3. Annie
Chapter three
Annie
Cal Redmond is ruining my life.
He’s a menace. A tall, brooding, ex-firefighter-turned-carpenter menace with hands that fix things and eyes that undo me.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
Which is really inconvenient, considering I have a full kitchen to sanitize, pie orders to prep, a fall bonfire event this weekend, and a reputation to maintain as the town’s cheeriest café owner.
I do not have time to fantasize about Cal’s hands on my waist or his mouth on my neck or that low rumble of his voice when he says my name like it means something.
And yet.
It starts innocently enough.
I’m working late, prepping dough for tomorrow’s cider-glazed hand pies, when I hear the bell above the door.
I wipe my hands on a towel and call, “Sorry, we’re closed!”
Cal, filling the doorway like some lumberjack thirst trap, in his worn jacket and steel-toe boots, with a toolbox in one hand and a brown paper sack in the other.
He looks tired. And edible.
“I brought you a sandwich from dinner,” he says, holding up the sack.
“Oh.” I blink. “Thanks, you know I forget to eat when I’m baking.”
He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches, which is basically a grin in Cal-speak. He steps inside, his eyes sweeping the café like he’s assessing for more fire hazards. Then they land on me. Or more accurately, on my hips.
“Are those the same leggings you wore yesterday?”
I glance down. “No. These are my other black pair.”
His gaze lingers. “You should stop wearing those in public.”
My entire body flushes.
“Cal.”
“Annie.”
He says my name like it’s a secret or a promise.
I cross my arms. “Are you flirting with me?”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Failing.”
“Spectacularly.”
There’s a pause, a long, slow beat filled with heat. I know I should step back, throw a joke at the tension, keep it light like I always do.
But I’m tired of pretending.
I take a step toward him. “You kissed me once.”
His jaw ticks. “I remember.”
“Then you disappeared.”
“I had reasons.”
“Like what?”
“Like not wanting to drag you into my mess.”
I tilt my head. “You think I can’t handle mess? Look around. I’m the Queen of Mess.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“Well, tough. I’ve been tripping over your silence for months, Cal. I’ve missed you, and now you’re back in my kitchen, making excuses and looking at me like—”
He moves fast. One step, then another, and suddenly his hand is on my waist and his mouth is on mine.
Holy hell.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It’s not gentle or careful. It’s a kiss full of want and regret and months of pent-up frustration. His mouth claims mine like he’s starved for it, and I give as good as I get, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He groans against my lips, deep and low and rough.
I gasp when he lifts me onto the prep table, knocking a bowl of flour to the floor. I wrap my legs around his hips without thinking, and he presses into me, all solid muscle and masculine heat.
“Annie,” he says against my throat, voice strained. “Tell me to stop.”
“Not a chance.”
He kisses me again. This time it's longer, slower, like he’s memorizing every inch of my mouth. His hands roam, sliding under my sweatshirt, calloused palms skimming my skin.
I moan when he grazes my ribs with his thumbs. “This is a terrible idea,” I whisper.
“Yep.”
“We shouldn’t—oh God—do this on the prep table.”
He pulls back, breathing hard. “You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll help you clean up after.”
I laugh, breathless. “You’re so considerate.”
He grins, actually grins, and it hits me right in the chest. He’s devastating when he smiles.
He freezes, his forehead dropping to mine. “If we do this, Annie…”
I wait.
He lifts his head. “I won’t be able to pretend it didn’t happen again.”
I meet his gaze, steady and sure. “Then don’t.”
Then he kisses me again, softer now. Reverent. Like he’s worshiping, not just wanting. And I know, deep in my bones, that this time he’s not going to push me away.