Page 11 of Sugar Coated Secrets

“Fifty to start.”

I swallow.

“Are you going to leave a card on file?”

“Yes, but I want you to personally deliver them.”

“That’s not…”

“Or I can pick them up every Monday at a specific time.”

I don’t want him in my space where I don’t have control over how long I have to be around him. If I deliver them, I can drop them off and leave.

“Delivery is fine,” I reply flatly, keeping my gaze unfocused like it doesn’t bother me that he is here again, turning my life upside down.

“Great, can I have a number to call you directly?” he asks hopefully.

“Unfortunately, I don’t give out my personal number to customers,” I reply bluntly, the words falling flat between us. “You can call the bakery, and if I’m not in, you can leave a message.” I grab the wad of cash out of the tip jar and slide it back to him on the counter. “We don’t take tips in the store when we are closed.”

His mouth pulls into a frown and glances at the money like it’s diseased, and I’m sure he knows I’m lying.

I don’t want his charity. All this time, he ordered the same cookies I gave him that day when he dropped me off. It was under a company name that I thought was a couple of towns over. A courier would pick them up every week. Same day. Same amount. He’s been out of the country this whole time, so who did he send those cookies to?

He sighs, grabs the money, and shoves it into his pocket. “Do you have the information from the credit card used for this order?”

“I do,” I mutter, barely looking up. The words slip out almost inaudible, as if he is robbing me of things to say.

He smiles like he won a rare collectible in a contest. “Good. Use that.”

“Where do you want them delivered?” I ask, trying to hide the curiosity in my tone as I tap the screen to enter the address. The need to know where he is staying burns like hot coals in my stomach.

He smiles, writes on a blank order form, and says, “Here is the number and address.”

I input the number under a new customer profile with his name. “Alright, you’re all set.”

He grabs the box, and I follow him to the door. After flipping the sign to Closed, I open the door. His blue eyes linger on my face. He bends close, his woody bergamot cologne caressing my senses, and says softly, “See you soon, Dulce.”

I close the door and watch him walk across the street. His scent still in the air.

I back away from the door. A shuddering sob escapes my chest. Tears prick my eyes. Memories flash unbidden like a sudden vivid snapshot. The bathtub filled with blood all around me. Screaming.

My fingers press into my temples. My head pounds, robbing me of breath. I look down my legs and close my eyes. The room spins. I take gulps of air from the sudden surge of uncontrollable panic.

“It’s a panic attack, Dulce,” I mutter. “Breathe…” I let out a puff of air through my mouth and nose. “Breathe.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and jolt when I hear a knock on the door.

I look through the storefront window and sigh in relief, opening the door when I see it’s Officer Mays. “Hey.”

“Are you ready?” he asks softly with a boyish smile.

I take a steady breath. “Yes. Um…let me get my bag and tablet.” I walk behind the counter to grab my bag, phone, iPad, and charger.

“Are you okay, Dulce?” he asks in quiet concern, careful not to push too hard.

I look up at his handsome face, trying to calm my racing heart and sweaty palms. “Yeah. I guess I’m a little tired.”

“Is this about earlier? About…”

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