Yes, she’d installed it. She’d gotten good with a drill over the years, and while she knew the lock wasn’t foolproof, that it wasn’t even the door through which the photograph was taken, it still gave her some peace of mind. No one was getting through the back door.
She stashed her purse in her office, grabbed an apron from the hook in the kitchen, then placed her phone in the cradle to start her morning playlist of whatever was upbeat and pop and could help her channel sweet and light vibes.
Because it reflected in sweet and light pastry dough.
Lie.
But also, she was the boss, her baked goods were the shit, and thus no one was going to argue with her. She got to listen to her saccharine music. She got to bake. And everyone else got to eat.
The fast beat blared to life through the wireless speakers as she washed her hands and started gathering ingredients.
Flour. Eggs. Yeast. Butter. Milk—
The music stopped.
She spun. Seriously? The man was invading her life. Not because he wanted her—not that she wanted him either, but still! He’d waylaid her outside her duplex, had bustled her to his car, and was only here because he felt guilty for bringing something down on her that he didn’t have any control over.
“Why are you pissed?”
Molly froze. “Why am I pissed? Why am I pissed?” She threw her hands up, began weighing out flour into the giant stainless-steel bowl in front of her. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because my ex-fiancé has popped back into my life twice now in a month, after not seeing him for years. And only because he was pissed that I wanted him out of my life for good.” She shook a little more flour out, checked the weight. “Or maybe that my ex just declared that he’s staying around because he’s got a misguided notion that he can protect me? Did you take a superhero military man course in the time we’ve been apart and can now go Captain America on any bad guys who might bother me?”
She set the bag of flour to the side, moved on to the yeast and milk, warming the latter, allowing the former to soak in the warm liquid while continuing to measure the remainder of the ingredients.
“No.”
“So, what makes you think that you can protect me better than I can protect myself?”
Silence.
“I’ll hire some security,” she snapped. “Up our actual system here, take stronger precautions, but I don’t need you, Jackson.”
And she most especially didn’t need him just because he felt obligated to protect her.
Once everything was weighed out, she went over and started the music again then headed to the sink to wash her hands for a second time.
Good hygiene was important.
But just as she’d picked up a knife to start cutting butter, the music cut off again.
Was he fucking kidding?
She slammed the knife down, spun to face him.
He came very close. “Still not sure why you’re pissed, sweetheart.”
“You—”
He bent. “The agent said I needed to be here, and I’m going to be. End of story.”
The agent said he needed to be there.
Her heart pulsed with pain, but fury quickly trailed that pain. Jackson shouldn’t be able to have this power over her. She shouldn’t feel so much longing toward this man who’d broken her. And yet, it was there. Because no matter how much she fought it, an invisible thread tied them together.
Or at least tied her to him.
Because apparently, Jackson was only here out of some misguided notion of duty and because some government agent told him he should be.
They were over. Done. Four years and gone. Finished. Out of her business with a spectacular goodbye fuck included as a Happy Meal prize.
Now she just needed to take a hacksaw to that thread and get him to leave.
And then she needed to bake some fucking rolls.
Jackson dropped his hands to her waist, jostled her lightly. She glanced up, had to force herself to not get lost in the melted chocolate of his eyes. “You can be pissed all you want. You can argue and launch your cookie sheets—”
“Sheet pans,” she snapped, smacking his hands away and stepping back. “Or baking sheets, not cookie—”
A flash of white teeth, but he didn’t reach for her again, just crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, seeming so calm and composed when she felt like there was a tornado exploding to life within her. “You can launch your sheet pans at my head all you want, but I’m not leaving.”
She was tempted to go find a sheet pan, just so she could take him up on the offer. “I’ve heard that before.” A beat. “Or no, I guess I actually haven’t heard it because we never got to the till death do us part portion of the festivities.”
Chocolate eyes cooled. Hardened. “I didn’t want that.”
“I know!” She slammed her hands down on the table, nearly upsetting the bowl of flour and not caring in the least.
“I don’t think you know,” he murmured. “I don’t think you believe me when I say that not showing up at that church was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. That I wanted nothing more than you—”
“Except, you didn’t!” she screamed. “Because if you’d really wanted me then you would have come, or you would have talked to me earlier. You could have explained. You c-could—” She stopped talking, dropped her gaze to the flour, and focused on breathing, on just . . . breathing.
No tears.
No more fucking tears.
“I should have talked to you.”
Molly snorted then started dumping ingredients into the industrial mixer. Flour in, salt in one corner, eggs, the milk, and bloomed yeast. Each part coming together, each part doing its job, each—
“I—”
She flicked the knob, drowning out the rest of Jackson’s sentence.
Which was just as well. Because that tornado was still spinning inside her, upsetting all the carefully built structures within her—the confidence she’d laid brick by brick, the insecurities she’d buried deep, the—
He turned off the mixer.
She saw red, fingers came up to grab the bowl, but instead of launching it at his head like she really wanted to, Molly walked a few feet and chucked it into the sink.
“You don’t understand—”
And that was when she lost it.
“I have a fucking job to do!” she screamed. “Why can’t you understand that? Maybe the job isn’t something you think is valuable, but I do, and I’m going to do it without you interfering. Okay? Okay? Or is that too much for me to ask, you arrogant, egotistical, selfish bastard—”
“I’m not leaving,” he said and crossed his arms, jaw tight, stubborn expression on his face.
“Fine.” She tossed her hands up. “Fine! But I have shit I need to do. Things you’re preventing me from finishing because you’re in my face and turning off my music and mixer. If you want to park your ass at one of my tables, fine. Then park it.” She forced herself to take a breath. “Just stop sabotaging my business, shut your fucking mouth, and let me do my fucking job.”
His expression went unfathomable. “You’ve changed.”
She rolled her eyes. “Real shocker there. People grow and change and—”