Page 37 of The Promise Of Rain

“Yeah?”I raised my eyebrows.“That’s impressive.”

She stood a little taller.

“You didn’t have a contractor?”

She shook her head, her eyes flitting up to mine before skittering away.

Then she smirked.“Considering the only contractor around here was Baxter’s father, it wasn’t an option.”

She schooled her face.

What was that about?

Clearing her throat, she continued, “Miller and his wife Maxine helped me a lot.Eric and John kicked in for some of the bigger items like the floor and,” she knocked on the marble-topped display case, “this.”

“Good friends,” I murmured, jealous I wasn’t also here to help her.Like I should have been.

She hummed, hugging herself tighter.“I still have a few things to fix out here.”

With my first cursory glance, I noted the baseboards needed replacing, as did the frame around the front window.“Like what?”

She waved a hand nonchalantly but didn’t answer.

I frowned.She didn’t want help from me.Or maybe she didn’t want to ask?

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, I’m good.Baxter is going to fix the baseboards…” Her eyes widened as she raised them to meet mine.

I gave her what I fucking hoped was an encouraging nod.“Go on.Baxter is going to fix the baseboards and what else?”

She swallowed but continued, her voice hoarse.“The window frame, and the grease trap needs replaced.”

I nodded.“You guys are friends again?”

She wagged her head back and forth then focussed on my face.“Maybe.Kind of.I don’t think we’ll ever be like we were, but things are better.”She cleared her throat and met my eyes.“I want peace and part of that means being friends with Baxter and Maggie.”

“Then you should be friends with Baxter and Maggie.”

She narrowed her gaze.“It doesn’t bother you?”

As soon as the words passed her lips, she realized her mistake.“Um—"

Triumph blasted through my chest.Because if we weren’t planning on moving forward together, my feelings wouldn’t matter.

My lips twisted to the side.“I think my jealousy has caused enough problems,” I murmured as I pulled a stool away from the counter and sat down.

Other than a few cinnamon rolls and a handful of dinner rolls, the case was empty.

Those cinnamon buns were one of the first things Jenny learned to make on her own.She spent weeks perfecting the recipe before presenting it to Ansel.

Late one Sunday morning, frustrated to the point of tears, she set the third batch of freshly rolled buns to rise in hopes this one would produce the results she wanted.I stood behind her in our tiny kitchen, lifting her silky hair off her neck and kissing the tender spot behind her ear as she fretted.

I remembered the delicious shudder followed by the soft moan inviting more.

Minutes later, I took her down to the kitchen floor, cinnamon buns abandoned and left to rise for double the time as I licked sugar and cinnamon off her flat stomach before wrapping her beautiful body around mine.

That batch became the prototype for the ones in the case before me.Those fucking things haunted my dreams, the faintest hint of sugar and cinnamon dragging me down memory lane no matter where I was or what I was doing.