Page 44 of Morally Black Betrothal
I could only imagine the demons a man like that might live with.
And with such a harsh father…
I shuddered to think about it as I folded the tenth loaf, then covered all of them with flour sack cloths before taking out the third bin to continue my work.
My father had his own problems, sure. He was distant, neglectful, rarely present anymore in any genuine way. But he’d never been outright abusive. Maybe I could chalk that up to him not caring, but honestly, it was really just an effect of my mother’s death.
She was his whole life. The cornerstone for all of us.
And when she was gone, all that was left was a husk of a man with two daughters running rampant around a farm he couldn’t or wouldn’t manage.
I understood neglect. Knew the unique hurt and pain it caused. But for all his flaws and weaknesses, Dad had never spoken to me the way Mr. Black had to his son today. And so, I’d never had to react to anyone the way Brendan had to him.
So which was the true Brendan? The softer, kinder man who had shared his stories at the bar? Who had checked in with me with such grace and kindness?
Or the sharp-tongued, controlling person who had emerged in an instant?
I’d probably never know.
Not that it mattered. Niall Black was discharged today, so nanny or not, I doubted I’d ever see Brendan again.
I made quick work of the last ten loaves, and while they rested, I preheated the oven for the batch I’d set to rise the night before, removed those from the proofer, and went to shape the boules in their proofing baskets for the week.
The work was meditative, soothing, and left me covered in flour. Before long, all thoughts of the Blacks and my own family dysfunction slipped out of my mind. I hummed along with “River,” dreaming of the creek behind the far pasture at the farm and pretending I wasn’t surrounded by brick buildings and honking horns, but out in the country where the only things serenading me to sleep were the sounds of wind blowing through the oaks and maples and birds settling in for the evening.
I had just finished shaping the last of the boules when a sharp knock at my door pulled me from my bliss. I blinked, still caught in the daze of Joni’s voice and the scent of baking bread.
“Sel?” I called, unsure if I’d actually heard it.
A series of raps answered me, three in a brisk row.
I frowned, threw the towel I’d been using to dust my hands over my shoulder, and went to answer it.
“Hey,” I said as I opened the door. “Did you forget your key?—”
“I did not.”
I jerked up at the sound of that deep, sonorous voice. At the sight of the tall, imposing man filling my doorway.
“I—Mr. Black—Brendan?”
Those dark eyes widened at the use of his given name, and we stood there, staring at each other’s equally frozen form.
Then, instead of answering or even saying anything at all, he stepped over my threshold, wrapped an arm around my waist, and set his mouth on mine.
10
IT WAS JUST A KISS
Brendan
Home.
That’s all I could think.
I’d trudged up the six flights of her decrepit building like there was lead in my shoes, dreading the fact that I wasn’t coming here to talk or date her or do anything else but offer her a deal that would benefit us both but somehow made me sick to my stomach.
Then Simone opened the door, her blond hair a messy corona around that beautiful face, a smear of flour on her adorable upturned nose, blue eyes wide as the sky while that pink mouth dropped. A folk singer’s voice warbled in the background as the smell of freshly baked bread wafted out of the apartment and transported me back to brief moments in childhood where I was actually happy.
