Page 53 of Mountain Daddy

Rosa barrels out of her car and to my side, flashing Nikolai a smile. Arms full of crumpled papers. Hair an utter disaster. Panting. Wild-eyed. Late, as always.

“I know, I know—I’m behind. Just tell me where to start.”

Nikolai stares her down like he’s ready to kill. With eyes like knives and jaw tight.

He doesn’t like this interruption.

I, on the other hand? I could kiss her.

I hook my arm through hers. Grateful. Shaking. Saved.

“Plenty to do,” I say. “Let’s start now.”

And without looking back, without another breath?—

I walk away. Leave him standing there with the question still burning and my answer locked tight behind my teeth.

I can feel him watching as we walk into the bakery. He knows I’m running.

And something tells me he’ll be back.

And he is.

Two hours later, when the morning rush finally dies down, the bell chimes.

Nikolai walks in carrying a toolbox.

My heart does that stupid fluttering thing. The same thing it does every time I see him.

“Need something?” I ask, trying to sound casual while preparing for the worst.

“Noticed you have a broken chair.” He nods toward the corner table where one of the wooden chairs sits with a wobbly leg. “Thought I'd fix it.”

I blink. “You want to fix my furniture?”

“Problem with that?”

I don’t have an answer.

He kneels beside the broken chair. Opens his toolbox.

And with the same hands that can shatter ribs, I watch him thread glue. Tighten bolts.

I watch. Even though I shouldn’t. Black sweater. Sleeves shoved up. Forearms inked with dark poetry.

That little line between his brows appears as he focuses. Like his world has narrowed to the crack in the wood.

And I can’t stop staring. Can’t stop remembering what those hands did to me. On me. Inside me.

God help me.

The bell chimes again. Mrs. Patterson shuffles in, leaning heavily on her cane. She's eighty-three, comes in every Tuesday and Friday for a blueberry muffin and coffee with extra cream.

“Morning, sweetie,” she calls to me, then sees Nikolai. “Oh my.”

He looks up. “Morning, ma'am.”

Mrs. Patterson's wrinkled face lights up like Christmas morning. “Well, aren't you a tall drink of water. I'm Eleanor Patterson. And you are?”

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