Page 12 of Hooking Her Up

The middle-aged baker looks stunned at my request but warms up to it when she sees how interested Kayla is. I tune out the kitchen talk and let my eyes settle on my girl. All the tension is out of her body and her face has an honest smile as she asks question after question. The sadness I’ve grown to hate seeing lurking in the background returns when Debbie tells her she’s welcome to help out. Her demeanor goes from someone giving her the pony she’s been begging for to snatching the reins out of her hand.

“Okay, I’m about to eat my own arm,” I say, slipping my fingers around Kayla’s and squeezing.

We choose one of the small tables in the corner, with a view out on the park. Kayla smiles shyly at me and whispers a thanks.

“For what?” I ask. She can’t mean the sandwich. Doesn’t she know I’d buy her this whole place if I could?

“For asking for the tour. I was dying to see the kitchen. My mom and I are addicted to her banana nut bread.” She goes on to tell me how she’s tried to recreate it but gave up.

“How come?” I ask, sinking my teeth into my BLT.

“No time.”

“Since you’re on track to run one of the biggest investment firms in the state?”

She seems to get smaller in her chair across from me. The sadness is back, and the high color from the excitement of the tour drains out of her cheeks. I drop my sandwich to reach for her hand.

“Why are you doing it?” I ask, frustrated. Not at her, at the thing that’s tearing her apart before my eyes. “You clearly hate it.” Waving my hand at the bread display, I say, “You clearly love this.”

She nods. “I do love baking. I dream about chocolate chip cookie recipes. You can make fun of me now.”

The way she tries to joke away her passion pisses me off. “I’m not laughing.”

“Neither is my dad,” she says. “He’ll cut me off if I so much as try to work in a place like this in what little spare time he lets me have.”

Fury almost makes me hit the table, but her warm hand in mine focuses me. I have to find a way to get her everything she wants. But I’m a far cry from the richest man in town. When I ask her what she means by her father cutting her off, she says he’s told her he’ll stop paying for her college. She doesn’t finish the sentence and I have a sinking suspicion that not seeing me is part of the deal.

I’m torn. How can I give her everything she deserves if the very act of being with me is going to make her lose everything?

But she’s mine. I won’t let anyone steal her away from me. And I won’t let anyone steal her dreams.

“Finishing school is that important to you?” I ask.

She swallows her bite of ham and cheese, and her eyebrows scrunch together as she considers my question. “Actually, I’ve gotten everything I need from it. If I wished on a pumpkin or something, I’d use what I learned to start my own business. Maybe keep taking management courses, but those are available online. Whenever I’m in class, all I can think about is how much more I’d rather be practicing the perfect whole wheat loaf.”

Once again, she looks embarrassed, as if her dreams are worthy of being mocked. I realize it’s because someone’s been telling her that her whole life. I can’t believe I want to punch her father when we’ve barely spoken three words to each other, but if he’s the one who’s made her feel this way, he deserves it.

My mind reels, but Kayla is smiling again and digging into her lunch with gusto. I get distracted by her tongue darting out to lick a drop of mustard from her lower lip and my vision blurs.

“That doesn’t sound impossible,” I say, reaching to drag my thumb across the spot she just licked. There’s nothing there anymore, I just have to touch her, completely focused on her lips. Her cheeks go red and her eyes dance from mine down to my own mouth. “I think your problem is that you’re wishing on a pumpkin. Who the hell wishes on a pumpkin?”

Her laughter tightens my chest and she shrugs. “I don’t know. Isn’t there a pumpkin in Cinderella?”

“I don’t know either,” I admit. My dad certainly wasn’t reading fairy tales to me when I was little. There was too much work to do during the day and nighttime was for drinking while I sat in front of the tv and ate canned soup. “You know, when I was about six, my dad had a girlfriend for a short time and she used to make the best peanut butter cookies. The house always smelled good before my dad’s drinking scared her off.”

Her brows shoot together and she squeezes my hand. “I can make you some peanut butter cookies,” she says shyly. “I don’t know if they’ll stack up to your memories, but I’ll try.”

How can my chest get any tighter without knocking me out? “You think you can steal some time to do that?” I tease. She nods, sending her blonde hair cascading over her shoulder. “But will you be able to sneak them to me?”

I want to still be teasing, but I hate that she has to break rules to see me. Her father never even gave me a chance before deciding I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I’m not. But for now, I’ve been able to put a real smile on her face.

“I’ll find a way,” she promises.

“I’m holding you to that.” God, I really just want to hold her.

After lunch, we meander back to the duck pond with half a loaf of day-old bread. Ripping a chunk off, she heaves it into the water and then scowls toward the tall building she thinks she’s going back to. Dragging her eyes away, they settle on the rickety merry-go-round that’s chugging in circles on the other side of the pond.

“Every year, I wait for news about that old thing bursting into flames,” she says.

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