Chapter 10 Garrick
GARRICK
The lunch rush finally clears out around two, leaving me with a destroyed kitchen and a headache that won't quit.
Flour everywhere. Dirty mixing bowls stacked in the sink. Empty ingredient containers that need refilling. The commercial dishwasher is running its third cycle of the day and it's only mid-afternoon.
This is exactly what I didn't want.
I grab a rag and start wiping down the counter, scrubbing at stubborn bits of dried dough. My shoulders ache from the constant motion. The repetitive tasks I've done a thousand times but now feel harder, heavier.
The bakery's quiet now except for the hum of the dishwasher and the occasional creak of floorboards overhead. Violet's apartment. She's probably up there counting her success, planning her next article, turning another local business into a tourist trap.
I shouldn't be angry. The numbers are good. Better than good. Revenue's up thirty percent in less than a week. At this rate, I could actually pay off the equipment loans early, maybe even expand like everyone keeps suggesting.
But success tastes bitter when it comes with strangers asking about my "three-day fermentation process that creates layers of complexity" like I'm some kind of artisan performing for their entertainment.
The kitchen door swings open.
Vanilla and honey hit me first. Then Violet herself, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and that stubborn set to her jaw I'm starting to recognize.
"Do you have a problem with me?" she asks. No preamble, just straight to it.
I keep scrubbing the counter. "No."
"Liar."
That makes me look up. She's moved closer, standing on the other side of the prep table. Her blue eyes are sharp, assessing. Her scent carries determination mixed with something vulnerable underneath.
"You've been acting like I personally ruined your life for the past week," she continues. "So either tell me what I did wrong or stop glaring at me like I murdered your grandmother."
"I'm not glaring."
"You absolutely are. You've perfected the art of the hostile scowl. Customers are starting to think it's part of the authentic experience."
Despite everything, my mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Maybe it is."
"Garrick." She says my name like a warning. Like she's done with my bullshit. "Talk to me. Please."
I toss the rag into the sink. Probably getting flour in it but I don't care.
"You turned my bakery into a circus," I finally say. "Twenty percent discount codes. TikTok videos. People coming in asking for 'that bread from the article' like it's some kind of novelty instead of work I've been perfecting for fifteen years."
"I'm sorry about the discount. That was a typo. I can fix it."
"It's about... this." I gesture around the kitchen. "Used to be I knew every person who walked through that door. Knew their orders, their families, their stories. Now it's strangers with cameras treating this place like a photo op."
Violet's quiet for a moment. Her scent shifts, that vulnerable note getting stronger.
"You're right," she says finally. "I got caught up in the success and didn't think about what you'd be losing in the process."
"I'm not losing anything. Business is up. That's good."
"Then why do you look miserable?"
Because I am. Because watching her excitement over every new client, every article view, every successful partnership reminds me that she's building something here. Making connections. Creating a future.
And none of it includes staying.
Once her car's fixed and she's saved enough money, she'll leave. Head to Texas or wherever life takes her. And I'll be here with my suddenly popular bakery and the lingering scent of vanilla and honey that won't fade from my kitchen no matter how many times I clean.
But I can't say any of that. Can't admit I've gotten attached to an omega I barely know. That somewhere in the past six weeks, between her corner booth observations and her genuine appreciation for my work, I started imagining what it would be like if she stayed.
"I'm not miserable," I lie.
She moves around the prep table, coming into my space. Close enough that her scent surrounds me completely. "You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah, well. You're terrible at taking hints."
"What hints? You've been grunting at me for weeks. That's not communication, that's cave man behavior."
"Maybe you're scared."
I stare at her. "Of what?" I ask, even though I know the answer.
"This." She gestures between us. "Whatever this is. The reason you kissed me weeks ago and then pretended it never happened."
My jaw clenches. "That was a mistake."
"Was it?"
"Yes."
"Liar." She takes another step closer. Now we're barely a foot apart. I can see the pulse jumping in her throat, smell the way her scent's shifting with nervousness and something else. Something warm and wanting.
"Violet," I warn.
"What are you afraid of, Garrick?"
Everything. Wanting her. Losing her. The way she makes me feel like maybe being alone isn't the safest option after all.
"You're leaving," I say instead. "Your car's fixed. You've got work lined up. There's no reason for you to stay."
"Maybe I want to stay."
The words hang in the air between us. My heart's pounding so hard I'm sure she can hear it.
"You don't mean that."
She's close enough now that I could reach out and touch her. Pull her against me. "I'm tired of everyone telling me what I should want, where I should go, who I should be. For once I'm making my own choice. And I choose here. This town. This work."
She doesn't say "you" but I hear it anyway. Feel it in the way her scent blooms with hope and desire and fear all mixed together.
"This is a bad idea," I manage.
“Probably." She shrugs, avoiding eye contact.
"You just escaped an abusive relationship. You're vulnerable. This is too soon."
"Maybe. I'm finally strong enough to know what I want." Her hand comes up, resting on my chest. Right over my heart. "And I want you."
Something in me snaps.
I reach for her, pulling her against me. She fits perfectly, all soft curves and sweet scent. My hand slides into her hair, tilting her face up to mine.
"Tell me to stop," I growl.
"No."
Then I'm kissing her. Not gentle. Not careful. Hungry and desperate and months of wanting compressed into this moment.
She kisses me back just as fiercely, her hands fisting in my shirt. Her mouth opens under mine and the taste of her is better than I remembered. Sweet and perfect and mine.
I walk her backward until she hits the prep table, my hands sliding down to her waist. Lift her up onto the surface without breaking the kiss. She wraps her legs around me, pulling me closer.
My tongue slides against hers, tasting, exploring. She tastes like coffee and something sweeter, something uniquely her that makes me want more.
Her scent floods my senses with every breath. Vanilla and honey so concentrated I can taste it in the back of my throat. I breathe her in deep, letting it fill my lungs, saturate every cell. It's intoxicating. Better than anything I've ever experienced.
My tongue explores every part of her mouth. The soft inside of her lips. The smooth surface of her teeth. The warm velvet of her tongue as it tangles with mine. She makes small sounds of pleasure that vibrate through me, each one making my control slip further.
I pull back just enough to change the angle, then dive back in. Deeper this time. Thorough. Learning the taste and texture of her mouth like I'm memorizing a recipe. Every gasp, every moan, every small movement of her tongue against mine.
Her scent keeps intensifying, mixing with mine until the kitchen air is thick with it. Cinnamon and cardamom and vanilla and honey, all twisted together into something entirely new. Something that smells like us.
Her hands tug at my hair hard enough to make me growl. The sound rumbles between us and she responds by opening her mouth wider, inviting me in. I take everything she's offering, my tongue stroking against hers in a rhythm that makes her whimper.
I can't get enough. Can't get close enough. Can't taste enough of her. Every sweep of my tongue brings a new wave of her scent, a new taste, a new sound of pleasure.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen and wet from my kisses. Her eyes are dark and dazed. Her scent is so thick in the air I'm drunk on it.
"God," she breathes, and even that single word carries her scent, makes me want to lean in and taste it from her lips.
"Not done with you yet," I growl, and claim her mouth again.