11. Arden #2
“Bakery?” I stutter. “But I need clothes.”
His answer is gruff. “Breakfast first. Clothes after.”
I want to argue. I really do. But the sunshine of the place has gotten under my skin, and I have to admit that if he’s offering breakfast first...
I’m not going to refuse it.
Besides, the bakery is right next to the bookstore, squatting against the sidewalk like a fat little woman, and it’s between us and the store I hope has clothes.
So really it’s just logical to stop here first. I look up at the place when we get there and take in the squat building done up in blue and yellow stripes, with a white awning overhead.
The sign advertises the bakery in bright blue, fanciful letters, and the lettering on the window promises the best cinnamon rolls in town.
I don’t even have to know that this is Penny’s place. The color scheme looks like her.
And when we step into the place, I realize it feels like her, too.
The display cabinet has row after row of croissants, doughnuts, cakes, breads, cookies, and there at the top, the promised cinnamon rolls.
It smells sweet and glazed and glorious in here, and everyone at the small, spindly tables is laughing.
No surprise, there. How could anyone feel sad with this much sugar surrounding them?
Penny looks up, spots Mars, and shakes her head. Moments later she’s sliding a plate with a cinnamon roll across the top of the display case. “Your usual,” she says.
I look at the pastry and then look up and meet Penny’s eyes. She’s twinkling like this is the funniest thing she’s ever said, and I glance at Mars out of the corner of my eye.
“I take it you come here a lot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, affronted. “I almost never come in here.”
“Just every Tuesday,” Penny says, winking at me. “And then again on Friday. Sundays, if he’s feeling fancy.”
I look up to see Mars blushing from his neck to his hairline, and shake my head.
“Three times a week, Mars? In the city they’d call that an addiction.”
He snags the plate and heads for a table without answering, but I can see the flush creeping up the back of his neck, and I can’t help but laugh.
The man tries to pretend he has no feelings, no vulnerabilities, like he can solve any problem for anyone without spending of his own energy, but I’ve watched him for two days now and I don’t think that’s true.
But it’s the mask he wears, and he’s committed to the bit.
And boy does he hate when people look under that mask and see the soft, squishy little thing underneath.
I wonder why he does that–what can be so bad that he keeps it so carefully hidden–but then decide it’s going to be way more fun to tease him about the pastry addiction than ask him about his secrets.
I grab the cinnamon roll Penny’s handing me, give her a mischievous grin, and then head for the table Mars is sitting at, looking like a bear who’s somehow found his way into a cafe and decided to sit in a chair three sizes too small for it.
By the time we leave, I’ve admitted that the advertising on the window is right. Penny makes cinnamon rolls that could easily double for the food of the gods, and I’m still licking sticky cinnamon glaze off my fingers.
Mars watches me with something that could be laughter. “You going to actually eat your fingers next?”
I stop what I’m doing and stare at him.
That might be the first time he’s actually said something funny to me.
“What would you do if I did?” I ask experimentally. “Would you stop me?”
He snorts. “Of course I would. I don’t want a cannibal living in my house. You’d be a bad influence on Orion.”
He walks away from me and I stare after him, my mouth hanging open.
The man was always friendly and entertaining in New York, but since he rescued me he’s been all business.
Give the girl the room. Tell her where the clothes are.
Make sure she has enough to eat. The jokester from the city had left the building.
But suddenly he’s back.
And the sudden reappearance is doing something funny to my heart.
I run after him, suddenly intent on making him actually smile, and realize that he turned the wrong way for the boutique.
“Hold up,” I huff when I catch him. “I said I needed clothes, and that shop is the other way.”
He glances down at me, from the corner of his eye, and if I’m not mistaken, there actually is a smile hidden in the corner of those full, stern lips.
“You also said you need a book.”
I look past him to see that we’re stopped outside the bookstore, and tip my head. “Well sure, but clothes are slightly more important.”
“Depends on how much you like clothes, I guess. You said you wanted a book. I want to buy you one.”
The rush of heat under my skin at his words should be illegal, and I take a long, slow breath, reminding myself to calm down. That he takes care of everyone in town and that this is no different. I’m not special. I’m not different.
I’m just another girl he’s decided to take under his wing.
This doesn’t stop the hammering of my heart behind my ribs, and it doesn’t make it any easier to breathe.
“I can’t let you do that,” I protest weakly.
He leans in, his breath tinged with cinnamon when it brushes against my ear. “You can. And you will.” His voice is a rumble, his intentions clear.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
No man has ever talked to me like that before, and my laughter immediately dies, leaving behind an ache I don’t understand.
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
And I don’t try to find one as I walk slowly after him and into the bookstore.
An hour later we walk back toward the garage, my arms laden with bags of books, clothes, and cookies.
And I feel like I’m carrying bags full of happiness rather than goods that would have been even more available in New York.
I’ve met so many people I can’t remember all of them, and spent a stupid amount of Mars’ money. I mean to pay him back as soon as I get money from my dad, of course, though he’s said time and again that I don’t have to.
And it’s not like this is the first time anyone has bought me things.
But it is the first time they haven’t made me feel guilty about it. It’s the first time it’s felt like a gift, and something he’s giving freely, without any expectation of being repaid.
It’s the first time it’s felt like someone wanted to give me things.
It’s left me caught between flying and walking, heart singing and skipping in my chest while my brain tells me I can’t trust this and that I shouldn’t get used to it. That I need to be looking for the trap here rather than just taking Mars at his word.
That this can’t possibly be true.
My heart’s song is so loud, though, so joyous, that the voice in my brain is having trouble breaking through, and I’m not helping it. Because I like being this happy.
I like this floating, skipping, dancing feeling of being in Hawke’s Wood and feeling like I might actually belong here.
Though the shadow of New York is still hanging over me, along with the hulking presence of my father.
“My father would lose his shit if he saw you spending this much money on me,” I note, speaking before I can think better of it.
Mars grunts, and for a moment I don’t think he’s going to answer. Then he does.
“Your father loses his shit over a lot of things that are none of his business.”
Wait, what?
“He doesn’t like you much either,” I say. “Always told me you couldn’t be trusted. That your family isn’t safe.”
This time he actually chuckles. “He’s not wrong.”
This surprises me. I expected him to try to defend himself. Tell me why my father was wrong about that, too. At least try to speak up for his family.
Instead, he says, “My family is loyal. We fight for what’s right, and for each other. Some people find that dangerous, I guess. Especially if they’re not the ones we’re fighting for.”
That’s... incredibly insightful.
It’s also not the statement of a sunny, carefree man who doesn’t take life too seriously–which is who I thought he was when I was younger.
It’s the statement of a man who has secrets and danger running through his veins, but keeps them all hidden because he’s too busy taking care of other people to let his own vulnerabilities see the light of day.