Page 25 of You Cake My Breath Away

He blinks like he’s clearing away a haze. “No, Til.”

“Forget it.” Tears prickle my eyes, and I turn away from him, chest painful and tight. “I’ll find someone else to finish the work.”

A hand lands on my arm, the touch achingly soft. The small dose of what I’ve been missing floods my system and steals my breath. It’s quickly pushed away as anger and hurt simmer beneath my skin. I yank my arm out of his grasp and wipe away the tears I can’t stop from falling. “Don’t touch me.”

“Tilly, that’s not what I—” Archer’s voice is strained, but I don’t let that deter me from my retreat. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“Just go.” I walk toward the bathroom, a thread at my back pulling taut as if this moment isn’t finished. Anger, bitterness, and something like yearning swell behind my ribcage. I shouldn’t want him to stay, to try to make up for all the things he’s said and the ways he’s made me feel, but there’s a part of me that does.

With the closed door, I finally break down and allow the conflicting emotions to overwhelm me as I scrub at my arm, trying to remove his touch. Tears run down my face, mixing with snot and sadness as I lean against the stall and wait to hear the telltale sign of Archer’s departure. If I want my bakery to succeed, I’ll have to find a new carpenter or learn how to do it myself.

***

A loud scraping noise jolts me to awareness. Through heavy lidded eyes, I scan my surroundings and a cloud of confusion forms. Bright light spills into the room from the opened door, and like cogs shifting, my mind wakes up to the fact that I’m on the bakery floor, covered with strips of wallpaper.

“Did you sleep here?” Archer sets a thermos and his toolbox on the bay windowsill.

I swipe my arm across my mouth and catch the sliver of drool left from my chaotic dreams. My bones crack as I rise from the floor and roll up the wallpaper, careful to not bend it.

“Tilly?” Archer asks, a hint of worry to his voice.

Emotion I thought I beat down last night bubbles back to the surface, and the ache in my chest flares again. I ignore him and place the rolls underneath the makeshift table as he moves around the room.

My gaze follows him as he takes in all the work I did last night: the top half of the wall now covered in blue chevron paper, the tape along the walls where the wainscoting panels will go, the bookshelf that gave me gray hair overnight.

Archer’s wearing a tight, green shirt that hugs his toned biceps and pants that look entirely too good around his ass. He stands in front of an admittedly poor excuse for a bookshelf with his hands on his hips and my stomach flips. Like a string cut from a marionette, his head falls.

Shame rushes up my spine and curls around my collar.

“Did you do this by yourself?” he asks.

I bite my cheek to stop from saying what I really want to say, which is that I don’t trust anyone else to bring Jessie’s vision—our vision—of the bakery to life.

When I don’t respond, Archer moves in front of me. “Tilda.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say.

“Tilda St. James, look at me.”

His use of my full name sends a chill down my spine and lights a fire in my bones. Lightning zips through my veins at his gravelly voice. My shoulders rise, but the embarrassment keeps my head down.

Soft knuckles push against my chin, sending zaps of electricity down my throat.

“Til.” Archer pins me with a look I’ve never seen on his face before.

Pain.

“What?” I rip my chin away and wipe the touch from my skin with the sleeve of my dusty shirt.

Three times he’s touched me, and three times my body has reacted in a way I don’t want it to. I still haven’t figured out why his touch affects me differently than others, why it makes me feel the opposite of pity and grief. Maybe it’s because he and Jessie were alike in so many ways my mind is tricking itself into thinking it’s my husband’s touch.

Arousal isn’t the emotion my body has been conditioned to feel when it’s around Archer. It’s used to hurt, to always being on defense for whatever words or looks he’s going to sling my way, but it also remembers the smiles and camaraderie of those early college years.

“You did a good job.” He leans down to meet my eyes with a smile on his face.

Blinking away the tears, I look up at him, confused by the proud look in his eyes. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. I bet that was the first shelf you’ve ever put together, right?”

---