Page 98 of Knot Baked Out For This
Rowan's voice is calm, controlled, already in Captain mode, like he KNEW I'd react like this. He's standing by my oven—my WORKING oven that they better not have touched—wearing jeans and a t-shirt that shows off forearms that have no business looking that good during my mental breakdown.
"Don't you 'morning' me." I storm toward him, fury making me brave and stupid. "How DARE you make decisions about MY business? This is MY bakery, MY space, MY?—"
"I know."
"You don't know! You don't get to just—this is exactly what—" I stop, chest heaving, because I almost said it. Almost saidthis is exactly what Korrin did.
But I don't have to say it. I see the understanding flash in Rowan's amber eyes.
"This is what he did," I whisper, fury mixing with something worse—betrayal. "Taking over. Deciding what I need. Making me feel incompetent and small and?—"
"Hazel—"
"No!" I back toward the stairs to my apartment. "No, you don't get to explain. You don't get to justify. You invaded MY space without permission and?—"
I miss the first step.
Because why not? The universe has a sense of humor darker than my coffee and more twisted than my love life.
My foot catches air instead of a stair, my body pitches backward, and I have just enough time to thinkthis is how I die, angry and covered in construction dust,before?—
Rowan catches me.
Not catches. Intercepts. His hands find my waist, steady me for half a second, then?—
"Oh no, you don't."
He scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder like I'm a sack of particularly angry flour.
"PUT ME DOWN!"
"No."
"ROWAN CAMBRIDGE, I SWEAR TO GOD?—"
"Swear all you want. We're having this conversation somewhere you can't run away."
"This is kidnapping!" I pound on his back, which accomplishes nothing because it's all muscle, and my hands just bounce off like I'm attacking a particularly attractive brick wall.
"This is an intervention," he corrects, starting up the stairs with zero effort like I weigh nothing. "Stop squirming or I'll drop you."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
I squirm harder out of spite. He just tightens his grip on my thighs, and now I'm thinking about his hands on my thighs, and this is not helping my anger management issues.
"I hate you," I inform his back.
"No, you don't."
"I'm going to call the police."
"Fischer's on duty. He'll laugh at you."
"I'll call Dottie James."
"Now that's just cruel."
