Page 28 of Knot Baked Out For This
"The oven. Let me take a look." He rolls his shoulders, and his henley does interesting things that I absolutely don't notice. "Fixed plenty of industrial appliances at the firehouse. Probably just needs?—"
"No."
The word comes out harder than intended, sharp enough to cut. His eyebrows raise slightly.
"I don't need an Alpha's help," I say, chin lifting. "Especially not?—"
Especially not yours. Especially not from someone who knew him, who stood by while?—
"It's just mechanical repair, Hazel." His voice gentles in a way that makes my teeth ache. "Not a claiming bite."
The words hang between us like a challenge. Or a promise. I can't tell which is worse.
My oven chooses that moment to emit a sound like a dying moose giving birth to a chainsaw. Black smoke wisps from the kitchen doorway, carrying the distinct aroma of "expensive repair bill."
Fuck my entire life.
"Jesus," Rowan mutters, already moving toward the kitchen. "That's not temperamental, that's possessed."
"Don't—" But he's already halfway there, and I scramble after him because the last thing I need is Rowan Cambridge taking over my space like he has the right.
The kitchen looks like a crime scene where flour is the victim. Every surface bears the evidence of my morning's frantic baking—handprints in white powder, cinnamon dusting the air like fairy dust's evil cousin, mixing bowls stacked in precarious towers.
And in the corner, my oven continues its death song.
Rowan stops so suddenly I nearly slam into his back.Mistake. This close, his scent is overwhelming—cedar smoke mixing with the sweetness of my bakery, creating something that makes my hindbrain whimper.
"When's the last time someone serviced this thing?" He crouches in front of the oven, all six-plus feet of him folding with surprising grace.
"Define 'serviced.'"
He throws me a look over his shoulder. "Hazel."
"I don't know, okay? Maybe... two years ago?"
"Two—" He cuts himself off, jaw working. "You've been running a bakery on an oven that hasn't been serviced in two years?"
"I've been running a bakery on spite and stubbornness," I correct. "The oven's just along for the ride."
He makes a sound that might be frustration or amusement. His hands—large, capable, marked with small scars from fires fought—move over the oven's controls with practiced ease.
"I need tools," he says. "Wrench, screwdriver, possibly an exorcist."
"Top drawer by the sink. Except for the exorcist. Fresh out."
"Shame. Could use one for your attitude too."
"My attitude is the only thing keeping this place running."
"Your attitude is probably what broke the oven."
The audacity.
I grab the tools, maybe slam the drawer a little harder than necessary. When I turn back, he's shed his henley, leaving him in a white undershirt that should be illegal. The fabric clings to every line of muscle as he works, shoulder blades shifting under cotton like tectonic plates.
Don't look. Don't you dare look.
I look.
