Page 113 of Stolen for Keeps
And pressed me forward against the rough, scratchy surface of a hay bale.
The old barn creaked, the dust dancing in the beams of late afternoon light. The only sounds were our breaths, the rustle of hay, and the deliberate drag of Noah’s zipper.
“Maya.” His voice was gravelly and strained. “Tell me you want this.”
I bit my lip, gripping the edge of the hay bale, the anticipation coiling tighter. “You know I do.”
His hands traced over my hips and down my spine, his lips following the path, marking me and owning me. The firstpress he made stole my breath, a teasing slide that made my fingers curl into the dry grass, my body trembling with need.
He pushed deeper, a groan tearing from his throat. “Damn, Maya…”
I dropped my head forward. “What, Noah Lucas?” I whispered teasingly.
And then he moved.
And I shattered.
The barn walls held our secrets. And the air carried our moans as we rode that edge together, tangled in heat and recklessness.
31
MAYA
It was closing time at Butterberry Oven. Mrs. Appleby was sweeping just past the counter, near the edge of the prep space. After a few moments, she paused, her eyes flicking up beneath the brim of her headscarf.
“Maya,” she said. “I’ve got to ask something.”
I stilled over the sink in the back corner, the last cupcake tray still warm in my hands. “Yeah?”
She didn’t fidget, never did. But her eyes locked onto mine. “I heard something in town today. That you didn’t go to prison over the necklace. That it was…an assault. You punched a girl in the face. That true?”
Most people had latched onto the wordburglaryand stopped there. But the truth had legs now, and the rest was catching up. I almost felt relieved that Mrs. Appleby asked me outright.
I drew in a breath and let it out gradually. “No. I never assaulted anyone. But someone made it look like I had.”
Her expression didn’t move. She simply watched me like she was weighing flour, careful and exact.
“Believe me, Mrs. Appleby,” I said. “I swear to you.”
Still nothing.
So I added the thing that mattered most, “Is my time behind bars bothering you?”
“I had to deflect a few things,” she said. Simple. Neutral.
“I get it. If you want me gone…” I set the tray on the drying rack, my hands damp and cold. “I’ll go. But Buffaloberry Hill is my life now. And this bakery is not just a job. It’s the first place I’ve belonged to in a long time.”
She rested the broom gently behind the backroom door, then leaned a hip against the frame, her arms crossing.
“I’ve been running this place for nearly twenty years,” she said. “And I’ve hired all kinds of girls. Some baked perfect cookies, some baked perfect lies.” A pause. Then, “You? You’re the one who stays late just to straighten a piping bag.”
I hesitated. “So…you’re not firing me?”
She chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve done more good in this bakery than half the town’s gossip brigade. If anyone’s got a problem, they can come take it up with me. And I’ll point them right to the bourbon cakes they keep stuffing in their faces.”
The laugh that slipped out of me was a little teary. “Thanks, Mrs. A.”
“Go home, Maya. You’ve earned the right to build something better.”
