Page 47 of Broken Pact

We have an arrangement—a fake relationship. Which means it’s all pretend. So I don’t need to do that thing I always do in relationships where I overanalyze everything.

I shake my head and blow out a breath, focusing on the task at hand. I have more pressing issues to worry about.

Like my new landlord and his merry band of assholes, and the new raised rent prices due soon.

I bite my lip, debating the idea of asking one of my brothers or maybe even Abby to front me the money. I can’t decide which one of them I can trust to keep their mouths shut about it. I almost brought it up to Abby the other day, but she sounded so worried and stressed. I didn’t want to add to her plate.

There’s always Evie. But . . . she’s sleep-deprived and currently existing in her newborn bubble of bliss. I just can’t bring myself to pop that for her. Not yet. I can’t ask her to fix a problem for me. Not when she and Nana Jo both believed I could do everything on my own.

But I know one thing for sure: I cannot ask my parents. The twenty questions they’ll have will be nothing compared to the years of my mother muttering about how she told me so. She wouldn’t do it maliciously, but she’d throw salt on the already open wound of shame.

This is supposed to be my big thing. The one thing that was mine alone. Nana Jo believed I could do it, and I’m not going to disrespect her memory by failing.

So I’ll just have to figure it out. Get a small loan from the bank to cover it. And then take on more custom orders, pull longer hours. Maybe I could leverage my socials somehow.

I glance at the clock, noting I’ve only got a few hours before Mrs. Weatherby comes to pick up her order and the cheesecake needs two hours to chill.

I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of baking, hoping it’ll drown out the chaos in my mind. The gentle hum of the freezer, the soft clatter of utensils, and the steady whirr of the mixer provide a soothing backdrop.

But the memory of Jagger’s touch, his teasing words, and that insufferable grin keeps creeping back. I groan inwardly, frustrated with myself for letting him get under my skin so easily.

There’s a knock on the front door, and I wipe my dirty hands on my apron as I cross the room. There’s a fleeting moment of panic, fear that it’s going to be my new landlord again, but I shake my head to dismiss it. I don’t think they’d knock. Even though I changed the locks, they’d probably find a new way in.

It’s probably just Mrs. Weatherby, earlier than she thought she’d be.

My steps slow as I near the front door, the silhouette of someone visible through the colorful frosted glass panes on the front door. I thought about replacing the door with something more secure, but then I realized it’s original to the space.

And now I’m grateful I left it because it allows me to glimpse the man on the other side of it.

I turn the lock and swing open the door, ignoring the way my heart skips a beat inside my chest—she’s a traitor.

Jagger leans against the doorframe with that same infuriatingly charming smile.

“Morning, baby,” he drawls, his tone deep and raspy.

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to mask the effect he has on me. “What are you doing here?”

He saunters in, looking entirely too comfortable in my space. “Thought I’d stop by and see my girl.”

My girl. The words send a thrill through me, but I shove it down. This is just pretend. Just a means to an end. I can’t let myself forget that.

I close the door, leaning against it to watch him look around. I stomp out any self-consciousness that crawls up my throat when I try to imagine what he sees.

“Plus, I brought gifts,” he calls over his shoulder, heading straight for the counter. “Love what you did with the place, baby.”

“Right, I’m sure.” I roll my eyes and push off the door. It’s a throwaway compliment.

I haven’t done much of anything with the front of the bakery. Except for the counter, but that’s only because I take all my social media photos there.

“How well do you know your fellow neighbors here?”

My brows fall toward one another. “Why?” I drag the word out, caution heavy in my tone. There’s no way he can know about the new landlord, right?

He lifts a shoulder, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut at the movement. “Thought I saw some people I recognized a couple doors down, at the old tailor’s place.”

My mouth parts in surprise, the blunt edges of fear scraping against my ribs. Avalon Falls doesn’t have a motorcycle club like Rosewood does. It’s one of the reasons I picked this neighboring town for Sugarplum. But after last year’s walk down Hell’s pathway, I now have a healthy dose of fear when it comes to being collateral damage in a club war.

I swallow roughly. “Like other clubs?”

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