Page 4 of ICED
But maybe I want to know anyway.
CHAPTER TWO
MAYA
There’s a bear in my kitchen.
Not a literal one, though honestly, that might be less intimidating. This one is six-foot-something, built like he could bench press the stove, and has shoulders so wide he almost knocked over the flour rack just walking in. I think he tried to smile when he introduced himself, but it looked more like a grimace from a man who forgot what human emotion feels like.
Jacko. That’s what he said. Like it was normal. Like his name wasn’t the sound a car makes right before it crashes.
I don’t say any of that, obviously. I just shake his massive hand and hope to God he doesn’t crush mine. His grip is surprisingly gentle and his skin warm. I hate that I notice.
He’s wearing a hoodie that says THE RAPTORS across the chest like that means something to me. It doesn’t. I wouldn’t know a slapshot from a slap fight. But I’ve seen his face on a few posters around town and one of the kids in the program, Benji, has a lunchbox with a cartoon version of him punching someone in the face.
Great. A hockey enforcer in my bakery. Just what I need.
I already have too much on my plate; literally. We’re prepping for the community bake sale, and I still need to test the new carrot cake recipe without burning it, keep Lila fromfrosting the local cat again, and somehow pretend like I’ve got my life even halfway together.
Spoiler alert; I don’t.
“Have you ever baked with kids before?” I ask, watching him warily as he moves around the kitchen like he’s afraid he might break something. Which, to be fair, he might.
“I’ve been on a team with Ollie. That count?”
I don’t laugh. Not really. But something about the way he says it, all dry, self-deprecating, like he knows exactly how ridiculous he is, makes the corner of my mouth twitch.
I try not to like it.
We don’t need another distraction. We don’t need another man anywhere near this kitchen. Especially not one with broad shoulders and kind eyes and a voice like gravel soaked in honey. That’s the kind of voice that gets under your skin.
But Lila will be here soon, and the carrot cake won’t bake itself. So, I point him to the aprons and let him wash up, all while pretending I’m not aware of every move he makes. I also try not to laugh when he puts the apron on and it literally just about covers his chest. He gives up any hope of tying it behind his back.
He’s surprisingly quiet for a guy his size. No macho posturing. No demanding attention. Just soft steps, lowered eyes and careful hands. Like he knows how to be gentle even when he looks like he could win a bar fight with a sneeze.
Interesting.
Ten minutes in, and I’ve already assigned him tray duty. It’s hard to mess up lining cupcake tins, and he does it without complaint. Doesn’t even ask questions, just nods and gets to work.
It makes me nervous.
I don’t trust easy. Not anymore. Not after everything we left behind. This place is supposed to be a new start. A place where no one knows me, where Lila can go to nurserywithout me checking the car park every five minutes. Where I can rebuild.
Brick by flour-dusted brick.
I catch him sneaking glances at me while I mix the batter. Not in a creepy way. More like he’s curious. Like he’s trying to figure me out the same way I’m trying to figure him out.
“You’re really okay doing this?” I ask, motioning to the kitchen around us.
He shrugs. “I like baking.”
“Most guys your size like bench pressing trucks.”
His grin is crooked and quick. “I bench press sourdough.”
That gets a laugh out of me before I can stop it.
I hate that too.
