Chapter 18 Garrick
GARRICK
The memory sticks like a thorn and I pull chocolate from the walk-in cooler, cold air hitting my overheated skin.
My hands shake as I measure dark chocolate chips.
When did I last make food for one specific person?
Not a custom order. Not because someone paid me.
Because I wanted to see them smile. Can't recall.
The dough comes together under my hands, soft and pliable.
I roll it out on the floured marble surface, the pin making satisfying thunks.
The kitchen's quiet except for refrigerator hums and distant traffic rumbling on Main Street.
I spread chocolate filling, fold the dough, shape individual pastries.
Each one perfect. Golden crescents destined to come out looking like little pieces of heaven.
For her.
The oven preheats with a whoosh of flame.
I slide the pastries in, set the timer, then move to the espresso machine.
Grinding beans, tamping grounds, pulling shots.
Steam wand hissing as I froth milk to silky perfection.
I even do the fancy foam art. A leaf pattern she complimented once when I made it for a customer.
My hand's steady despite no caffeine yet, muscle memory guiding the pour.
She's probably still passed out. But the timer dings, and I'm pulling golden pastries from the oven. They smell like butter and chocolate and everything good in the world. I plate one carefully, dust it with powdered sugar, add a few raspberries from the container I keep for garnish.
The stairs to her apartment creak under my boots. Old building, older wood. Every step announces my presence. I balance the plate in one hand, mug in the other, trying not to think about why I care if she eats breakfast.
The walls need paint, and the hardwood floors show their age, but it's clean. Lemon cleaner and something floral. Lavender maybe.
I knock on her door. Nothing, so I scratch my head thinking I made a mistake and no one is inside. Then a sound rattles from the bathroom.
I draw closer. Then the door flies open.
"Oh God, oh God, I'm gonna..." Violet barrels straight into my chest, the impact makes the coffee spill everywhere.
All over my flannel shirt, down my jeans, across the bedroom floor.
The mug flies from my hand, hits the floor with a crash echoing off the narrow walls. Ceramic scatters in every direction.
"Fuck!" Sounds like she's dying in there.
Great. I stand dripping coffee, holding a plate of pastry like an idiot. Broken ceramic everywhere. Should leave. Let her be miserable in peace. Can't do it though.
I set the plate down on the narrow table by her bedroom door. Some antique piece with spindly legs from a yard sale. The wood's scarred but polished to a shine.
Coffee's soaking through my shirt now. Luckily it's lukewarm and not burning hot. The fabric clings to me, dark roast mixing with flour dust permanently embedded in everything I own.
"I can get you water," I call through the door. "Or crackers from the cabinet above the sink if you can keep them down."
More retching. Poor woman sounds like she's turning herself inside out.
"Christ," she chokes between breaths, voice ragged. "Don't sneak up on people like that!"
"Wasn't sneaking. I brought you breakfast."
She flushes the toilet then the water runs. The medicine cabinet opens and closes with a squeak. She's probably looking for aspirin. Or mouthwash. Both, knowing how she looked when she hit me.
I crouch down, pick up the bigger pieces of ceramic. Sharp edges everywhere. One piece has part of the bakery's logo on it, the mug I made special for the shop. Only six of them. Now I have five.
The door creaks, and she stumbles out, bracing herself against the frame. She has hair everywhere, sticking up at angles defying physics. Face white as paper, except for dark circles under her eyes making her look like she went ten rounds with a prizefighter.
She's wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt hitting her mid-thigh. Navy blue with some faded college logo I can't make out. The fabric's soft and worn like it's been washed a thousand times.
I force myself to look at her face. Nowhere else.
"Why?" She stares at the plate like I handed her the crown jewels, then down at the mess on the floor. Her bare feet are pale against the dark wood, toenails painted some soft pink color. "Oh God, your shirt. I'm so sorry, I didn't see..."
"It's fine." Can't stand listening to her apologize. I reach for another piece of ceramic. "Shit happens."
She drops to her knees beside me without warning. Reaches for the smaller shards scattered near the baseboard. "No, let me..."
"Don't." I catch her wrist before she cuts herself. Her skin's soft. Warm despite how pale she looks. Makes my brain short-circuit for a second. "You're barefoot. I got it."
Her pulse flutters under my thumb, faster than it should be. She sits back on her heels, wraps her arms around herself. The movement makes her shirt ride up slightly, exposing the curve of her thigh. Fabric stretched tight over her curves.
Focus, jackass.
I dump ceramic pieces in my palm, stand slowly. My knees crack from the crouch. Getting old. She follows my movement, swaying slightly on her feet cause the hangover's still chewing her up.
"You made choc-o-pan?" Her voice is small. Different. "For me?"
She has no idea the fucking effect she has on me. I would do anything for her. Pick her up from the bar every night of the week, if she would only stay.
"You said you liked them." I head toward her kitchen, ceramic pieces rattling in my palm. "Figured it might help."
She trails behind me, bare feet silent on hardwood. The kitchen's clean. Organized. She's made it homey with little touches. A bowl of fruit on the counter. Dish towels matching. A small herb garden on the windowsill catching morning light.
Vanilla and something floral. Strawberry maybe. Clean and feminine and nothing like the chaos in my head.
I toss the ceramic in her trash can, which sits in a pull-out drawer under the sink. Even her garbage is organized. Recycling separated properly. Compost bucket for food scraps.
Course she composts.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, coffee stain spreading across my flannel. The fabric's soaked through now, clinging to my body like a second skin just like I’d done when holding her after we knotted in the kitchen a few times.
"That's really sweet of you."
Sweet. Right. When did someone last call me sweet? Never, probably.
I lean against her counter, putting the narrow space between us. She mirrors my position on the opposite side, and we're close enough for me to see green flecks in her blue eyes. Close enough to smell her shampoo. Something fruity making my mouth water.
"Nothing special. Had time before opening."
But it was special. And we both know it.
She studies my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle. Her eyes trace over my features, and I fight the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. When did someone last look at me like this? Like they were trying to memorize me?
Can't recall that either.
"Thank you." Her gratitude stops me hard. I don't know what to do with it. Don't know what to do with the way she's looking at me either, like I did something heroic instead of just driving across town because she was three sheets to the wind and slurring my name into the phone.
She continues, "For last night. For coming to get me."
"Course I came." The words scrape out, raw in my throat like I've been shouting. I clear it, useless. "You called."
"Still." She pushes off the counter and takes a step closer. Now we're barely a foot apart in the narrow space. "You didn't have to. You could have told me to figure it out myself."
The thought never crossed my mind. Not once.
"You were drunk." I cross my arms, trying to put up some kind of barrier. But nowhere to go in this kitchen. Nowhere to retreat. "Wasn't gonna leave you there."
She chews on her soft pink bottom lip, frown deepening. Crap. How much does she remember? The way she sagged against me in the truck?
"Did I say anything last night?"
"You passed out."
She was honest. Raw. Vulnerable in ways making my heart ache. Told me things about her ex making me want to drive to wherever he is and introduce my fist to his face.
But she doesn't need to know any of that.
She nods, but something lingers in her expression. Like she's trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
"I should probably eat that pastry before I pass out again."
The words hit me wrong. Make my stomach clench. She's swaying on her feet, face still pale as death.
"You need to lie down." The words come out like a command. Can't help it. Every alpha instinct I have is screaming at me to take care of her. "Before you fall down."
"I'm fine."
"You're green." I push off the counter, close the distance between us. "And you can barely stand. Bed. Now."
Her eyes widen slightly at my tone, but she doesn't argue. Just lets me guide her back to the bedroom with a hand on the small of her back. The touch sends heat shooting up my arm, but I ignore it.
Her bedroom's small. A double bed with a pale blue comforter, rumpled from where she rolled out of it to be sick. Nightstand with a lamp and a stack of books. More of her scent here. Vanilla and strawberry and something uniquely her.
"Sit." I point at the bed.
She sits, looking up at me with those big blue eyes. Trusting. Like she knows I'm not going to hurt her.
The trust guts me.
I crouch down in front of her, unlace her fingers where they're twisted together in her lap. "You eaten anything since last night?"
"No."
Course not. "Drink any water?"
"A little. Before I threw it up."
I stand, head back to the kitchen. Grab the plate of pastry, a glass of water, the bottle of aspirin I spotted in her medicine cabinet earlier when the door was open.
When I get back, she's curled on her side, knees pulled up. Looking small and miserable.
Something in my chest cracks.
I set everything on the nightstand, sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under my weight. "Sit up."
She does, slow and careful like any sudden movement might make her sick again.
I shake out two aspirin, hand them to her with the water. "Take these."
She swallows them down, grimacing at the taste.
"Now eat." I pick up the pastry, tear off a small piece, hold it out to her.
Her lips part, and I slip the bite into her mouth. Watch her chew slowly, carefully. See the moment the chocolate hits her tongue and her eyes close in pleasure.
"Good?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Mmm." She swallows, opens her eyes. "Really good."
I tear off another piece, feed it to her. Then another. Taking my time. Making sure she keeps it down. Her lips brush my fingers on the third bite, soft and warm, and my brain stutters.
Focus.
When half the pastry's gone, she shakes her head. "Can't eat anymore."
"Alright." I set the plate aside, pick up the water glass. "Drink."
She does, small sips. I watch her throat work with each swallow. Watch color slowly return to her cheeks.
"Better?"
"A little." She hands the glass back, lies down again. Curls on her side facing me.
I should leave. Should get back to the bakery. Should put distance between us before I do something stupid.
Can't make myself move.
"You gonna be sick again?" I ask instead.
"Don't think so. Not if I stay still."
I nod. Sit there like an idiot, not sure what to do with my hands.
She reaches out, fingers finding mine where they rest on my thigh. "Will you stay? Just for a bit?"
Fuck.
"Yeah. I can stay."
Her smile is small but genuine. She tugs on my hand, and I let her pull me down until I'm lying beside her on top of the covers. On my side, facing her.
We're close. Too close. I can see the flecks of green in her eyes, count her eyelashes, smell her shampoo.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For taking care of me."
"Someone has to." The words come out gruffer than I mean them. "You're shit at it yourself."
She laughs softly. "True."
Her eyes start to drift closed, then snap open again. Like she's fighting to stay awake.
"Sleep," I tell her. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
The word cracks something in my chest. "Promise."
She relaxes then, sinking deeper into the pillow. But her hand stays in mine, fingers laced together.
I lift my free hand, hesitate. Then trace my fingers through her hair. Soft. Like silk. I stroke slowly, gently. Following the line of her skull, down to her neck, then back up again.
She makes a small sound. Contentment. Pleasure.
"That feels nice," she murmurs, words slurring with exhaustion.
I keep going. Long strokes through her hair. Down her neck. Over her shoulder. Back up again. A rhythm. Soothing. For her and for me.
Her breathing evens out. Deepens. The tension in her body melts away bit by bit.
I watch it happen. Watch her face smooth out. Watch her lips part slightly. Watch her sink into sleep.
But I don't stop touching her.
Can't.
My fingers trace patterns on her skin. Over her shoulder. Down her arm. Back up again. Feather-light. Reverent.
She's so fucking beautiful like this. Vulnerable. Trusting. Mine.
The thought should scare me. Should send me running.
It doesn't.
I keep stroking her. Keep watching her sleep. Keep memorizing every detail of her body, all the times we’ve knotted.
The way her hair fans across the pillow. The way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. The way her chest rises and falls with each breath. The way she fits perfectly in this bed, in this apartment, in this life she's building.
The way she fits perfectly with me.
My hand moves to her face. Thumb brushing across her cheekbone. Down to her jaw. Over her bottom lip.
She sighs in her sleep. Presses closer to me.
My heart does something stupid in my chest. Something dangerous.
I lean forward. Press my lips to her forehead. Soft. Gentle. A promise I don't have words for.
"Sleep, sweetheart," I whisper against her skin. "I've got you."
And I do. I've got her. And I'm not letting go.