Page 33 of Never Let You Go

“You’re right about that. Not a thing.”

“And why is that?”

“Told ya. She works for me.”

“Lot to unpack in that answer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He moves to my side of the bar and pulls a stool close to me. Then he leans over. “You coulda said she’s not your type. You coulda said it’d be weird for Skye. Hell, you coulda said she’s got bad breath.” He looks at me, like he’s giving me a chance to say something. “But no,” he continues. “The only lame-ass excuse you could come up with is that she works for you. And that’s not a reason at all to not be interested.”

He grabs the booklet from the bar, a pen from his pocket, and scribbles his own estimate of how full of shit I am.

It’d be fun if I was the kind of guy who was fine with casual relationships. Someone like Justin, for example.

But I’m not like that. It took me a while to get over what happened with Skye’s mother, and I didn’t even like her that much.

I can only imagine what it would be like to have a woman like Alexandra, only to see her leave.

nine

Alexandra

Too many beers, too little sleep.

I wake up with a dull headache, but still push the door to the bakehouse at six a.m. sharp, right on time for my first day. I’m barely awake, but I need to get through this day, and the next, and the one after that.

However many days to make up the five to six months that separate me from claiming Red Barn Baking as mine and fulfilling my grandmother’s wishes.

Small, steady steps, getting me closer to the goal.

No more late nights with too many beers for me.

The good news is, the smell of baking bread clears away my headache instantly.

The bakehouse hums with the sounds of ovens at full speed, the clatter of metal trays against metal tables, and the chatter of a handful of people working. Bright lights shake my system close to awake mode, but my eyes protest and blink repeatedly. A couple of people smile warmly at me, then go about carrying trays in and out of ovens, shaping dough, mixing things.

Strapped in a white chef jacket with a straight collar, Christopher is pacing between two rows of prep tables.

Except for a few stolen glances at Lazy’s last night, I haven’t seen him since our too-close encounter in my bathroom almost twenty-four hours ago, and I’m not sure how this morning will go.

Minutes into my first day of work, images of my boss’s naked torso and wet jeans are superimposed with his smirk as he toyed with my vibrator. My hands are clammy and my knees weak. What’s up with that?

I take a steadying breath, trying to act cool and detached as I wait for him to notice my arrival. His back to me, he approaches a petite woman dressed in the same white chef uniform as him. Leaning over, he points to something on the prep table, making her laugh, his eyes dancing in response. Their complicity is obvious, rippling through the room as others smile at their exchange. Even my traitorous body starts to relax.

Until she turns to me, her laughter replaced with an inquisitive look that bounces from me to Christopher.

Christopher’s gaze does a full swipe of my body, and I feel myself burn up with embarrassment. “Alexandra’s our new apprentice,” he says, answering her unspoken question.

She tilts her pretty face up to him. “You okay, boss? You look like you’re having a stroke,” she teases.

“And this is Kiara, our on-and-off pastry chef.”

Kiara plants her fists on her hips. “On-and-off?”

“When she’s not chasing some pipe dream in a big city, she graces us with her presence,” Christopher says, his gaze not leaving my body. “Meanwhile, Alexandra’s here to stick it to some office-bound assholes.”

Kiara seizes me top to bottom, a small smile spreading on her face. “That right?”

---