Page 5 of Sweet Somethings

As Vincent left, he thought about getting some coffee himself. He hadn't been to Donavan's yet. He hadn't been ready to face the social scene he knew he would find there, but he had always liked the owner, Donavan Turner, and he was curious to see what kind of business she'd built.

Two years younger than him, Donavan had been a sweet kid in high school and fiercely protective of people she considered underdogs. Back then, he'd fit into that category, with half the school judging him before he ever set foot on the campus. He'd been the new kid in the tenth grade in a school where everyone had been together since kindergarten, and he hadn't made it easy for people to like him.

He'd been reckless, pissed off all the time, impatient, bitter, and…lost.

He hadn't had a clue how to release those emotions in a positive way. He'd made a lot of mistakes; he'd hurt people. And he'd been hurt.

Water under the bridge, he told himself. His teenage years had been a long time ago, and the last thing he wanted to do was relive that time in his life. Unfortunately, he didn't think he would have a choice, because a lot of the people he'd gone to school with were still in town, and there was no doubt they would judge him once again.

He'd known coming back to Fairhope would stir up gossip and old problems, but it was the closest thing he had to a home, and after being injured in action, he'd been forced to take a break from the career he loved and the circle of friends who'd become brothers to him. He'd wandered around for two months before finally getting on a plane to Fairhope. He'd needed to feel grounded again, to get his feet back under him, to recover and recharge and be part of a world where he had a connection with at least one person.

His fellow soldiers checked up on him as much as they could, but they were on the other side of the world—where he would have been, if he hadn't gotten injured, if an explosion hadn't damaged his hearing, if bullets hadn't cracked his ribs and torn through his shoulder, leaving him with poor range of motion and nerve damage that went down into his fingers.

He'd gotten a lot better. He could do most things without pain. He was working out every day, and if he could pass the physical he had coming up in a little over a week, hopefully, he'd be cleared for active duty again. It was an optimistic thought, considering the level of skill and fitness required for his job and the damage that he'd suffered, but he wasn't giving up without a fight.

Focusing his attention back on the work at hand, he ripped off another piece of drywall, only to be interrupted again by a shrill, angry female voice.

"What the hell are you doing to my house?" she demanded.

He swung around, not only surprised by the question but also by the beautiful blue eyes spitting fire at him. It was the attractive brunette from the bakery. There was no apron covering her slender but curvy frame now, and she looked even prettier in black jeans, black boots and a body-hugging bright-green sweater. Her long hair was pulled back at the base of her neck, her skin clear and shiny, although he thought he could see a trace of flour along her hairline. He had to fight the urge to lean forward and wipe it away.

"You?" she asked, more surprise in her eyes as their gazes connected.

That question made him stiffen. What did she mean—you?

---