Page 31

As much as logic told her to pull away, she didn’t. She liked being touched, liked the sexual need growing and the fact that in that moment she could melt into the floor from wanting.

Jean Paul kissed her palm again, and then he kissed her wrist and the crease at her elbow.

She kept her gaze on him, not sure if she fully trusted herself or him. Of herself, she feared she’d lose her nerve and hide. Of him, she feared he’d stop.

He shifted and tugged her arm until she stepped toward him and they were less than an inch apart. Their lips didn’t touch, but barely a whisper separated them.

“Kiss me,” he said.

She wasn’t expecting words and had to shift her brain back to conscious thought so she could speak. “What?”

“Kiss me.”

If he’d ordered her to alter a recipe or change her menu, she’d have argued with great passion. But he wasn’t asking about ingredients or baked goods. He wanted her to kiss him.

Her heart thundered so hard in her chest, she feared it would burst free. She was so scared. So unsure. And so wanting this moment. And he was Jean Paul—confident, patient, and waiting.

Finally, she moistened her lips, leaned in, and touched hers to his. It was a feather-soft touch. Maybe not an official kiss. But skin did touch skin.

He put his hand at the base of her neck and pressed her close until her lips flattened against his. As they did so, he opened his mouth and teased the underside of her top lip with his tongue.

She opened her mouth, awkward and unsure, as if she’d been transported back to high school—the last time she’d known such unexplained and terrifying wonder.

Rachel leaned into the kiss, moved to deepen it. She wrapped her arms around his neck. She didn’t know where this was going, and she didn’t care.

And that was when she heard the kitchen door open and Daisy say, “Really? Really? What are you doing?”

Rachel froze. Stiffened. She was mortified.

Jean Paul, relaxed as if he didn’t have a care in the world, looked at Daisy. “Isn’t it clear? I’m kissing your sister.”

From Rachel’s apartment refrigerator, I’d grabbed eggs and butter, and I set them on the counter.

“They really need to be room temperature,” Rachel said as she sipped her mug of wine.

“I’ve never been good at waiting. I can cheat the butter a bit in the microwave, and the eggs will have to find a way to blend cold.”

“Patience is a must.”

Mise en place—everything in its place. It’s a lesson Dad grilled into me since I could stand on a stool beside him in the kitchen. No matter how reckless or rushed, I took the time to line up the sugar, vanilla, salt, baking powder, and nuts.

When I’d come down the stairs to ask Rachel about Simon, I’d have bet a paycheck I’d never have found her in an embrace with Jean Paul. Their kiss was so not mise en place.

“You didn’t look so patient when you were kissing the baker. What was that about?”

She stared into the depths of her mug. “I’m not really sure.”

I unwrapped a pound of butter, dropped it into a ceramic dish, and popped it into the microwave.

I pressed the thirty-second button. This cheat required I pay attention.

Too many times I’d walked away thinking the butter would simply soften, and when I returned it was pure liquid.

Still delicious, but unusable for cookies.

And so I stood close, watching the butter turn in circles and soften.

At twenty-three seconds I pulled it out.

Seven seconds separated usable butter from liquid.

Seven seconds standing between success and failure.

But then bakers lived their lives on the margin. Profits were slim, hard won, the difference found in scraps of dough or slivers of bread. “Want to tell me about it?”

Her cheeks still glowed a light pink. “Not much to tell. It just happened.”

I measured brown sugar and dumped it into the butter. “How did the date with Simon go?”

“Terrible.”

I paused as I reached for a wooden spoon. “Was he rude?”

“No. He was sweet. I kept rambling about Mike and the kids. I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, but I couldn’t stop them.”

With the spoon, I mixed my cookie dough as Jenna might have. It didn’t take long, mixing the dough by hand, before my arm started to ache. I’d grown strong since I’d returned to the bakery, but like everyone I relied on the machines to do the heavy mixing and blending.

“Are you going to see him again?” I asked.

“Simon?”

I arched a brow. “One man at a time.”

That coaxed a grin. “I doubt Simon’s interested.”

I creamed the batter faster. “How can you be sure?”

“I called him Mike. Twice.”

I winced. “Okay, well, you did break the ice. You wondered what it would be like to date, and now you know. Sometimes good. Sometimes very awkward. That’s good.

” Glancing at Jenna’s careful handwriting, I measured out vanilla and cinnamon.

After mixing more, I measured the dry ingredients and sifted them together into a separate bowl before spooning one-third into the wet ingredients. “So, about Jean Paul?”

“I’ve no idea where that came from. He came up to me, asked me if Simon had kissed me, and the next thing I know, I’m kissing him.” She shook her head. “It was a one-time event. Never again. Feeling sorry for myself after my date.”

“It’s okay if it happens more than once, Rachel. You’re a big girl.”

Her eyes widened. “He’s our baker.”

“So was Mike.”

“And you don’t see the parallel? I think this is a little too close to the past to be right.” Panic turned her normally calm voice shrill.

“Mike and Jean Paul are night and day,” I said.

“He’s a baker, and he works here and complicates it all.” Rachel buried her face in her hands. “Dating is so damn much work.”

Grinning, I nudged her arm. “But you must admit, this day was pretty memorable.”

She shook her head. “Many more days like today, and I’ll have a nervous breakdown.”

The bakery’s front doorbell buzzed. I glanced at the clock. “It’s midnight.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “Do you think it’s Simon?”

“Could be.”

Groaning, she held up her hands. “I’m not here. I’ve moved to Africa.”

Chuckling, I wiped my hands. “I’ll check it out. Should I say you’re in Kenya or the Sudan?”

“Funny.” She peered toward the window in her living room, which overlooked Union Street. “Who comes to the bakery at this hour?”

“Jean Paul is working in the kitchen. Someone must have seen the light.”

“Still,” she said as she rose. “People do not visit the bakery at midnight.”

I tossed my rag on the counter. “Suppliers? A customer? A neighbor? Could be an emergency. I’ll go see.”

“Not alone. I’ll come with.”

“What if it’s Simon?”

“Then I’ll run.”

As we moved toward the first floor, I heard Jean Paul speaking to another man. The voice was too clipped and deep to be Simon’s. As I rounded the corner and saw our visitor, my mouth dropped and my belly tightened. “Gordon.”

When I didn’t move, Rachel laid her hand on my shoulder. “He’s not here for me.”

Now it was my turn to worry and entertain thought of running. “He might be.”

“No, this drama is all yours. I’m happy to sit this one out.” She pushed gently. “Go talk to him.”

I descended the remaining stairs into the kitchen and pushed through the saloon doors. Jean Paul had flipped on the lights, softening the buttery yellow on the walls. The soothing glow did little for my uneasy nerves.

Jean Paul glanced at Rachel, his gaze lingering just a split second, and then he turned and disappeared back into his kitchen. Rachel scurried back up the stairs, leaving me alone with Gordon. Coward.

The exterior light above the entrance shone on Gordon as he stood by the front door. His hands shoved in his jeans pockets, he wore a gray short-sleeve T-shirt and sneakers. Despite a downcast gaze, I could see he looked exhausted. Why hadn’t it ever been easy for us?

I moistened my lips and pushed my hands through my hair. “Hey.”

He looked up, and I got a good look at the dark circles hanging under his eyes. Once again, I’d upended his life. “I saw your light on and took a chance you were in the kitchen.”

“Jean Paul is working late.”

He frowned. “Did I wake you?”

“No. Rachel and I were trying out a recipe upstairs. We found a recipe box in one of the walls. Weird. It’s turning out to be a very interesting story.” I was blathering just as Rachel had done with Simon.

His gaze sharpened. “I didn’t come here to talk about recipes, Daisy.”

Smoothing hands over my pants, I shrugged. “No. I suppose not.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.” I stepped aside and let him into the shop and then locked the door behind him.

He glanced around. “I like the color.”

A quip came to mind. So, you came to talk about paint colors?

But I forced it to stay silent. “Thanks. The place needed a little brightening. The construction in the back is nearly done too. Soon as our electrical inspection gets done, we’ll be installing the freezer.

And the wine arrives Friday. No doubt we’ll be stocking shelves and baking all week to be ready for the opening next Saturday. ”

“Is all that work good for ...” He stopped, flattening his lips into a grim line.

“The baby. Is it good for the baby? So far, so good with the kid. The doc says she’s fine, and I’m on target for mid-December due date.” Might as well get the difficult details out of the way.

The frown lines in his forehead deepened. For a moment he didn’t speak. “You know it’s a girl.”

“Girl? No, I don’t know for sure one way or the other, but I’ve been saying her for the last few days. Makes sense, I guess.”

“December isn’t the best time for a baker to have a baby.”

“No, it’s not. But first I must get the renovation finished before I freak out about that. I did hire a couple of kids to help in the afternoons.”

“Good.”