Page 7 of Be Mine

La watches as I walk past. No sense going the long way around to bakery now. Her eyes widened in awhat the fuck was thatlook. I just shake my head in response. I need to check the calendar, confirm it’s actually Friday the fourteenth instead of the thirteenth. Because the way this day is going, I’m seriously questioning myself.

Chapter Six

Frankie

Cynthia is in a tizzy. Our popular heart-shaped sugar cookies are sold in packages of six, and it appears we’re all out of the clear containers for them. Taylor and I scoured the back shelves, but there’s nothing, and we won’t get a new shipment in until next week. With school and work about to be over for the day, we need to make sure our displays are stocked for the inevitable rush of last-minute shoppers.

“Frankie, run by the meat department and see if they can lend us some, would ya? I’m sure they use a similar size for their ready-to-cook meals,” Cynthia calls out, prepping all the cookies in groups of six.

I got enough of my own shit to do. I still have four orders left to finish and I want to make sure the cake display is filled for the evening shift.

Ridding myself of my gloves, I toss them in the trash and run my sweaty palms down the front of my apron. I cut through the back, past the baler, and shipping and receiving rather than walking across the floor.

Hesitantly, I push through the strip curtains into a large room comprised mostly of stainless-steel tables and appliances. It’s cooler in here than in the bakery, and the overwhelming odor makes me gag. I wonder how someone can spend every day surrounded by the stench of death.Sugar, Sugarby The Archie’splays low from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner of the room. Interesting choice of song for someone who spends his time carving up dead carcasses.

I was reluctant to come back here. My encounter with Noah at lunch was intense. The way his icy eyes pinned me, the animosity emanating off him was so thick, I could have choked on it. At first, I was embarrassed for being caught staring at him, but the whole atmosphere of the room shifted as soon as he raised his eyes from his book. There’s something sinister hiding behind his pretty boy exterior.

Speaking of…said man has his back to me, and I’m wondering if he is unaware of my presence or makes a habit of ignoring me. He softly whistles to the tune of the upbeat song, and I can’t help but gape at how massive he is as he towers over the steel table. Even in the thick butcher coat, I can see the muscles bunching and flexing in his back as he cuts away a large chunk of meat from some ribs, the sharp knife sinking into the muscle like butter. He then flips the rack over and slides the blade between the bones, separating it into portions to be packaged. He works with such precision, every slice practiced to perfection.

My eyes slide over to the right where dozens of knives, cleavers, and saws hang, their metal glinting in the harsh lights. My mind instantly drifts back to this morning, to the heart in a box. Swallowing down the nerves, I move forward. Noah’s movements halt, his arms held tightly to his sides. His hands brace against the butcher block, the left still clutching the knife he was using to carve. His reaction makes me falter. I’m ready to ask him what the fuck his problem is, to settle this shit, but then he turns his head and looks over his shoulder at me and it’s like my brain has short-circuited.

He really is painfully beautiful. His angular jaw and cleft chin. Those full lips. The way his thick dark hair is always meticulously styled, not a single strand out of place.

Taking a tentative step closer, I can feel my pulse pounding, thrumming erratically as I close the space between us. “I uh…we ran out of the eight-inch clear containers in bakery. Can we…borrow some?”

He tilts, angling his body, and continues to watch me.Fuck. Did the heat kick in or something? I feel like my body temperature went up. And my pits are sweating profusely all of a sudden.

“We can replace them. When the truck comes in.”

Still nothing.My Girlby The Temptations over the speaker and the gentle hum of the freezer is the only noise in the room. I twist my apron in my hands, waiting for something, but as the silence between us rolls on, my agitation amps up. I’m done with this guy. I have had a day; I don’t need to deal with his aloof attitude, as well.

“You know what, it’s fine. I'll just go to produce and see—"

He nods towards a cupboard to his left. “In there.” I stop abruptly. He just spoke and…Wow. His voice is so deep. The booming baritone making my scalp prickle and my insides flutter. It’s so rich and masculine and God, it’s borderline terrifying. It’s the kind of voice that you pipe up, listen, and do as you’re fucking told when you hear it. The kind of voice that demands your submission.

“Thank…thank you.”

He nods again. And I stand there like an idiot, deer in the headlight’s moment. When I come to my senses, I can feel a new wave of flush come over me, along with more perspiration. I need to invest in better deodorant.

I feel his stare with every step I take towards the cupboard. As I open the door and bend at the waist to lean inand retrieve the containers, it settles heavy over my skin, making me hyperaware of every movement I make. Straightening, I hold the stack of containers to my body, feeling like I need something between us, some sort of protection from him.

I offer him a weak smile in thanks, one he doesn’t return. He just observes me, like a predator observes its prey with patience, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce and execute the kill. My eyes slide to the meat on the butcher block, to the knife clutched in his massive hand, and I tuck tail and get the hell out of there.

My legs carry me through the strip curtains, around the back, and out onto the floor. I know I’m practically running back to the bakery, but I can’t help myself. For the second time today, Noah from the meat department has unsettled my equilibrium.

Looking up through the paned glass that separates us, our eyes clash and I see something flicker in those Artic blues of his. It feels like a bad omen, a wordless promise.

Chapter Seven

Frankie

I hoist the clear containers up and practically throw them at Cynthia. She wants more, she can get fucked or go get them herself. Taylor halts what shes doing, eyes widening, and I know she’s dying to ask what the hell happened, but Cynthia can be a bitch when it comes to employees talking while working. We will have to wait until she’s midway through packing cookies and ready to pawn the workload off on someone else.

Getting back to the last of my orders, I arrange vanilla cupcakes on a board so when I decorate them, they will look like a bouquet of pink roses. I eye the clock on the wall above the sink, and like some sick joke, it taunts me by reminding me I still have an hour and a half left in my shift. I want to be done with this day, but then I’m reminded I can’t even return to my apartment, cuddle my cat, and burrow under a pile of blankets. I should have looked online for motels with rooms available on my lunch, but this whole day has been a nightmare at every turn. There’s one not too far from here that a lot of construction guys stay at. I’ll swing by after my shift and hope they have some availability. I’d love to be staying at a swankier place in town, but minimum wage and all prohibits that.

Right on cue, Cynthia drops everything in the middle of finishing up the cookies and announces she needs to run up tothe office to see Blair, the store manager, before he leaves for the day. No sooner is she out of sight than Taylor is next to me, her workstation abandoned.

“Ok, what the fuck is going on?” I’m not sure if she’s referring to me returning from the meat department or the day in general, but I’m going to omit some truths here and stick to the easiest topic.

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