2. Cal
Chapter two
Cal
Annie Monroe is the last woman I should be working for.
She talks too much. Smiles too big. Smells like sugar and trouble. She kissed me once—out of nowhere, middle of a summer night, mouth soft and sure like she already knew what I’d taste like.
I kissed her back because I’m not a saint. Then I left, because I’m stupid.
And now, here I am, standing outside her café at five-fifty-eight in the morning with tile, tools, and an intense craving for coffee I didn’t make.
She opens the door before I can knock, wearing leggings, a loose sweatshirt, and bed hair that sends my mind spiraling to what it would be like to wake up with her every morning.
“You’re early,” she says.
“You’re up.”
“I’m always up.” She waves me in and hands me a mug. “Black. I remember.”
“Thanks.”
I step inside. It’s quiet, warm, and still smells like cinnamon despite the fire. The café is dark except for the kitchen, where she’s already prepped two trays of cinnamon rolls and pulled the ovens halfway to life.
“I stayed on the other side of the kitchen like you said,” she adds, as if I’m going to scold her. “Didn’t even breathe near the new outlet.”
“Good,” I say, setting my tile box down.
We work in silence at first. I pry off the scorched tiles while she rolls dough behind me. She hums softly—always humming, always moving—and every now and then she mutters something like “perfect rise” or “come on, baby,” which does things to me I don’t want to name.
I try not to watch her hips sway when she moves. I try not to think about how that kiss wrecked my sleep for three weeks straight.
No luck.
“You always get this quiet when you’re thinking?” she asks eventually.
“I’m working.”
“You’re brooding.”
“Same thing.”
She grins, dusting flour off her hands as she steps closer. “You used to be friendlier.”
“I used to avoid trouble.”
She leans against the prep table. “And now?”
“Now I lay tile and keep my head down.”
Her expression softens, just a little. “You don’t have to keep punishing yourself, you know.”
I pause, hand wrapped around my notched trowel. “I’m not.”
She lets it go, which I both hate and appreciate.
“You going to the bonfire tonight?” she asks.
“No.”
“Shocking.”
“I don’t do crowds.”
“You used to.”
“Yeah. I used to do many things.”
She goes quiet again, but not for long. “I saved you two rolls from the first tray. Still warm.”
I glance up. “You don’t have to feed me.”
“Not feeding you would be rude. And you’re doing me a favor.”
I grumble something about fair trade, but when she sets the plate beside me, I eat both rolls without hesitation. They taste like butter and brown sugar and something I can’t afford to want.
By nine, the tile is up, clean, and curing under a taped-off partition. She wipes sweat from her temple and grins like she just won a prize.
“You saved me.”
“I fixed a wall.”
“You saved my ovens,” she says, nudging my boot with her toe. “Same thing.”
“I don’t do rescue work anymore.”
She doesn’t flinch, just nods.
“You always did like being the boss.”
“Someone has to be.” She turns away, calling to Rosa, and that’s when I let myself watch her, just for a second.
Hair pinned back. Freckles. There is a little cinnamon smudge on her cheek. Whole damn woman like sunshine wrapped in sass and stubbornness. And me? I’m standing here wondering if she remembers the part of the kiss with me holding her hips like I couldn’t let go.
I pack up, needing distance before I do something stupid.
“You don’t have to vanish,” she says as I head for the door.
“I finished the job.”
“Still. You could stay. Grab lunch. Help me eat these muffins before Rosa accuses me of hoarding.”
I should say no. I really should.
But her smile’s crooked and warm, and it tugs at something under my ribs. So I shrug. “Half a muffin.”
“Progress,” she says, beaming.
She tears one in half and hands it over, brushing my fingers in the process. Her eyes flick up to mine. There’s heat there. A slow burn. Familiar and dangerous.
“You always did like sweet things,” she says quietly.
I meet her gaze. “I liked you.”
She freezes, just for a breath. Then asks, “Liked?”
I don’t answer. I take another bite and walk out before I do something like kiss her again.
Because if I kiss Annie Monroe one more time, I’m not going to stop. I already know how fast fire spreads in this kitchen.