Chapter 6
“Karl . . .” Charlotte lingered in the doorway leading to his work area. “Are you okay?”
No. He really wasn’t.
A man who wanted to seriously consider his legacy in the world would grunt less and talk more. But after reading his own weirdo
obituary, after being shunted aside by the woman of his dreams a second time . . . yeah, he had things to think about.
And those things were really fucking problematic.
All the people in Harlot’s Bay who’d genuinely mourned him had basically forced themselves into his life. Did he even know
how to form human connections himself? Without someone else doing all the hard work?
Even worse: Would things have been different with Dearborn—two decades ago and two days ago—if he’d learned what the hell to say to people? How to tell them important shit? How to be brave and talk about
his fucking feelings?
If it’d make her stay, he should find her. Should try his damnedest to express himself. Should leave the bakery right now
and take his shot.
But . . . he wasn’t a stalker. He wouldn’t chase her down if she didn’t want to see him. And if he forced a confrontation,
explained himself, and got rejected anyway? It’d probably kill him. For real this time. That’d be bad for business, so he
wasn’t doing it.
Screw emotional bravery. Sublimation through pastry was way fucking easier.
“Karl?” Charlotte was watching him, blond brows scrunched in concern. Waiting for an answer to a question he’d nearly forgotten.
“I’m fine,” he grunted, slamming his bagel dough onto the worktable for the umpteenth time.
“You usually use the stand mixer for that dough. And if you do knead by hand, the whole process is normally a bit less . . .
uh, aggressive.” She bit her lip. “Also, you’re muttering obscenities loudly enough that we’ve gotten complaints out front.
Junessa’s four-year-old apparently just demanded ‘some motherfucking Cheerios,’ and she’s livid.”
Shit. He’d thought he was swearing under his breath.
In his mind, a teenage Dearborn declared, He can’t even whisper at a normal volume.
She was right. Except when it came to trusting him, she was always right.
He paused in his kneading. “Who’s livid? Junessa or her daughter?”
“Junessa didn’t have any Cheerios in her purse, so . . . both of them, actually.”
Bracing himself on the table’s edge, he bowed his head and looked down at his overworked dough. It was basically impossible
to knead bagels too much, but he’d done it.
“I think this is the first time in two years you haven’t listened to a Sadie Brazen audiobook before opening.” Her expression
so soft it actually hurt, Charlotte moved farther into the workroom and closed the door behind her. “It’s her, isn’t it? The
narrator of those stories? I’m almost sure I recognized her voice.”
Dearborn used a pen name. Probably had a good reason for that.
His bench scraper easily transferred the ruined dough to the waiting trash can. Avoiding Charlotte’s eyes, he began prepping
another batch. “Can’t say.”
He kept expecting her to leave. She lingered instead. One minute. Two.
“Karl?” she finally asked again, her voice tentative.
He forced himself not to snap at her. “What?”
“Do you . . .” Her fingers laced together. Wrung. “Maybe I could help you back here sometimes? You work such long hours, and
I’d really like to—”
“I’m fine,” he repeated, with emphasis. “Don’t worry.”
The last two things Charlotte needed? A boss dumping his problems on her and more work. The kid’s plate was already full.
Overflowing.
Her shoulders bowed. “Oh. Okay.”
A knock on the door. Which was a fucking indictment, because his employees shouldn’t hesitate to enter the back area, where
they had their break room. He must’ve been a real prick the last couple days. Would have to make it up to everyone somehow.
Still: Thank fuck for the interruption. He’d rather eat gravel than deflect Charlotte’s misguided pity a second time or—even
worse—continue discussing the one who got away, then returned and did it a-fucking-gain.
“Come in,” he called. “Don’t need to knock.”
Johnathan poked his head inside. “Boss? You have a visitor.”
Then Molly Dearborn walked through the door with the composure of a damn queen, all calm confidence and cool serenity. Unless you looked into those pale blue eyes. Saw the uncertainty there.
Briefly closing his own eyes in relief, Karl tipped his head back and exhaled hard.
Holy shit. She’d come back to him. Again.
Karl couldn’t muster a single word. Didn’t even try to speak. In the silence, Charlotte and Johnathan disappeared out front,
shutting the door with a quiet snick.
“You can have your four weeks for trust building, if you still want them,” Molly said without preamble. “I lost a bet with
Lise Utendorf, so I’ll be in town through the reunion anyway.”
Seemed too good to be true. Maybe he’d misheard.
“You’re staying?” he forced out.
“Yes.”
Thank fucking Christ. “Gonna let me prove myself?”
“As best you can.” Her lips quirked faintly. “It helps that the boy I knew twenty years ago wasn’t ever a liar. A grump, yes.
An issuer of illogical threats, definitely. A careless dumper of potentially fragile belongings—”
He waved that aside. “Get to the damn point, Dearborn.”
“But you were always honest. Possibly because you’re congenitally incapable of subterfuge or subtlety, but the fact remains:
You weren’t a sneak or a cheat. It was one of the things I liked best about you.” Uncharacteristically restless, she fiddled
with the strap of her cross-body messenger bag. “If you’d been a liar then, there’s no way I’d have agreed to this cockamamie
plan now.”
“Got a head start, then.” At her look of confusion, he clarified. “Convincing you to trust me.”
She hesitated. “I suppose.”
The wariness in her voice? The tense lines across her forehead? Not optimal.
Even back in high school, she’d been guarded as hell. The past two decades had only made her more so. But she was in his bakery
now, seemingly agreeing to spend the next four weeks with him. He was getting his chance, at last, and he’d show her she’d made the right decision.
They had plans to make. He had trust to earn.
But before they began, he needed to be sure. Needed to hear the words one more time. “So you’re definitely in, Dearborn? Willing
and prepared to spend the rest of September with me?”
Doubt still clouded her blue eyes but didn’t color her voice.
“I’m in,” she said calmly, firmly, and for the first time in his entire damn life, he understood why people jumped for joy.
Setting aside his new bagel ingredients, he marched to the nearest sink and washed his hands. Beneath the cap, his hair would
look like shit, so that had to stay. But he stripped off his beard net before turning around and walking back to her, because
a man had his pride.
Five feet between them now. She’d have to close the rest of the distance.
He needed that gesture from her. Suspected she needed a sense of control. Like a wary cat, she’d come to him when she was ready.
They stood like gunslingers. Face-to-face. Wide stance. Fists on hips. Direct eye contact. He hoped like hell he was quick
enough, smart enough, to win this battle.
Her piercing gaze pinned him in place. “I have two questions for you, Dean.”
He dipped his chin in silent invitation, braced and ready.
“First question: Can you forgive me for assuming the worst of you? Both times?”
An easy one. “If you can forgive me. I screwed up twenty years ago. Should’ve told you Becky and I were through.”
“Done.” Her rosy lips curved slightly. “Second question: Would you go with me to the reunion? As my date?”
Hold the fuck on. That wasn’t a challenge. Wasn’t another hit to Karl’s stupid heart.
It was . . . an invitation?
“Unless you’ve changed dramatically in the past two decades, I know you’d rather eat your apron than attend a social event,”
she added. “But like I said, I lost a bet to—”
“Was already going.” Which weren’t the right words, but at least they were something.
“Sure you were.” She huffed out a laugh, then abruptly sobered. “Wait. Do you have a date lined up? If so, no problem. I can
just—”
“No date. Except you now.” Awkwardly, he adjusted the brim of his cap. “Remember Janel Altman?”
“As a matter of fact, I ran into her Tuesday night.” Molly’s smile had returned, and it rounded her rosy cheeks. Jesus, why
was she so fucking pretty? “She’s organizing the reunion, right?”
“Right.” He heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Few weeks back, I put in a bid to cater her tenth anniversary party. Already have as
much work as I can handle, but I’ve got employees looking for extra hours.” Johnathan, mostly. If the kid didn’t find more
money soon, he’d have to drop out of college. “Janel, that diabolical busybody mastermind, agreed to hire us—but only if I
came to the reunion.”
You need to get out more, Karl, she’d informed him, patting him on the arm like he was a senile goddamn grandpa. You have a whole community of people waiting to be your friend, if you’d just let them.
Sounded like a nightmare to him. Between work and family, he was busy enough as it was, thank you very much. And he had friends, as that bizarro obit had showed him. Matthew. Athena. Bez. Johnathan. Even all those harpies in their weird-ass
erotic-romance-reading book club.
Bethany in particular was sweet. Fifty-something. Quiet. Fluttery. Very enthusiastic about his muffins—and also gargoyle dicks,
for some fucking reason.
He wished to Christ he didn’t know that, but here he was. Knowing that.
“So you agreed to go for the sake of your staff,” Molly summed up.
That blue gaze lingered on him like a stroke of her palm. Soft. Warm.
Her stance had relaxed. She was leaning her round ass against the nearest countertop now, arms loose at her sides. Smiling
at him, beautiful as a fucking painting.
Every time he looked at her, he had to catch his damn breath. Same as always.
Cautiously, he propped his hip against the sink edge and relaxed a bit too. “Yeah. Even though that’s the weirdest hiring
condition I’ve ever heard, and I’d rather gargle knives than go to a goddamn class reunion.”
When she laughed again, her coppery hair shimmered. He wanted to bury his hands, his face, in that gorgeous hair. Wrap it around his fists as she moaned into his mouth. Feel
it drag slowly along his skin as she crawled over him.
Swallowing hard, he wrenched his mind back to reality.
“Might’ve gone even without Janel bullying me,” he admitted. “The Nasty Wenches have been badgering me for an entire year about the reunion. They—”
She raised a palm. “Hold up. The Nasty Wenches?”
“Local book club. They read smut.”
Soft jazz. No other sound. He could’ve heard a mouse fart. Not that the bakery had mice, or the health department would be
on his ass like a boil.
Her response came slowly. “And you’re . . . part of this book club?”
“Yeah. I guess.” He shrugged. “If I miss a meeting, they bitch for weeks. Easier just to read some sexy shit and show up.”
Even though he still didn’t understand what an Omegaverse was. Something about knots and glands and people who sniffed a whole lot?
Also, those assholes sprayed body fluids absolutely fucking everywhere. County health department wouldn’t let a single one
of ’em anywhere near a food-preparation facility. They were walking, talking, sniffing, constantly fucking sanitation hazards.
Dearborn’s head tipped to one side as she studied him. “Interesting.”
“Speaking of our book club, you narrated Alpha Krampus’s Knotty List.” He pointed an accusing finger her way. “So tell me, what the hell is that alpha/beta/omega shit?”
She flicked a hand. “The whole thing is a literary conceit. Not based on actual wolfpack behavior in the wild. Or at least
that’s what Sadie told me. She said to just go with it, so I did.” Her gaze sharpened to a pale-blue scalpel as she continued
to scrutinize him. “Out of curiosity, Karl . . . just how many of my books have you listened to?”
Way more than he’d admit to. A shame, since he really wanted to ask her what the fuck was up with My Kangaroo, My Kidnapper. If that pouched prick actually had sex with his victim, Karl didn’t want to keep listening.
So far, “dark romance” month blew, even though a few Wenches were into it. Good for them. Not him. Consent issues squicked
him the hell out.
“Not sure.” Technically true. He’d lost count after about twenty audiobooks. “Meant to ask—the bet you lost to Lise. What
was it?”
Mentally, he thumped himself on the back in congratulations. Subtle subject change: accomplished.
She shook her head immediately. “I can’t tell you. I’m bound by friendship confidentiality rules. My lips are sealed.”
The two women still being in contact? Tight enough to share secrets? Hell of a surprise. He hadn’t thought they were friends
in high school. But it wasn’t like he knew Lise that well, and no one had accused him of being the most perceptive man in
existence, so whatever.
“Proving yourself completely trustworthy will require close contact, I think.” She drummed her fingers against her thigh and
thought for a moment. “How would you feel about my coming to your bakery in the mornings and hanging out with you while you
work?”
Almost anyone else, he’d respond: “Like murdering you and using your lifeless carcass in my daily soup special.”
With Dearborn, he had to tamp down his goddamn glee instead. “That’d be good. And on weekends, when I’m closed, we can still
meet here. For our official trust-building activities.”
She looked amused. “That’s . . . surprisingly formal of you, Dean. Did you have any particular exercises in mind?”
“Uh . . .” He had research to do. Tonight. Because only one thing came to mind, and it wasn’t great. “Trust falls? You drop, I catch you?”
Read about those in the dentist’s waiting room before his last cleaning. Some glossy business magazine with a suited, white-toothed
asshole on the cover. Shit sounded ridiculous, but Dearborn had put him on the spot, so she got what she got.
She stared meaningfully down at herself, then directed a flat stare his way. “Really?”
Well . . . crap. She had a point.
The woman was a perfect, ample armful. He could handle her—was practically salivating at the mere fucking thought of handling her—when she was standing. Sitting. Lying flat on her back. Kneeling over his face. Arching on all fours.
Probably not landing on him like a sack of goddamn potatoes, though.
“Got till Saturday.” He shrugged. “I’ll come up with something.”
Molly looked skeptical. “Sure.”
He would, though. It’d be part two of his Official Plan to Keep Molly Dearborn in Harlot’s Bay. He’d basically be making shit
up, but that wouldn’t stop him.
As various stupid bastards said right before they parkoured to their goddamn deaths: YOLO, motherfuckers.