Page 43 of Knot Baked Out For This
How does he remember that? Why does he remember that?
"I need to check the ovens," I announce to no one, abandoning the dough and fleeing to the kitchen because standing there with Levi looking at me like that, with my cat purring at his feet like a furry Benedict Arnold, with the entire town watching—it's too much.
The kitchen is marginally safer. No audience here, just me and industrial appliances and the ghost of this morning's baking frenzy. I lean against the prep counter, breathe in the familiar scents of yeast and vanilla extract, try to remember why letting Levi Maddox bring me flowers is a terrible idea.
Because you've done this before. Because you believed an Alpha's pretty words and soft touches and look how that ended. With bruises and divorce papers and three years of therapy you can't afford.
"Hazel?"
I nearly jump out of my skin. Levi's standing in the kitchen doorway, taking up all the space with his shoulders and his presence and his goddamn honey-butter scent.
"Customers aren't allowed back here," I say automatically.
"Your assistant said it was okay."
"I don't have an—" I stop. Through the doorway, I can see Reverie behind my counter, cheerfully ringing up sales like she works here. "That's not my assistant. That's my friend committing fraud."
"She's very efficient."
"She's very nosy."
He steps into the kitchen properly, and suddenly the industrial-sized space feels like a closet. "I didn't mean to ambush you with the flowers."
"Yes, you did."
"Okay, I did. But not to upset you."
"I'm not upset."
"You're kneading dough like it owes you money."
I look down. The dough is essentially liquid now, overworked into submission. "It had it coming."
He laughs—low and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to join in even when you're determined to be angry. "Can I ask you something?"
"Can I stop you?"
"Why are you so determined to hate me?"
The question hangs between us like a loaded weapon.
Because it's safer than the alternative. Because hating you means I won't make the same mistake twice. Because if I don't hate you, I might?—
"I don't hate you," I say finally.
"But you don't trust me."
"I don't trust any Alpha."
"Even ones who bring flowers and charm your cat?"
"Especially those. They're clearly up to something."
He moves closer, and I have nowhere to retreat unless I want to climb into the oven, which is starting to seem like a reasonable option.
"What if I told you I'm not up to anything?" he says. "What if I just think you're brilliant and beautiful and make the best cinnamon rolls in the state?"
"I'd say you're definitely up to something."
