Page 37 of Knot Baked Out For This
"Right, because I commanded the dog to attack your pies," I shoot back, already kneeling to salvage what we can. "Clearly this was my master plan. Destroy baked goods, catch falling Omegas. I've got it written in my day planner."
"Wouldn't put it past you." She drops beside me, gathering pie tins with shaking hands. "You always did like dramatic entrances."
"Says the woman who once drove her car throughKorrin’s garage door."
"That was an accident!"
"You reversed. Twice."
"The accelerator stuck."
"Sure it did."
We're cleaning up together, bodies moving in sync despite the bickering. Our hands brush as we reach for the same pie tin, and she jerks back like I'm made of live coals. The rejection stings more than it should.
Three years. Three years and she still can't stand my touch.
But then I remember five minutes ago—her body against mine, the way she'd relaxed for just a second before reality crashed back in. The way her scent had gone sweet and wanting before the fear took over.
"I'm so sorry! So, so sorry!" The dog's owner appears, face red, leash finally in hand. Biscuit, the criminal in question, is now sitting prettily, tail wagging, tongue lolling, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "He's usually so good! I don't know what happened!"
"Dogs," Hazel mutters, but she's scratching behind Biscuit's ears even as she says it. "All instinct, no impulse control."
Her eyes flick to me on those last words.
Message received, sunshine.
Dottie's still providing commentary to anyone within earshot: "—and then he just swept her up! Like Kevin Costner inthat movie! The one with the wheat field! You should have seen Hazel's face—pure romance novel!"
"Mrs. James," I say, using my Captain voice, "I think the corn maze is starting their senior discount hour."
"Oh, I'm not missing this for corn," she says cheerfully. "This is better than my stories. Real-life romance right here in Oakridge! The divorced Omega and the brooding firefighter!"
"We're not—" Hazel starts.
"He's not brooding—" I say simultaneously.
"See? Already finishing each other's sentences!" Dottie claps her hands. "I'm calling it now—spring wedding. Maybe summer if they're going to be difficult about it."
Hazel makes a sound like a teakettle having an aneurysm. I'm not doing much better.
We work in loaded silence after that, rebuilding her display with what's salvageable. The crowd disperses slowly, reluctantly, probably hoping for another show. Parents drag disappointed kids away. Vendors return to their booths. The fair continues around us, but there's a bubble of awareness that won't pop.
"Your arrangement was good," I tell her quietly, adjusting a surviving pie. "The height variation, the color distribution. You always did have an eye for that."
She pauses, hands full of slightly squashed cinnamon rolls. "You noticed?"
"I notice everything about—"Stop talking, you fucking idiot."About booth displays. Fire safety. Important to notice... arrangements."
Smooth. Real smooth.
She gives me a look that says she sees right through my bullshit, but there's something softer in it too. "Right. Fire safety."
"Very important," I agree solemnly. "These cinnamon rolls could be a hazard. All that sugar. Very flammable."
"Cinnamon rolls aren't flammable, Rowan."
"You haven't seen Levi try to cook them. Nearly burned down the station last Christmas."
