Page 64 of The Fire We Crave

It’s as though someone has flayed me wide open. A wellspring emerges in my chest, and I do as he says.

He rubs his hand over my hair once, and I lean into it before he snatches his hand away and glances at my peace offering. “What’s that?”

“It’s healthy. It’s a slice of banana topped with a thin layer of peanut butter that’s been dipped in dark chocolate, then sprinkled with sea salt and chopped nuts.”

Smoke looks up at me. “That’s a mouthful.”

“I call them S’Mines. You know, like S’Mores, only these are mine.”

He smiles. “You should trademark that before someone else does.”

I shrug. “Life is too short to be litigious. Please. Take one.”

Smoke does as I say, then pops the whole thing into his mouth. And I can see the moment his opinion of them changes from weird to the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

“They’re good, right?” I ask.

“Yeah. They’re really fucking good.” The words are mumbled as he chews.

He picks another one off the plate and offers it directly to my lips. It looks dainty in his hand, clad with thick rings. I open my mouth, and Smoke places it on my tongue, his eyes on me the whole time.

Tension crackles through the air as I close my mouth and savor the crack when I break through the cold chocolate. As I chew, Smoke rubs his thumb over my lips.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I look at Smoke, uncertain what to do.

He holds his palm out for it, and I dip into my pocket to grab it and offer it to him. I don’t care who it is. They can wait.

But then my heart rate leaps when I see the notification. “The alarm is going off at the bakery.”

“Let me see?” Smoke says, immediately coming alert. The mood shifts immediately.

The intensity of it.

And I feel a wash of grief that whatever was about to happen no longer will.

He takes my phone out of my hand so quickly, I haven’t had time to open the app that shows me what’s on the security cameras.

I move the plate and place it on the table before turning the phone in his hand so I can open it.

It takes a moment for the app to load. Intellectually, I know it’s only a few seconds, but it feels like forever.

There are four men looking in through the windows, then two of them break off and have a conversation we can’t understand.

But one thing is clear.

They’re Eastern European, and my heart gallops at their accents. An audible reminder of what happened last time they came to my bakery. I freeze in place.

There are many ways we can take payment if you don’t have cash.

The man’s lips, wet with spittle, were close to my ear when he suggestively implied I could work off my debt.

“The fucking Bratva,” Smoke says. Even though he’s looking at the phone, he takes a second to squeeze my shoulder, grounding me back in this moment.

His own phone is on the table, and he reaches for it and dials someone’s number. “Wraith,” he says finally. “The Russians are at the bakery. Out back. Four of them. Maybe more of them in town, I’m not sure. I’m headed there.”

I don’t catch what Wraith says.

“Meet you there,” Smoke says, suddenly jumping up from the sofa and marching towards his room, taking both our phones with him.

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