Chapter 6
Kade
Iswing into the bakery on my way to the office, the smell of cinnamon and sugar hitting me the second I open the door. It’s too early to be out of my bed, but here I am, getting pastries like a goddamn thoughtful adult.
Aubrey raises a brow as I approach the counter. “Since when do you voluntarily show up before eight?”
“Since today,” I mutter, already scanning the display case. “I need three coffees—mine, Brandon’s, and… do you remember what Liv ordered when she came in the other day?”
She pauses. “Caramel iced latte.”
“Perfect. I’ll take one of those, too. And load me up with some pastries. Cookies, whatever’s good.”
I lean against the counter while she starts bagging everything up.
“You call her Liv? You’ve known her five minutes.”
“She told me to,” I say, already bracing for what’s coming.
“Kade—”
I cut her off with a raised hand. “Save it. I’ve heard it all already—from Trent and Brandon. You guys don’t trust me with her, and I get it. But it’s bullshit.”
“Just be careful. She’s not like the others.”
Not like the others. Cut a guy some slack.
“I haven’t done anything. And you don’t know her either. Would she want you to treat her like she’s fragile?”
“I know enough. She’s been through some shit. You need to be careful.”
“Look, I’m giving her coffee, putting out the pastries, welcoming her in, and then I’m out of there. Just doing my job.”
She still looks unconvinced.
“For the record,” I add, “I’m not the bad guy you think I am.”
She crosses her arms. “I never said you were a bad guy. I just know what you’re like with women—and she’s beautiful. Would it be too much to ask you not to try and get in her panties? You’ve broken enough of my friends’ hearts over the years.”
I scowl, feeling the familiar burn of irritation. Of course. The minute a woman like Olivia shows up, everyone assumes I’m some player out to cause trouble. Like I can’t be trusted to do the right thing. Like I’m nothing more than my past mistakes. It’s exhausting—being judged all the time.
“Jesus, Strawbs. Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you.” My voice is sharp, the edge impossible to hide. I want her to know I’m more than my reputation. Mostly, though, I just want her to back off.
I glance down at the pastries, frustrated that something this simple has become a trial where I’m guilty before I can prove my innocence. Without another word, I throw down the money, grab the coffees and pastries, and walk out.
That’s the last time I try to do anything nice.
Fifteen minutes later, I storm into the office, the weight of Aubrey’s words still gnawing at me. No way I’m sticking around to play the perfect host. I drop the pastries on the break room table and set Liv’s caramel iced latte carefully on her desk, then hand Brandon his coffee.
“You’re staying to welcome her, right?” Brandon asks, raising an eyebrow.
I let out a bitter laugh. “Can’t be fucking trusted to be professional, apparently. I’m sure you’ve got it covered.”
Brandon looks at me like I’ve lost it. “How am I supposed to explain why you’re not here?”
I throw a glance over my shoulder as I head for the door. “You’ll think of something.”
And just like that, I’m out.
The noise of the site is a welcome shift, grinding saws, the thud of hammers, the rough banter of the crew. It’s loud enough to drown out the shit rattling in my head.
I throw myself into the work, unloading drywall from the truck and hauling it inside without pause. My shoulders burn, sweat sliding down my back—but the ache is good. Something I can control.
“You’re gonna rip that attitude right through your shirt if you’re not careful,” Trent calls, leaning against a stack of timber with a smirk.
I shoot him a glare, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. “Didn’t realize hauling drywall was a felony.”
He shrugs. “It’s not. But you’ve been swinging that hammer like it owes you money. Wanna talk about what’s crawled up your ass today?”
I shake my head and turn back to the job, hoping he’ll drop it.
He doesn’t.
“You gonna stand there all day, or actually work and earn that paycheck I’m paying you?” I snap.
Trent’s jaw tightens. “You might sign the checks, but this is my damn site. I’m the foreman. If you wanna come in hot ’cause someone pissed in your cereal, fine—but leave the attitude at the gate. You’re the boss. Set the tone.”
He storms off before I can fire back, leaving me standing there with nothing but dust, sweat, and the weight of my own foul mood.
I guess everything I touch today’s gonna turn to shit.
By the time the site starts to wind down and the last of the materials are packed away, I know I owe Trent a word or at least a half-decent attempt at one.
I find him near the trailer, scratching something onto a clipboard, his hard hat pushed back on his head.
“Hey,” I say, voice low. “I was out of line earlier.”
He looks up, studies me for a second, then gives a short nod. “You were. You wanna talk about it?”
“Nah, just got too deep inside my own head.”
Trent nods his understanding. We leave it at that, the way guys do—no long conversation, no digging around in feelings. Just an understanding.
By the time I get home, I’m sore and half-covered in drywall dust. I toss my keys on the counter, head straight to the shower, and stand under the water until it runs cold.
When I finally make it to the couch, I grab my phone and thumb through unread messages. Most of them are from Brandon.
Brandon: I can’t believe you bailed.
Brandon: Great way to prove your professionalism
I stare at the screen, jaw tight, guilt crawling up the back of my neck. He’s right. I bailed this morning, and that’s on me.
With a frustrated sigh, I toss the phone onto the coffee table and crack open the beer I grabbed from the fridge—not that I even want it.
The game’s on, volume low, more noise than entertainment.
Half my attention stays on the screen; the other half still fixed on the damn phone I haven’t touched since Brandon chewed me out.
I’ll show up tomorrow. Be better. Do better.