Page 13 of Cowboy and the Convict

“I’ll be out in just a sec.” Janie’s voice sounded pleasant, but a little strained, as she called out from the back room.

He waited at the counter, ignoring the anticipation curling through his stomach. He was just there to make sure she was feeling better. That was all. Once he knew she was fine, he’d put any thoughts of tucking Janie into bed—and the way she moaned when his hands were on her—out of his mind forever.

Or at least until his girls were older and didn’t need him the way they did now.

Janie rushed out of the back room, wiping her hands on a towel. Her steps slowed when she saw it was him waiting for her and a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He took in her appearance, looking for any sign of how she was recovering from the night before. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with an apron tied across her front. The long length of her curly dark hair was piled on top of her head, giving him a look at the tiny butterfly tattooed just behind one ear.

He’d never really noticed tattoos before, but right now he was wondering what other hidden designs Janie might have inked into her skin.

Clearing his throat like it would also clear his mind, Devon dropped his eyes to the empty display cases. “Looks like you guys sold out.”

“We always sell out.” Janie’s steps were slow but steady as they continued carrying her closer. “Was there something specific you were hoping to get?”

“Actually…” He scratched at the rasp of hair growing along his jaw. He hadn’t had time to shave before beginning his shift thanks to Olivia’s urgent need to be dropped off at her friend’s house so they could practice homecoming hairstyles for the upcoming dance. “I came to see how you were feeling.”

Over the past few years, he’d witnessed just how fucking awful periods could be. It had given him a whole new respect for the women of the world. Especially when he knew they still had to go to work or school, powering through the pain and discomfort.

Over and over and over again.

Janie shrugged. “I’ve been worse.”

As she reached the other side of the counter, he could see the slight pinch of her expression. The lack of color in her cheeks. The barely hunched way she stood. It had him gritting his teeth to hold in the suggestion that she should have called in sick. Not just because he knew that wasn’t an option—calling in sick every month would likely make it hard to keep a job—but also because he knew she fucking hated it when he offered suggestions. No matter how well-intentioned.

For whatever reason, Janie didn’t understand he was just trying to help and she took his recommendations and advice as a personal offense.

But it wasn’t in his nature to walk away from someone who needed help, regardless of the feelings they had—or didn’t have—for him. Never had been. That’s how his life turned out the way it did. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Janie let out a huff of a laugh. "I’m pretty sure you've got way more important things to do than help me assemble cinnamon rolls."

A smile worked across his lips. He couldn't help it. "You might be surprised." He'd expected a snarky response and was prepared to go toe-to-toe with her, so this milder reaction had him relaxing a little. "I don't know if you've noticed this, but Moss Creek isn't exactly a crime hot spot. Most of my job entails helping people stranded on the side of the road and running interference when a cow gets loose." He motioned to the white cotton wrapped around her midsection. "You got another one of those? Probably wouldn't be a good look if I walked back into the station covered in white powder. Everyone would think my shift was way more exciting than it really was."

This time Janie's laugh was a little louder. "That actually makes me want to give you an apron even less." Her eyes stayed on him for a few seconds as she pinched her lower lip between her teeth. Finally, she sighed, rolling her eyes. "Fine. But only because I feel like fucking shit and I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to."

He followed Janie into the back room of The Baking Rack, getting his first look at the behind-the-scenes area of one of Moss Creek’s favorite establishments. Like Janie's home, the place was fucking immaculate, and he wondered who was responsible for that. Dianna was a great businesswoman, and definitely not afraid of hard work, but the perfectly aligned bins and gleaming floors would take something more neurotic than simple business sense.

Something that might border on OCD.

"This place is spotless, isn't it?" He scanned the large central island, taking in the perfectly organized system covering its surface, as Janie grabbed an apron from one of the hooks lining the wall. "It looks like you have this down to a science."

She handed him the crisp white cotton, a smile teasing her mouth. "Nobody wants to eat somewhere dirty." She waited as he tied on the covering, her eyes barely narrowing. "And I don't have a lot of time. Doing it in an assembly line style is what goes the fastest." There was a hint of her usual sharpness edging into her tone. Like she was just waiting for him to piss her off.

He held both hands up, hoping he wasn't already fucking up this truce they'd found their way into. "I wasn't passing judgment. I was just making an observation."

"Yeah? Well," Janie pointed at a large rectangle of dough spread across the counter, "observe less and spread filling more." Her admonishment lacked the snark she usually directed his way.

Not hiding his smile, Devon tipped his head. "Yes, ma'am."

He took his spot at the stainless-steel counter, listening carefully as Janie gave him directions. Once she'd shown him how much of the filling to scoop out, and where to stop the spread so the seam would close properly, she left him to his task and went to work rolling out the next rectangle.

His job was relatively simple and required only the most basic amount of focus, so he was able to watch her as she worked, taking in the skilled, precise movements she used to work the next lump of dough into a perfectly formed rectangle.

"Looks like you've done that a time or two." Devon scooped out the next portion of buttery, sugary filling, dropping it into the center of one rectangle as Janie moved down the row. "How many of these do you make every day?"

Janie didn't slow her motions as she continued squaring off another plot of pastry. "We usually sell about a dozen trays’ worth from the cases, and a dozen more full trays from the back. Each of these rectangles makes a dozen, which is one tray, so in total I make two hundred eighty-eight rolls." She finished up her current rectangle then grabbed another plastic-wrapped piece of dough from the giant bucket in the center of the counter and slapped it into the next available space. "I can fit six on the island at a time, so I do them in half-dozen groups, rolling all the dough out, then adding the filling, then rolling each one into a tube, then cutting." She adjusted the edges of the rectangle in front of her before continuing. "Then I do it twenty-three more times."

He stared at her for a second, stunned by the numbers. It was easy to see that The Baking Rack sold a shit-ton every day. The line was always out the door, even in the coldest and hottest weather. The few times he'd had enough wiggle room in his morning to sneak in for a treat before his shift, the special orders had been stacked high. "And that's just the cinnamon rolls?"

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