Page 12

We’re in an alley. Next to a dumpster.

As the smell of garbage permeates the air, I’m seriously left questioning Dalton’s idea of romance.

Pulling me toward a nondescript door covered in graffiti and tags, Dalton bangs on it twice.

“I better be leaving here with both my kidneys.” I grumble, eyeing the fence at the end of the alley blocking us in and the black bags abandoned there that too many murder podcasts tell me could be the bodies of Dalton’s other victims.

Dalton pounds again. His smile quirking into that half smirk. “Oh, you’ll willingly give up a kidney just to walk inside this place after you’ve eaten their food.”

The heavy metal door swings open, just missing his shoulder.

An older woman with stark grey hair cut short to her scalp stands in the frame, hands wiping on a dishtowel, her denim apron spattered with flour.

The second she sees Dalton, the serious lines around her mouth twist up into a beautiful smile.

The rank scent of the alley vanishes as a gust of warm air envelopes us, smelling of fresh bread and coffee.

“Do not bang on my door like some heathen, young man. You’re early.” There isn’t an ounce of scolding in her tone, despite the harsh words. “Now, you better get your ass inside and give me a damn hug.” She snaps the dishtowel at him with a loud crack and steps back to let us in.

I love this woman.

Dalton’s arm sweeps to let me step inside first. With a smile at the lady, I offer a polite hello as I pass.

I don’t miss the appraising slide of her eyes.

I pause in the tiny room covered in tan tile that houses a mop bucket and slop sink, unsure where to go next.

As he passes, Dalton grabs the older woman in a bear hug, plucking her off the ground and carrying her inside the cramped space.

She swats at him until he sets her back down.

“Kathy, this is Jenna. Jenna, Kathy.” Dalton motions between us in the crowded space.

I offer my hand first, surprised by the strength of the older woman’s grip. Despite the long, fragile look of Kathy’s fingers, it’s clear she’s used them for hard labor.

“Nice to meet you, dear. You know, he never brings his girls around. He’s too afraid we’re going to judge them.

” She shoots Dalton a motherly look before smiling.

“Which, of course, we would.” Her blue eyes swivel back to me, dancing with repressed laughter.

But I can feel the truth in the words. She cares for the man standing next to me.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not one of his girls,” I counter. “He and I have a business agreement—today is purely professional. Dalton’s lucky I agreed to his terms.”

“I’m lucky I got up early enough to catch you trying to ditch me. I can’t think of the last time I had to work this hard to get a woman to go on a date with me.

Kathy elbows Dalton with a twinkle of mischief. “I like her. Jenna, keep him on his toes. He needs it. Now, I’ve got customers to feed. Come on!”

I have to squeeze back to let Kathy pass, pressing flush against Dalton.

Instead of edging away to make room, Dalton leans in.

His hips press against the curve of my ass as his warm hands slip to my waist to steady me.

The contact lasts only a few seconds before I step away to follow Kathy, but the electricity sparking between us lingers.

Dalton’s fingers flex as if contemplating not letting go, but when I step away, his hands drop.

Kathy leads us down a short hall into a sunlit kitchen.

Flour coats almost every surface, trays and mixers cover the rest. The mouth-watering smells wafting outside turn downright sinful when we walk into the small room, blazing with heat from the ovens crammed in the corner.

And damn if Dalton wasn’t right. I might just sell a kidney to eat whatever smells so good.

Two young men are working dough with a focus that mirrors my own when I’m on the job.

While their masterful motions look the part of a pastry chef, their styles are anything but.

Both are covered in tattoos, many blacked out and a few of which look gang affiliated.

When the pair sees Dalton, both light up almost as much as Kathy had.

“Benny! Vale!” Dalton raises a hand in greeting. The men jerk their chins but keep their hands focused on the dough. “How are you guys doing? Vale, any news on the custody front?”

The shorter man with a blacked-out neck tattoo puffs out his chest. “Got every other week, man. And I got her momma to agree to family therapy so we can be better co-parents. Melly is walking now. Can you believe it?”

“It’s all we hear about anymore,” says the other guy, who I presume is Benny, with an exaggerated eye roll.

Vale flicks a clump of flour at him. “Nah, we love it. Cutest damn kid you’ve ever seen.

Kathy will show you a picture. We got a shared text chain full of ‘em.” A buzzer goes off somewhere and both men glide to action, drifting like choreographed dancers.

Trays covered with golden pastries pull from the oven, as prepped ones slide into the vacated spaces.

Despite their careful movements, it’s clear they have this tiny kitchen mapped out with precision and we’re in the way.

“Catch us before you head out!” Benny hollers over his shoulder, politely telling us to get the hell out.

I aim to hurry toward the wide swinging door, from which the sounds of clinking glassware and voices are emanating, but Dalton catches my arm.

“This way.” He jerks his head towards a narrow set of stairs leading upward.

“You know where to go, kid. I’m right behind you.” Kathy shouts over the clattering of trays. “Americano with room. And for you, dear?”

“Latte, please.”

She flashes a thumbs-up and slips through the swinging door.

I follow Dalton’s wide shoulders up the steps into a bright and tidy living room filled with a hodgepodge of furniture that somehow all works.

We move through the space, headed for an open door leading to a private patio.

Photographs line the walls, one just before the patio door snags my attention.

A younger Dalton stands at a storefront, arms slung over an older woman who looks so much like him she can only be his mother.

She’s wearing a scarf around her head, her skin sallow despite the bright smile.

Next to them is Kathy and a tall man with a shaved head.

They all look elated, eyes wide, smiles so genuine it hurts.

I must have paused too long, because Dalton’s shoulder brushes mine as he trails a finger near the glass, stopping just shy of smudging the surface.

“That was taken the day they opened the place.” His finger pauses over the woman I assumed was his mother.

He pulls his hand away, but not before I notice the slight tremor.

“We’re out here.” He nods to the patio door and I take the hint that he doesn’t want to talk about the photograph.

Or the woman in it. But the name of the storefront behind the photo catches my eye.

“Second Chance,” I say, following him out onto the tiny patio.

There’s a cafe table big enough for two and a plethora of hanging herbs and plants that turn the patio into a private garden.

Aside from the street noise, I could almost forget we’re still in the city.

Dalton gestures to a chair while he takes the other.

The table is set for two, the pastries piled on a plate already have my mouth watering.

Repressing the urge to snatch one and shove it in my face, I refocus on my train of thought.

“Second Chance,” I repeat. “I saw an op-ed on this place once. It helps people get a second chance at life. They only employ ex-cons.”

Dalton grabs the pitcher on the table, pouring each of us a glass of water.

“That was Mike’s idea. Kathy’s husband. His nephew was their first hire.

Kid got busted for dealing weed when it was still illegal.

Lost two years of his life to that stupid decision.

Prison damn near killed him, but the shit part was once he got out at twenty years old, the kid couldn’t get back on his feet.

No one wants to hire an ex-con. That’s why so many fall back into crime.

How are you supposed to make an honest living when no one will give you a chance?

” Dalton taps his fork into alignment on the table, the tension pulling his lips into a thinner line.

Before loosening into a smile. “Lex was their first success story. He runs a sandwich joint of his own now in Manhattan. They’re talking about franchising this year. ”

A fissure opens in my heart. This place helps rehabilitate ex-convicts, get them on their feet so they can support themselves, their families. My eyes tingle, and I snuff out the tears with a quick sniff.

“And Benny and Vale?” I think of the men down in the kitchen, the huge black tattoos likely covering old ones they no longer want to associate with. “They seem amazing.”

“They are. Perfect examples of how successful you can be when given opportunities others take for granted.” He pushes the mound of pastries across the table, allowing me first choice. “These guys are gods in the kitchen. See for yourself.”

I want to lick every one of these decadent treats, but start with what looks like a cheese danish.

My eyes roll back in my head with the first bite. It’s heaven on my tongue. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything this good. Or if I ever have. A salacious moan escapes my lips, getting a suggestive lopsided grin from Dalton.

“Now that’s music to every pastry chef’s ears,” Kathy says, stepping onto the patio. “Americano for you and one latte.” The flawless Rosetta topping my drink is a work of art, making my fingers itch to take a photo and post it.