Page 68 of The Broken Note

There are flowers scattered everywhere. A table set with a white cloth. Candles lit. Breakfast laid out.

A feast.

A quiet breath gets caught in my throat.

I blink and blink, but the scene before me doesn’t change.

“This way,” Dutch says, putting his hands on my waist and nudging me forward.

A blazing fire tears through me when his fingers settle on my side. It feels amazing when he touches me. Scarily so. I swat his hand down to hide my reaction. He smirks as if he knows he makes me nervous. As if all this fire and tension doesn’t scare him as much as it scares me.

Swallowing hard, I remain standing after Dutch pulls out a chair for me.

“What is this?”

“Breakfast,” he says. As if it’s obvious. As if I’m the weird one for wondering why a classroom suddenly looks like a date.

Caught off-guard, I wrestle to keep my anger in the forefront. It’s difficult though. My heart is melting and my knees are getting weak.

Don’t fall for it, Cadence. It’s just another ploy.

“I don’t have time to play games with you, Dutch. I have work to do.” I turn away and he snatches my hand.

Bringing me back to the table, Dutch says simply, “Martina.”

The door creaks. A stocky woman, flanked by two other middle-aged ladies, step into my line of sight.

“I’ll sort out Cadey’s work service with Principle Harris later,” he says calmly. “For today, can you…”

“Of course.” Martina smiles and winks at me. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

I grip the back of my chair, feeling awful. “No, I can’t let you—it’smyjob. I’ll clean.”

“You’re fine, señorita.”

“Let me at least help.”

“If you help us, we don’t get paid,” she explains with a frown.

“But—”

“Sit, Cadey,” Dutch growls.

My nostrils flare. I whirl on him. “What iswrongwith you?”

The door clicks shut as Martina and her friends disappear.

“Have you eaten breakfast?” Dutch asks calmly, pouring me a glass of orange juice.

My chest feels stuffy. It’s like a ball of sharp needles has been set loose inside me. Every time it bounces against my ribs, against my heart, it punctures something important.

“I asked my friend, Chef Kraus, to cater. He doesn’t usually make breakfast, but my mother worked with him before he got his television show and—”

“I don’t want your stupid pancakes.” I swat the flat, round pastry to the floor.

Dutch’s eyes follow the descent, stopping at where the pancake sticks to the ground.

My chest is heaving.

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