Chapter 3
Three
Melissa
Three hundred thousand dollars. Enough to open a second location.
I can't wipe the grin off my face as I push through the bakery doors at five a.m. the next morning. The conversation with Richard Donovan replays in my head as I snap on the lights and tie my apron.
I begin the morning routine, pulling out flour and sugar, but my hands move on autopilot. My thoughts drift from expansion plans to last night's encounter against the garage wall. The excitement of the investment call fades as I remember Hella's cold dismissal.
My hips still ache from his grip. It was good. Rough. Exactly how I like it.
“What's your name again?” His voice echoes in my memory as I attack the dough.
I’m not stupid. I wasn’t expecting hearts and fucking flowers. Just… something other than being scraped off his shoe the second he was done. The batter takes every swing of my rage, my shoulders rigid, because my highest high always comes with a goddamn price.
The front door swings open as Peter strolls in with a laughing Karian.
I slam the oven closed with my hip, turning to the fresh bowl of cake batter and sucking it off my finger. “And I quote, 'Don't care.'"
Peter pauses as if walking in on something he shouldn't and Karian whines in a voice that sounds strangely close to I told you so.
Deciding to skip forward because I cannot be bothered going down the road of 'why the fuck did you sleep with a biker!', my tone brightens. “Guess who's expanding?”
Peter freezes mid-motion, white chef's coat half-buttoned. “No way.”
Karian's eyes widen as she hangs her purse on the hook. “Are you serious?”
I nod, focusing on the mixer settings, grateful for the distraction. “Richard Donovan. Three hundred thousand dollars. Second location.”
Peter whoops, rushing over to lift me in a bear hug that knocks flour across my apron. “Holy shit, Mel! You did it!”
When he sets me down, Karian embraces me next, her thin arms surprisingly strong. “I'm proud of you,” she whispers, and I hear the unspoken relief in her voice. A second location means security. For all of us.
It means safety.
“We're celebrating tonight,” Peter declares, tying his apron with dramatic flair. “I'm making that chocolate bourbon cake you pretend not to eat straight from the pan.”
I laugh, turning to prep the display cases. “Meeting with the investor tomorrow. We need to finalize the paperwork and...”
“And explain why you look like you've been mauled by a bear?” Peter interrupts, eyebrows raised as he gestures to my neck with a sway of his wrist. “Please tell me you got dick last night since I didn't.”
My hand flies up to cover what must be a visible mark. Damn it.
“A biker?” Peter's grin turns wicked. “Spill. Every. Detail.”
“There's nothing to spill.” I reach for the pastry bags, arranging them by colour.
“That hickey says otherwise,” Karian murmurs, a small smile playing at her lips. She's doing a great deal to not lecture me, considering her baby daddy is Nomad for an MC in Australia.
Peter blocks my path to the refrigerator. “I want the full story. Was it in the bathroom? The beach? Please tell me it was somewhere interesting.”
“We have work,” I say firmly, sidestepping him. “Morning chaos starts in thirty minutes and I haven't even started the cinnamon rolls.”
“Fine,” Peter sighs, but there's no weight in it. “This conversation isn't over.”
I focus on measuring ingredients. Cinnamon. Sugar. Butter. Each measurement exact. Each motion controlled. This is what matters now. The bakery, the expansion, the future I'm building.
Not the man who couldn't even bother to remember my name.
The bell chimes as the front door swings open.
Four hulking frames block the morning light, leather cuts with patches declaring their allegiance.
My stomach drops as they saunter in like they own the place.
Beast, followed by a guy with a massive beard, another with a shaved side head, and.
.. Hella. I know Phoebe rambled off their names last night, but I can't remember.
My fingers freeze on the pastry bag I'm holding, the pressure causing frosting to ooze out the sides. Is he going to scold me for how I spoke with him last night? I almost laugh.
“Welcome to Cyanide & Sugar,” Karian chirps, professional as ever despite the intimidating presence filling our small shop.
Hella's eyes sweep the bakery, passing over me like I'm part of the wallpaper. No recognition. No acknowledgement of having me against the wall just hours ago.
“Nice place,” Beast rumbles, his gaze assessing the display case while I try to regulate my breathing.
I move to the counter, wiping my hands on my apron. “What can I get you?”
Beard Guy peers at our chalkboard menu, brow furrowed. “What the fuck is a 'Nancy and her Bestie Hazel'?”
“Hazelnut chocolate chip cookie sandwich with Nutella filling,” I answer smoothly, as if my heart isn't pounding against my ribs. “Very popular.”
“And 'Carols on the Highway'?” Shaved Head asks, looking genuinely puzzled.
“Rum-soaked fruitcake with bourbon glaze,” I explain. “It'll hit you bad.”
“Already got plenty,” Hella speaks for the first time, his voice hitting me like a physical touch. His eyes finally meet mine, a hint of amusement playing at the corners. “Don't I know you from somewhere?”
Bastard. He knows exactly who I am.
I keep my expression neutral. “I don't think so.”
“You sure?” His lips curl into that same smirk from last night. “You look... familiar.”
Beast interrupts, pointing to the cinnamon rolls I just finished glazing. “Four. And coffee. Black.”
I nod, grateful for the distraction, but knowing this can't be why they're here. “Coming right up.”
As I turn to grab the rolls, I hear Beard Guy mutter, “These names are fucking weird, man.”
“It's a theme,” Hella replies, voice low but clear enough for me to hear. “Place is called 'Cyanide & Sugar,' after all.”
Karian's slides next to me, grabbing cups for coffee.
“You okay?” she whispers.
“Fine,” I mutter back. “Just love having my bakery critiqued by guys who probably think culinary art is opening a beer with their teeth.”
She stifles a laugh. “At least they can't figure out the names. Wait till they try ordering a 'Bonnie without the Clyde.'“
“Or a 'Vera Cupcake,'“ I add, feeling some tension release as we share a quiet laugh.
I arrange the cinnamon rolls in a box, watching Hella from the corner of my eye. He leans against the counter like he belongs there, muscles evident under his tight black t-shirt. The memory of those arms pinning me flashes behind my eyes.
I slide the box across to Beast with my most professional smile. It's probably close to my fuck you smile, but they won't know the difference. “Anything else today?”
Hella's eyes lock on mine but the corner of his lip curls in a smirk that screams you're going to want to punch me. “Maybe something sweet for later?”
The double meaning hangs between us.
“Everything here is sweet,” I reply coolly. “That's kind of the point.”
Beast hands over cash, and I make change without breaking eye contact with Hella. His smirk deepens, knowing exactly what game we're playing.
I'm not giving him the satisfaction.
“Mmm, maybe.” His smirk deepens. “But I bet your number would send me into a sugar coma.”
The cheesy line nearly topples me, but I maintain my composure. “Well,” I gesture toward the neon sign glowing on the wall behind me in that not-quite-pink, not-quite-red hue. “Or an actual coma.”
Hella winks, flipping his cap backwards as the bearded one and shaved head one laugh their way out the door. As soon as they're out of earshot, Beast turns to me.
“When it comes to Yana, Melissa? Stay out of it.”
I stare at him. Blinking. “You're joking.”
He shifts his stance. “Nah, I don't joke. I also don't give a fuck what you think about me, or her, but if you step up to me like that again? I won't be so fucking gentle. You hear?”
“Cool!” I perch my hip, holding his stare. “Is that all?”
Something flashes behind his eyes. Surprise, maybe? Hate? Probably.
The corner of his lip twitches. “Thanks for the subtle little killer cakes.” Was that a smile?
“Wait!”
He stops just shy of the door.
“If you hurt her, because I know you're going to, I don't care how big you are. A point five O will cut right through all that bulky muscle.”
He shakes his head, throwing up deuces. “Bye, Melissa.”
I flash my teeth. “Have a good day!”
As soon as they've gone, I collapse onto one of the textured ivory chairs that completes our minimalistic vibe.
Peter squeezes my shoulders from behind. I tense, then flash him a warm smile from below. “So which one was it?”
My mouth spreads in that guilty way that says I've been up to no good. “The one with the backwards cap and the dimple that has no business being on a face that... hard.” I shrug, swiping my Stanley. “Also, obviously suffers from memory loss.”
“Honey,” Peter murmurs, his fingers giving my shoulder a knowing squeeze, “that's not memory loss. That's a power play.”
Of course it was. He probably wanted me to know exactly where I stood in his world.
Exactly nowhere.