The bell at the back door rattles once, and my heart ricochets off my ribs. I don’t think. I grab the small rolling pin and then immediately put it down and pick up the big one.
“Hello?” I call, forcing my voice into the lower, older register that I hope sounds more intimidating.
“It’s just me,” Dad’s voice says through the door. “Forgot my sunglasses.”
I unlock it, and he steps in, hair mussed from the wind, shirt untucked. He looks at me the way he’s looked at me all day—full to bursting.
“You sure you don’t want help wrapping up?” he asks, already scanning for an errand he can snatch away from me.
“Most of it is done,” I say. “Go home and rest.”
He smiles softly. “You too.” He squeezes my shoulder, his fingers gentle in a way that reminds me of skinned knees. “Proud of you, kiddo.”
There it is again. The wobble. I swallow it back. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You lock up and come home, all right?”
“I will.”
When he’s gone and the back door is locked again, the bakery feels emptier. I turn on the little back-of-house radio I keep for company and set about finishing up the rest of my tasks.
My wrists twinge when I hoist the last bag of trash to the dumpster. “Okay,” I tell my body. “Enough of that.”
Back inside, I rinse my hands, scrub under my nails, and look at my face in the little mirror by the sink.
I look like a raccoon that fell into a bag of flour. I splash water and pat my skin with the roll of paper towels until I look marginally human.
I do a last sweep before turning off the lights and stepping out of the building. I lock the door behind me and turn to my car in the backlot.
My eyes slide over to the Pint, which is going strong and will be for hours. I should just go home. I need the rest.
But…
I tell myself I’m just going to peek in.
I know I’m lying.
The Wandering Pint is warm and cozy but bursting with life. A game on the TV, full bar, people gathering and laughing.
I step inside and scan the room.
No Ben behind the taps. My pulse dips and then spikes because wanting to see him this badly feels unwise.
Mark catches my eye, lifts his chin in greeting. “Hey, Paige,” he says over the heads of two guys arguing about darts. He leans across the bar. “You looking for Ben? He’s in the office if you want him. Back hall, door’s open.”
I say thanks over the din of the room and weave my way through the tables to the back and into the narrower, quieter hallway.
The sound of the bar fades a little more with each step. Ben’s door is cracked. Warm light spills in a triangle across the scuffed floor.
I stop on the threshold and look.
He’s hunched over the desk with a pen in his fist, scowling at a stack of paper like it personally offends him. The sleeves of his navy tee are pushed up, tan forearms flexing as he braces the paper, jaw tight, a lock of hair falling onto his forehead because it refuses to do otherwise. His brow is furrowed in that concentration face that always does things to my insides.
He looks like everything I shouldn’t want and everything I do, all at once.
“Hey,” I say, voice soft.
His head snaps up. The scowl dissolves so fast it makes my head spin.
