Page 60 of You Cake My Breath Away

We pass a few barns, a small gas station, and finally turn onto the long stretch of road leading back to the bed and breakfast. The parking lot is filled, so Archer parks off to the side in the grass. He helps me down from the truck, not releasing my hand once he shuts the door.

The air is breezy, but I’m warm all over when he squeezes my hand and leads me inside. I stare at our entwined hands with a sense of curiosity. Would my body have reacted this way to him years ago, or is it because I’m so deprived of touch that it feels earth shattering to mewhen it would feel normal to others? Has he noticed I’m still wearing my wedding band? Does it upset him?

Is this just attraction between us or something more?

We piddle around, looking at some of the other items going up for auction, but my attention is focused on the reason we came.

“Wanna sit in the front?” he asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice to come out even.

We grab a number card and find two open seats. A vibration on my leg steals my attention, and Archer reaches into his pocket for his phone. His mom’s name flashes across the screen, and instead of answering it, he ignores the call.

“We’re gonna start in a few minutes,” the announcer says. “Remember, no fighting, cursing, or tag-teaming to raise the price.”

Archer snorts, and I prepare myself for battle.

Chapter thirty-one

Tilly

I’ve never been to an estate sale, but I didn’t think it’d get as raucous as it does. Two naked statues bring out the claws and an elderly lady argues with a younger man over splitting them up or buying them as a set. A wrought iron chandelier goes for more money than my entire house is worth, and I realize I’m extremely out of my depth here. I came for one item, and one item only. Will I have to fight someone for it? How much am I willing to pay for a display case for my desserts?

“Looks like we might have some competition for the case.” Archer points to a middle-aged man staring intently at the next item up for sale.

They wheel the case out and my heart implodes. It’s amazing. The bottom half is a lighter distressed wood that could be sanded down and painted, and the sides of the case have beautiful artwork on them. Inside, the shelves are cracked, and the door to the back of the case needs new hinges, gaskets, and a glass pane, but everything is fixable.

I chew on my lip, gaze darting back and forth from the man to the bakery case. He rubs his hands together like he’s got an evil plan, and the announcer tells everyone to take their seats so the bidding can begin. I hold my breath, hoping everyone else looked at the case and figured it’d be too much work.

“I can fix it up.” Archer stretches his arm across the back of my chair and rubs the base of my neck. A chill runs down my arms, and I lean into his embrace. He kisses my temple, and I smile behind my number panel.

Feral Felix, as we’ve taken to calling him, doesn’t back down on the case. What started as a nice back and forth quickly spirals into a tennis match of numbers thrown at each other.

“I don’t want to pay more than three thousand for this,” I say. “If it means that much to him, let him have it.” I lay my hand across Archer’s wrist holding the number panel. His mouth is tight, and I can tell he wants to keep going, wants to get me that case, but it’s not in the budget I made. “I’ll find another one.”

“Four thousand,” Archer yells.

My mouth drops and I smack his leg. “Archibald Wilson!”

His eyes open wide at my use of his full name.

He’s lucky I didn’t call him ‘the second.’

“Sold to the man in the yellow and black flannel shirt,” the announcer calls.

“Tilda St. James,” he grits out. “There’s no amount of money that I’d let get between you and your bakery.”

Air rushes out of me, and my tiny heart grows three sizes too big for my chest. The announcer tells us where to pay for the case, and when I try to hand him a check, Archer places his in the cashier’s hand first. I squeeze his arm, trying to hold back the tears. I know he’s not trying to buy my affection, but I can’t deny his belief in me—his support—has given me a piece of myself back. Slowly but surely, Archer Wilson is wiggling his way back into my heart.

We secure the case to the truck, and something takes over my body. I’m alive, jittery, filled to the brim with emotions I can’t name. I leap into Archer’s arms and press my lips to his. Like soft pillows, they cushion mine, forming to the curves as he returns my kiss. Arms snaking around my back, he pulls me flush to him and sucks my lip into his mouth, nibbling before he releases me and exhales.

“Get in the truck.” His order, accompanied with the darkness swirling behind his eyes, lights a fire under my ass.

We get onto the road before the light rain begins. Archer’s hand rests on my leg, and I play with the longer strands of hair at the back of his head. Occasionally he’ll pull my hand in for a kiss, or rub my leg, other times we chat about my bakery plans. It’s not lost on me that he strays away from talking about his job and the potential of him leaving.

I don’t want to think about it just yet either.

A loud boom echoes through the car. My hands fly to the dashboard, heart thrashing around as Archer swerves before regaining traction. He safely pulls over to the side of the road and gets out.

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