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I can’t get my mind off her, and it sets me on edge.
One of the assistants knocks on the door with files for me to review, and I know it’s going to be a struggle to even get through them like this.
“Leave them on the desk,” I grit out. “I’m heading out for the afternoon.”
“Oh. Of course, sir,” the assistant says, tripping over himself to do what I said.
I close up my office and march down to the lobby, calling Jonas on my way.
He’s waiting for me when I get down to the curb, the car idling while he stands next to it.
“Where to, sir?” he asks, pleasantly. There’s a knowing look on his face, and ordinarily that would bother me, but I need someone to know what’s going on here because I feel like I have no clue anymore.
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I just can’t be here right now.”
He glances at me in the rearview mirror when he slides into the driver’s seat.
“Ms. Penelope is at her bakery,” he says. “I dropped her off a few hours ago. She’s seems to be doing a lot of work today to get things set up. Maybe she could use some help.”
I don’t even have to think about my answer.
“Take me there,” I tell Jonas.
He nods starts to drive.
The stretch of street that Penelope’s bakery is on is becoming familiar to me now. Before her, there was nothing here that warranted any notice. A couple of coffee shops, a place selling bubble tea and Asian treats, a beauty supply store with posters advertising hair care products in the windows.
I would have driven past it and never thought to stop.
But now, I’m drawn to the bakery like a moth to a flame, getting out of the car and pushing through the unlocked door to step inside.
There’s music playing, something bright and poppy, and I can hear Penelope singing somewhere deeper inside. Her voice is soft, more of her southern accent coming through as she sings along.
The walls have been painted, a cheery pastel green that looks a lot more welcoming than the industrial beige they were before. There are curtains on the window again, in soft blues and golds, and they brighten up the space.
Most of all, her scent is woven through the place, and I inhale deeply, letting the lemon and lavender scent soothe my nerves.
I follow the sound of Penelope’s voice to the kitchen in the back, where she’s doing something with dough in a massive bowl.
She has an apron on and her hair tied back, a look of determination as well as a streak of flour on her face. She looks happy as she lifts the dough and lets it settle back onto itself, nodding as she checks the consistency of it.
For a minute, I just watch her. She seems so sure of herself, so beautiful like this. She was finding her way in our office, learning the ropes and how she could integrate herself into it, but it was never where she was meant to be. This is her place, and it’s so obvious to watch her.
The sight of her like this hits me like a truck, stealing my breath and leaving me staring, heart pounding my chest.
Eventually, she seems satisfied with her dough, and she dusts her hands off and pulls off a sheet of plastic wrap, covering the bowl with it and setting it aside, near the stove.
She looks up then, a smile spreading over her face when she sees she has company, and something leaps in my chest to see it directed at me. But then the smile fades, her expression shifting something guarded and neutrally polite when she realizes it’s me and not one of the others.
The sudden shift in her demeanor makes that lightness in my chest deflate, and it goes tight and painful instead.
“Oh. Hello, Mr. Blackwell,” she says flatly, going back to her work. She checks something in a notebook and then crosses something else out before moving over to the large industrial fridge to gather more ingredients.
“Hello,” I reply cautiously. “What are you doing?”
“Testing.” It’s a short answer, and she dives back into work, pouring cinnamon and sugar into a bowl before weighing out a measure of butter alongside it.
It’s like I’m not even there for a few minutes, and she doesn’t so much as glance my way.