Page 34 of Forget Me Knot

“I… I didn’t say…” I stammer and freeze up even more when Dinah takes a step closer and nuzzles the cat, who’s grown uncharacteristically docile in the past few minutes.

“I think you two are gonna be just fine.” She coos and gently pets him behind the ears, but all I can think about is how she smells like a perfect combo of sugar and warm bread and honey.

“Did I wake you up?” It comes out as more of a whisper than I intend, but she’s standing so eerily close, it makes my innocent question feel much more intimate.

Were you sleeping in those adorable pajamas? Did you read a book before bed? What were you dreaming about? Did you just wake up? What’s your morning routine? Do you jump out of bed right when the alarm goes off or do you linger there, savoring the warmth and comfort a little longer?

“No. I had to be up for dough prep this morning, test out some new recipes, and wait on my grain delivery.” Her teeth begin playing with that bottom lip again, a nervous tick I think, and though her hands stay on the cat, her eyes lift to mine. “Do you… Do you wanna see?”

“See your grain delivery? No, I’m good. I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who’s delivered your grain for months. Larry or Luke or Lawrence. Something like that. Guy seems overeager about wheat processing, and he’s always hanging around longer than necessary.”

Her eyebrow lifts, and I deflect like I haven’t been watching every person who comes in and out of her shop like a career creeper every chance I get.

“He also can’t tell the difference between a flower shop and a bike shop. Like every other person in this town. You really want someone that ignorant providing the flour for your business?”

She laughs, jarring the kitten, but the sweet sound skitters across my bare arms. “You named your shop Pedals, and you have a bike out front. It’s confusing, Jack.”

“No. My gram named itPe-T-alsyears before I took over,” I emphasize the ‘t’ and find myself grinning ear to ear back at her. “And people are idiots, Polly.”

“People like Larry, my grain guy?”

“Exactly.”

We both grow quiet, eyes stuck on one another like we’re in a staring contest. Call me crazy, but I’m not gonna be the one to break contact. I’ll win this thing, even if I have to stand in this pink hallway staring back at Dinah’s impossibly green eyes all day long.

“Do you want to make dough with me today?” she asks, and though it’s a simple question, there’s so much more stirring behind it in her eyes. It’s like she’s asking, “Do you want to be my friend?”And as cheesy as it sounds, right now in this dark hallway, it’s all I want.

“Depends.”

She bites that lower lip again and I want to fist pump, because Dinah Belle might actually be nervous. Around me. “On?”

“Will Larry be there?”

She shakes her head, and the next words out of her mouth plant a seed of unreasonable hope deep in my gut. “Just you and me, Jack. Just you and me.”

“So this is the secret to the sauce, huh?”

Dinah smiles, blowing the hair out of her face as she pours a pilsner into her pretzel dough mixture. Dressed in a white t-shirt, apron, jeans, and a pair of mint, low-top Converse, she’s so beautiful in her simplicity. She looks as if she hasn’t tried at all, yet I can’t seem to take my eyes off her. I’m entranced as she throws ingredients into an industrial-size mixing bowl without checking the amounts and mumbling under her breath, like she’s forgotten me completely.

She’s a sorceress, mixing up a brew. Casting her spell. And I am completely enchanted.

Dinah in her element is absolutely breathtaking.

“Beer and butter,” she says breathlessly. “Can’t beat it.”

When she wipes her brow and steps away from the mixer for a moment, I'm temporarily stunned by the smell of just that—beer, butter, sugar, and yeast. It’s like a warm hug. A comfort smell of sorts. One I know I’ll associate with Dinah from now on.

“My dad taught me this recipe when I was fifteen. It’s the base for all my flavors.”

I nod and quietly slip up beside her, not wanting to interrupt but finding it impossible to keep my distance.

After we separated ways in the hall earlier, agreeing to get dressed and reconvene in her kitchen, I was surprised to see her on my doorstep not ten minutes later. She’d used the now unlocked door to my loft to let herself up my stairs through the back entrance and offered to help me withCat. Then she proceeded to show him far more attention than I thought necessary, since I was vehemently determined to return him to the shelter as soon as possible.

Now,Catis resting, curled in a ball in what Dinah assures me is an escape-proof carrier nestled in the hallway where the door stays propped open. Because, according to her,he might need us for something, but she can’t have him in her kitchen due to health codes. Praise be.

It seems the little punk wore himself out coughing up fur balls in every corner of the loft and tearing up the fabric of the rug under my bed, along the kitchen runner, and on the side of the recliner Jackson bought himself last month. I honestly wish I could see the look on his face when he discovers what his little surprise has done to the “gift” he purchased for us both after I said it wouldn’t look good in the living space.

“You’re humming again,” Dinah says, shaking her head.

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