Page 69 of Never Let You Go

“The hell you talking about.”

“You forget I saw you carry her out of here last night. Cross The Green with her on your shoulder. Hell, half the town saw you guys. And she liked it. As in. Liked. It.”

I fight the urge to punch the smirk off him. “Fuck off.”

“She’s only staying a few months, you know.”

“And.”

“And, either she works out and you only have a few months to make her see that. Or she doesn’t and you only have a few months of fun ahead’a ya.”

“Fuck off.”

“Gotcha.”

eighteen

Alexandra

It’s been a week since Christopher announced that he’s running for New England’s Best Baker, and since then, he’s been getting up even earlier than usual.

Early isn’t the right word. He literally gets up in the middle of the night. His floorboards creak, water runs in his bathroom, his door opens, and he goes downstairs.

And I can’t fall back asleep.

My bedroom is cozy. Ish. I bought a throw blanket on sale at the General Store, thick and plush and soft, white with soft pink deer and grey bears. It looks awesome rolled on the little bench under the window. And I borrowed a few mystery books at the library and a couple of romances from Easy Monday’s stash. Just the sight of them on the shelves, lit with the full moon, makes this feel like home.

Autumn mentioned they had some cool second-hand furniture at her family’s antique store. I’ve promised to visit, although I know I won’t buy anything, because that would make it look like I’m settling here.

Darn it, I’m fully awake. I should curl up on the reading nook with a book.

But I feel responsible for talking Christopher into doing that competition. And, full disclosure, being with him right now is more enticing that snuggling under the throw blankets.

I pull on some jeans and a sweatshirt, tie my hair in a messy bun, grab my phone, and tiptoe down the stairs.

I find him in the semi-darkness of the bakery, wearing nothing but faded jeans and a tight white T-shirt, his apron still folded on a table behind him. He’s leaning on one of the prep tables, reading from a thick book plopped to the side with notes sticking out, a mound of flour on the other side, pots and pans and shit lined up in front of him and behind the book. He looks like the wizard baker he is, making his magic. A hot wizard.

“Hey,” I say softly.

His head jerks up, and his face softens when he sees me.

God he’s beautiful. “Hey,” he replies. Half a smile spreads across his lips, then he says, “It’s early.”

“I feel guilty, so I came for moral support. Plus coffee, whatever. Also, I figured I could shoot some candid videos. You know, for when you’re finally worldwide famous. A making of.” I wave my phone at him.

“What do you feel guilty about.”

Funny, that’s the only thing he picks up on. I choose not to answer. “Coffee?” I ask.

“That’d be nice.”

Minutes later, I hand him his hot and naked coffee, and cradle mine—creamed and mapled.

“What do you feel guilty about,” he repeats.

“Talking you into doing that competition and—”

“It’s true,” he interrupts me. “It was you who convinced me.”

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