Page 37 of Cruel Alpha Daddy

“Yes, I’m okay,” I answer, trying to settle my breathing.

“You keep your secrets for now, dear. But you’ll have to tell all sooner or later.”

I nod, keeping my lips pressed shut. The love and care of the other women are almost too much for me to take. I desperately want to tell them everything and let them comfort me as we figure out what to do.

Not yet.

Jen leads me over to a nearby table, where a young woman is struggling with a pile of dough. It’s wet and gluey, sticking to the poor girl’s fingers and the bench.

“What are you making?” I ask, relieved that my voice sounds strong and authoritative.

“Bread,” she replies with some exasperation. “It never comes out right.”

“What flour did you use?”

“Ah… I don’t know? This one in the brown bag?”

I tsk a little. “That’s self-rising flour. It’s better for cakes. Did you use any yeast? Was the water warm or cold when you put it in?”

“Yeast?” the girl asks.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I snap, heading over to the supplies. I rummage through, finding the basic ingredients I need before hurrying back to the table.

“Okay, ladies,” I say. “I’m going to teach you how to make basic bread. “

The other women gather around me, and even though the pain of missing Caleb doesn’t fade, baking takes my mind off it immediately. This is so close to my usual routine back home, I feel almost content.

If Caleb was right there with the others, playing games and waiting for breakfast, this moment could be perfect.

I blink hard, forcing my mind away from the painful thoughts.

“Okay, so the first thing you want to do is measure out the flour very carefully,” I begin, waving the others in so they can watch.

“You can bake?” Lilah asks. “Like really, actually bake?”

“Yeah.” I grin, laughing softly. “I run a little bakery in Silver Meadows.”

“You what?” one of the other girls chirps. “No way!”

“Yes, way. I built the business from the ground up with my best friend, Lucy. I’m up at four pretty much every day.”

“Do you know how to make cakes?” a young boy asks. He gets up from the floor where the other kids are playing and comes over to the table, watching the dough with fascination.

“I sure do,” I say. “Are you telling me no one here knows how to bake a cake?”

“They try,” he says with an earnest look. “But so far, it just isn’t cake.”

“Watch it, Jimmy,” one of the women warns, waggling a finger. “I warned you if you keep mocking my cakes, I’ll stop making them.”

“Do you promise?” he retorts, rolling his eyes.

I laugh. “You’ve got a smart one here,” I say, winking at the other woman. “Is he yours?”

“He is,” she confirms. “Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about the smart mouth because he got it from me.”

Now all the women are laughing, and the kids are gathering around us, eager to join in and watch. I felt a sense of responsibility to these women before, but now I’m actually getting close to them. They’ve struggled in ways I can’t imagine, yet here they are, fighting for themselves and their children.

I keep my eyes fixed on the dough as I start to knead it into shape. My urge to tell them about Caleb is overpowering. I’m almost completely convinced that I could bring him here, and I’d be able to keep him safe.

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