9. The Last Stop
Chapter nine
The Last Stop
The Greyhound air brakes hissed, venting a sharp blast of pressure into the freezing coastal morning.
I gripped the handrail beside the steps and lowered myself onto the icy pavement of Oakhaven.
My boots hit the ground with a dull crunch.
A gust of briny ocean wind whipped across the street, cutting straight through my practical coat.
I pulled the collar up to my chin and shivered, blinking against the biting chill.
The driver stepped out from the cab, his boots scraping over the salt-crusted concrete. He popped the undercarriage latch and dragged my battered suitcase out onto the curb.
“This is the last stop on the coastal route, miss,” he said, turning up his own collar against the draft. “Make sure you have all your bags before I close the doors and head back.”
I grabbed the handle of the luggage. The cold seeped through my gloves, stinging my fingers.
I spent a solid portion of my dwindling cash on this transit ticket, but staring down the desolate street, I knew the distance was worth every penny.
Cassian’s security team would never look for me in a place like this.
I traded a gilded cage for frozen sidewalks, and I welcomed the anonymity.
“I have everything I need right here,” I replied, forcing a polite, steady tone to mask my exhaustion. “Thank you for the help with the suitcase, and have a safe drive back up the highway.”
The man nodded, climbing back up the stairs of the bus.
“Watch your step on the ice out there,” he warned from the doorway. “The wind is brutal today, especially near the water.”
The pneumatic doors slid shut. The diesel engine roared to life, and the bus pulled away from the curb, leaving me alone in the swirling exhaust. I turned away from the fading taillights and faced the street.
A row of weathered brick storefronts lined the block, their windows frosted over from the cold.
I tugged the suitcase forward. The wheels caught on the jagged rock salt scattered across the concrete.
They jammed sideways against a frozen puddle, forcing me to stop.
I yanked the handle, throwing my weight into the motion to drag the bag over the ice.
A dull ache throbbed in my lower spine. I pressed a hand to my coat, cradling the swell of my stomach.
“Just a few more steps,” I muttered, bracing myself against the wind.
I could not stand on this corner playing the helpless socialite.
I had to find a job today, even if I ended up scrubbing floors in a back room just to earn a hot meal.
The panic that gripped me in the city was gone, leaving behind a simple, stubborn drive to secure a future for my daughter.
I leaned forward and pulled the luggage another ten feet through the slush, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk.
A warm, yellow glow spilled across the icy sidewalk ahead.
I followed the light and stopped in front of the storefront.
Faded gold lettering on the glass read The Salty Crumb.
The rich, overpowering aroma of melted butter and yeast drifted out into the frigid street.
My frozen fingers fumbled for the latch, pressing down hard to force it open.
I pushed the door open.
I dragged my bag over the threshold, letting the door click shut to trap the glorious heat inside.
I released the suitcase, letting it stand on the floorboards just inside the entrance.
The heat of the bakery washed over my freezing skin, thick and inviting.
I unbuttoned my coat to let the warm air soak into my sweater.
A set of pristine, empty display cases lined the front of the shop.
I took a hesitant step toward the cash register, wondering if I should knock on the counter to announce myself.
The bell above the entrance jingled. The door swung open, dragging a vicious blast of freezing air inside.
A man barged past my suitcase, tracking gray slush onto the floor. He wore a stained neon construction jacket, his face ruddy from the cold. He marched directly to the counter and slapped his hand against its surface. He stared at the empty register.
“Hey! Is anyone working this place?” he shouted toward the back of the shop. “I’ve got a shift in ten minutes, and I don’t have time to wait around for service!”
The swinging doors behind the counter burst open.
A woman backed out of the kitchen, her boots sliding on the tile.
She gripped a massive baking tray securely between oven mitts.
Waves of heat rolled off the fresh pastries, fogging her glasses.
She strained under the weight, her arms trembling as she searched for a safe place to set the hot tray down.
The man did not move to help. He just crossed his arms and glared at her, annoyed by the delay.
If I just stood by the door looking like a lost tourist, I was going to freeze on the streets tonight. I needed wages, and calming down angry, demanding men was the exact skill I spent years perfecting under Arthur Kensington’s roof.
I stepped up to the customer side of the counter. A tiered wire display stand sat near the register, occupying the only clear section. I reached over the glass, grabbed the metal frame, and shoved it aside. The metal scraped against the surface, clearing a wide spot.
“Put it right here,” I said, pointing to the open space.
The woman didn’t hesitate. She rushed forward and dropped the tray. It clattered against the counter, sending a fine mist of powdered sugar puffing into the warm air. She leaned over the pastries, breathing hard as she tried to wipe the condensation from her glasses with the back of her wrist.
The man in the construction jacket scoffed, gearing up to shout.
I braced my hips against the glass display case and squared my shoulders, blocking his view of the woman. I did not flinch, and I did not apologize. I channeled the exact tone I used when a floral vendor missed a deadline for Octavia’s gala—authoritative, unyielding, and polite.
“She is bringing out the fresh trays right now, sir,” I said, holding his gaze. “If you want to tell me your order, I will have it organized for her to ring up the second her hands are free.”
The man blinked. He looked at my pregnant belly, then at my shoulders.
My quiet, unbothered tone took the momentum right out of his anger.
An impatient construction worker screaming about morning coffee was a trivial nuisance compared to a billionaire threatening to ruin a caterer’s life over the wrong vintage of wine.
He uncrossed his arms, adjusting his stance. He reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“Yeah, fine,” he muttered, dropping a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the glass. “Two large coffees with skim milk, and three almond croissants.”
I nodded, maintaining a tight smile.
“Make sure the lids are actually tight this time.” He scowled.
The bell above the door chimed, cutting through the low hum of the commercial refrigerators.
Silas pushed into the bakery, carrying a toolbox.
Sawdust coated the shoulders of his winter jacket.
He stomped a layer of dirty snow from his boots on the entry mat and strode toward the front counter. He ignored us entirely.
The woman behind the counter let out a relieved sigh. “Silas, thank God. The sink has been acting up, but I didn’t expect you this fast.”
“I was already down the block,” Silas said. He pushed through the swinging gate at the end of the counter. “Let me get under there before the floorboards warp.”
He dropped the box onto the floor. Silas didn’t hesitate, falling to his knees and ducking his head to wedge himself into the cramped cabinet beneath the sink basin. The scent of damp wood and engine grease drifted up from his jacket, overpowering the sweet smell of the baking pastries.
Water dripped in a steady rhythm from a loose joint, splashing against the floor. Silas wiped the moisture from the pipe with his bare thumb. He reached into his open kit and pulled out a long wrench, rolling the adjustment nut.
“Watch your step back here,” Silas said to the owner. His voice sounded muffled inside the wooden cabinet. “Gemma, the copper fitting looks shot.”
I stepped back to give them space, staring down at his scuffed work boots sticking out from under the counter.
Cassian never fixed anything in our penthouse.
If a pipe leaked in the Kensington estate, my husband would sigh, summon a team of concierge plumbers, and retreat to a luxury hotel until the inconvenience disappeared.
This man simply grabbed his tools and went straight to work without turning the repair into a grand, controlling spectacle.
He didn’t demand an audience, and he didn’t require obedience in exchange for a functioning sink.
Gemma finally caught her breath. She looked at me, taking in my winter coat and the suitcase parked by the door.
“I saw how you handled that contractor,” Gemma said, wiping her hands on her flour-coated overalls. “Do you have actual customer service experience, or was that just a fluke?”
“I managed logistics for high-end catering events for years,” I replied, recognizing the lifeline. “I can run a register, and I can keep a line moving.”
The wrench squeaked as Silas locked it around the damaged pipe below the sink. He braced his forearm against the cabinet wall, applying pressure to the stubborn joint. He grunted under the strain.
Gemma’s eyes dropped to my stomach. “I need someone to cover the front counter while I bake. But it’s a lot of hours on your feet.”
“I can handle the hours,” I said, my voice steady. “I just moved here, and I need the wages.”
A soft hiss of trapped air escaped the pipes, followed by the scrape of tightening threads. The noise echoed against the quiet drone of the bakery.