Page 7 of Finding His Redemption

Nessie had seen that look before. Mainly in her own mirror, after she’d finally escaped Alek.

She moved behind the counter, flipping switches and firing up equipment. The espresso machine screeched to life, and she winced. She desperately needed a new one.

She tied her favorite apron around her waist—bright yellow with a cartoon donut that said “Donut Worry, Be Happy”—and started pulling ingredients from beneath the counter to start the first batch of muffins. Lemon raspberry today, she decided. She wanted something bright, something that would look pretty in the pastry case. And she’d do some of the monster muffins Oliver loved—mixed berry with green frosting and little candy eyes.

But she had to get a move on. She was already behind and would only just have the first batches done by the time she opened at seven.

“Coffee?” she called over to Jax.

He nodded without looking away from the window.

“What do you take in it?”

“Black.”

Of course he did. Men like him always took their coffee black, even if they didn’t like it, as if a sweetener might somehow diminish their masculinity. She’d bet money he took his whiskey neat and his bad news standing up, too.

She bit back a smile and started the first pot brewing while Oliver climbed onto the chair across from Jax.

“Mom makes the best coffee in Montana,” he said matter-of-factly, as if he knew the difference between a good cup and a bad one. “Mrs. Pendry says it’s strong enough to wake the dead.”

“Good.” Jax’s voice was rough, like he didn’t use it enough.

“Jax, do you like monsters?”

“No.”

Oliver’s face fell, but only for a second. “What about good monsters? Like Mom’s monster? She’s not scary. She just wants to give people coffee and yummy treats and make them happy.”

Jax turned to look at her son. The man had the most fascinating eyes, not quite green, but not brown, either, and rimmed with thick lashes any woman would envy. Now those eyes watched Oliver with equal parts trepidation and fascination. “I don’t know if I believe in good monsters.”

“Well, you should. ‘Cause they’re the best kind.”

“They sure are.” Nessie ruffled her son’s hair, then turned to grab mugs from the shelf. The morning routine was familiar, comforting in its predictability. Flip the switches on the industrial coffee maker. Check the pastry case. Turn on the ovens. Count the register. In thirty minutes, she’d need to start the first batch of muffins if they were going to be ready by opening time.

But right now, she had a stranger in her bakery who looked like he might bolt at the slightest provocation. She poured the coffee into a heavy ceramic mug—one of the yellow ones with the hand-painted daisies that made even black coffee look friendly—and carried it over to his table.

“Thanks.” He wrapped his hands around the mug like it was the only warm thing he’d touched in years.

“You hungry? I’ve got day-old Danish, or I could scramble some eggs.”

He shook his head, took a sip, and couldn’t quite hide his grimace. “Coffee’s fine.”

Uh-huh, he liked it black, all right. Next time, she’d add cream and sugar without asking.

She lingered by his table, studying the sharp angles of his face, the way his shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to make himself smaller. “When’s the last time you ate?”

His jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of surprise that she’d called him on his evasion. Then the shutters came down again.

“Yesterday,” he said finally.

“Breakfast yesterday, or dinner yesterday?”

“Does it matter?”