was kind too, at first.
After raiding the kitchen cabinets and fridge, it dawns on me that there's no food in here.
This apartment hasn't been lived in for a while, and I don't even know where the nearest store is.
I'm going to have to venture downstairs at some point.
I've got maybe three granola bars and a bottle of water in my duffel bag.
Not exactly a sustainable meal plan unless I'm planning to become a very sad bear preparing for hibernation.
Finally, I force myself to unlock the door. The narrow stairs creak under my feet as I make my way down to the bakery, and there’s a whir of what might be a mixer. The occasional muttered curse word that would make a sailor blush.
So Garrick's here. On a Saturday late afternoon. Working. Because apparently grumpy bakers don't believe in weekends.
I push the door, and the wave of scents that hits me is almost overwhelming.
Fresh bread, cinnamon, something rich and chocolatey that makes my mouth water instantly.
And underneath it all, that scent that made my omega hindbrain sit up and take notice yesterday.
Coffee and cedar and something indefinably male that my traitorous biology finds far too appealing.
"We're closed," comes Garrick's voice from the kitchen, gruff and unwelcoming.
Well, hello to you too, sunshine.
"I know," I call back, hovering near the door like I might need to make a quick escape. "I was wondering if there was anywhere nearby I could get some food. I don't have a car, obviously, and I don't really know the area."
The sounds from the kitchen stop abruptly, followed by heavy footsteps. Garrick appears in the doorway, flour dusting his dark hair and forearms, wearing an expression that could sour milk and probably has.
"You haven't eaten today?"
“I had some granola bars.”
It’s technically true, if you count eating half of one stale bar as a meal. I planned to eat the other two over the weekend, I have to spend as little as possible until I have some real money.
Right now, I don’t have enough. So I have to forget about doing things as essential as eating.
Besides, I could lose a few pounds, so it’s fine.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But my growling stomach clearly disagrees.
His jaw ticks, and he disappears back into the kitchen without a word. I stand there feeling stupid and intrusive, ready to mumble an apology and slink back upstairs when he reappears with a plate.
"Sit," he orders, setting it down at one of the small tables. "It's past five. You should have come down when I was open."
He has a way of making me feel small all the time. I wonder if he does it on purpose or if it's just his character.
It's a sandwich. Thick slices of what looks like homemade bread filled with roasted turkey, cheese, and vegetables that smell like they came from someone's garden rather than a grocery store.
There are also homemade chips on the side and what looks like a pickle spear.
The man has just constructed what appears to be the Sistine Chapel of sandwiches, and he's glaring at me like I've personally offended his ancestors.
"I can't pay you for this," I say, even as I'm already moving toward the table like my feet have made the decision without consulting my brain.
"Did I ask you to?"
"No, but..."
"Then sit down and eat before you pass out on my floor. I don't need that kind of liability."
His tone is sharp, businesslike, but he made me food. From scratch. The bread is still warm.
I don't know what to make of that. Mark never made me anything except excuses and bruises. Now this grumpy alpha who clearly hates me is feeding me homemade bread?
Either he's secretly nice under all that scowling, or he's planning something. Honestly, both options seem equally weird.
I sit and take a bite.
“Hmm!”
Yes, I moaned. I'm not ashamed of it. This is incredible. It's been so long since I've had food that tastes like someone put actual thought into it instead of just opening a can or unwrapping something from a drive-through.
"Thank you," I manage around the lump in my throat. "This is really good."
“I’m glad..." But I don't get to finish because he grunts and disappears through the doorway.
I sit there, frozen, my lips still tingling. My face is on fire. My omega is doing victory laps while my brain is screaming about what a terrible idea that was.
I don't know who's more embarrassed, him or me.
He doesn't go far though. I can see him through the doorway, attacking bread dough like it personally offended him. His muscles flex under his t-shirt as he kneads, harder than necessary. Definitely working out some serious aggression on that poor dough.
I should stay put. Finish my food. Keep my distance after that mortifying kiss.
Instead, I find myself standing, carrying my plate, following him into the kitchen like my body has a mind of its own.
He's at the counter, hands buried in dough. Kneading with a force that's definitely more aggression than necessary. His forearms flex with each push, muscles moving under flour-dusted skin. The rhythm is hypnotic. Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.
I lean against the doorframe, watching.
I shouldn't be turned on by a man kneading bread. That's ridiculous. But my omega has other ideas, purring low in my chest as I watch those strong hands work. The way his fingers dig into the dough, firm and sure. The way he controls it, shapes it, makes it submit to his will.
I close my eyes. Take a breath.
He's kneading dough, Violet. Not touching you. Those hands are on bread. Not on your body. Not sliding up your thighs or gripping your hips or...
I snap my eyes open because that train of thought is going nowhere good.
I shouldn't be thinking about starting anything new. Not after Mark, and barely escaping with my life. The last thing I need is another alpha, especially one who clearly doesn't even like me.
But I can't stop watching his hands.
"How long have you been baking?" I ask,
He glances up, surprised I followed him. For a second, something flashes in his eyes. Then it's gone, hidden behind that scowl.
"Since I was twelve. My grandmother taught me."
He goes back to the dough, but I notice his movements have changed. Less aggressive now. More controlled. Like he knows I'm watching and it's affecting him too.
"Was she a professional baker?"
"No. Just someone who believed food was love." His hands pause for just a moment, and I catch something soft in his expression before the scowl slides back into place. "She said anyone who could feed people properly would never be useless."
The way he says it makes me think his grandmother was probably one of the good ones. The kind of person who made you feel safe in their kitchen and never made you explain why you showed up at their door looking like a disaster.
"She sounds great,” I say quietly.
"She was." He shapes the dough into a loaf with practiced efficiency. "Died when I was ten. Left me her recipes and a stubborn streak a mile wide."
I finish my sandwich in companionable silence, watching him work and trying to figure out what it is about Garrick that makes my omega instincts purr with contentment even when he's scowling at me.
He's not conventionally handsome. His features are sharp, his expression guarded.
But there's a solidness about him. Reliable. Safe.
I brush crumbs off my jeans. "Thank you for the food. And for letting me stay upstairs. I know you didn't exactly have a choice in the matter."
He looks up from his dough and our eyes meet. His are dark brown with flecks of gold, like coffee with honey stirred in.
"Meredith doesn't force anyone to do anything they don't want to do," he says. "She just makes it clear what the right thing is and waits for you to come to the same conclusion."
So basically, she's a master manipulator with a heart of gold. Got it.
"And you think letting me stay is the right thing?"
He considers this, rolling the dough into a tight, practiced shape. "I think you're not the first person to end up in Cedar Ridge running from something. And most of us turned out okay."
"Well," I say, moving toward the stairs, "thank you. For everything."
I can't stop watching his hands. The way they press into the dough, knead it, work it until it's soft and pliant. My mouth goes dry. My omega is practically vibrating, whispering things I absolutely should not be thinking.
Like how those hands would feel on me. How that strength would translate to touching skin instead of bread. How he'd probably be just as skilled, just as thorough.
The words almost slip out. Come upstairs.
I bite them back so hard I taste blood.
Too soon. Too much. Too dangerous. I barely escaped one alpha. I can't just jump into bed with another one, no matter how good his hands look or how warm his scent makes me feel.
I need to leave. Now. Before I do something stupid.
"I should..." I gesture vaguely toward the stairs, backing away. "Go. Upstairs. I'm tired."
Not tired. Turned on. But he doesn't need to know that.
I'm halfway to the door when his voice stops me.
"Violet."
It's softer this time. Almost gentle. The sound of my name in that deep voice does things to me that are absolutely not helpful right now.