I'm drawn from my wicked thoughts when Izzy's massive sigh booms into my ears. We've spent a majority of our morning moving Izzy into her swanky new apartment. Although my muscles should have been used more than my brain, my thoughts have shifted continuously to Cormack.
That thrilling morning in Cormack's kitchen was a little over two weeks ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday. My god—the past two weeks have been a modern day fairytale. Usually, I'd cringe at the mention of knights in shining armor and helpless princesses, but for some reason, the idea of being swept off my feet by Cormack riding in on a white horse doesn't sound as daunting.
He treats me like a princess seconds before fucking me like a wench. My life is a fairy tale. Perhaps that's why I've been reluctant to share news of our blossoming relationship? I don't want the bubble to burst. I'm not even close to getting my fill of him, so the last thing I want to do is encourage interference. If we come out as an official couple, we'll be required to do all the things standard couples do: double dates, leaving the bedroom for more than an hour each weekend and meeting the family.
Speaking of family get-togethers. . .
I flop onto the sofa next to Izzy, hoping the novelty of her new apartment will weaken her resolve. Ever since Cormack invited me to his family estate, I've been nagging Izzy to come along. She’s been as reluctant as me. Not because she knows of Isaac's plan, but because her hard-ass boss is more demanding of her time than I am of Cormack's.
“Can you smell that?” Izzy eyes me suspiciously when I inhale a large breath through my nose. “That’s the smell of freedom!”
She giggles, knowing every word I’m speaking is gospel. Izzy loves her friend/somewhat aunt like a mother, but there is an immense amount of freedom that comes from having your own space. That's why I live above my bakery. With rent in Ravenshoe at an astronomical price, I either moved in with my cousin or moved into my loft. I love my cousin—she's more of a friend than a side effect of my father’s large family—but I wanted my own space. My loft might be tiny, but it's still mine.
“Speaking of freedom, did you get your hard-ass boss to give you the long weekend off?” I ask Izzy after twisting my torso to face her.
She screws up her nose, responding more to my accurate description of her boss than my question. “Yes.”
The eagerness in her tone surprises me. The expression on her face is anything but pleasant, but there is a certain amount of hope in her tone that can’t be missed.
My eyes roll skyward when, for the umpteenth time the past two weeks, Izzy asks, "Where are we going again?"
I give her my best stink eye before moving to a stack of boxes balancing on a side table. Izzy likes Isaac, that's as much gospel as me declaring my love of sugar, but if I spoil our ruse, she’ll never come on our weekend getaway.
Although I hate lying to her, I must. I’m scared shitless of meeting the rest of Cormack’s family alone. Colby was a bundle of mischief two weeks ago, but the two times I’ve met Clara were the equivalent of swallowing bread without butter. It was stiff and highly awkward. I can only hope Cate takes after her brothers.
At the exact moment I secure two dusty old mugs in my hand, Izzy arrives at my side. “What are you looking for?”
"We need something to wash down this totally overpriced bottle of wine with," I reply, raising the bottle Cormack left on Izzy's doorstep this morning.
I'm not going to lie. When I first spotted the bottle, my heart skipped a beat. It's the same wine I stole from Matthew when I ended our date by introducing him to Cormack. It wasn't a very polite thing for me to do, but at the time, I was painting Cormack and Matthew with the same brush. My logic was correct; I just didn't notice their different strokes. Cormack was avoiding me so he wouldn't act on his desires. Matthew pursued me so he could.
I glare at Izzy like she's insane when she asks, “Do you think we should drink it? It looks very expensive.”
She'd have a coronary if she saw the price tags on the bottles in Cormack's fridge. This bottle cost in excess of two hundred dollars, but Cormack didn't gift it to her to see it sitting on her mantelpiece. Something so exquisite shouldn't be glimpsed from a distance. It should be devoured and enjoyed—cherished, even. That’s what I do to Cormack, so why can't we bestow the same privilege upon this equally scrumptious bottle of wine?
I answer Izzy’s question with a pop of the cork. After pouring a generous helping into the mugs I discovered, I hand one to Izzy. “To freedom and expensive bottles of wine.”
A fire blazes through Izzy's chocolate brown eyes. "To freedom" she mimics before taking a mouthful of the aromatic wine.
And getting tied down in a way you’ll never see coming. . .
“Table 23 said they haven’t received their skinny chai yet; can you check how long Renee is going to be?”
Phoebe, my latest recruit, nods before heading to the coffee machine that's been working nonstop the past two hours. The breakfast rush hasn't been this hectic in months. I love my bakery's sudden revival, but I'm exhausted. I need to hire more staff, but my worry that this sudden surge has more to do with the upcoming long weekend makes me hesitant. Even though I could put my new team on temporary contracts, I crave stability, so I can imagine how it would feel not knowing if your job will still be there tomorrow. With dependency comes capability. I want to offer my staff both.
After dragging my sweat-coated hands down my apron, I raise my eyes to the next customer in line. Yes, I have a line today.
“Welcome to Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven, how can I help you?” The cheer in my tone chokes when my eyes lock in on a pair of icy baby blues. “Clara, hi. What can I get you?”
She looks seconds away from barfing when I wave my hand to the cases of sweet treats. “My trainer would have a coronary if I ate any of those.”
I nearly drop the line that a little sugar never hurts anyone, but I keep my mouth shut. The tension radiating off Clara is so intense, I’m beginning to wonder if my AC is on the blink. It isn’t hot today, but she eliminates the need for a furnace.
“If you’re not here for cake, why are you here?” I bite on the inside of my cheek. My tone was way too snarky. Even though she ruffles my feathers, I'm still at my place of employment, so the least I can do is be polite.
"I'm swamped at the moment, but if you're happy to wait until it slows down, we can sit and have a chat." That’s better. My tone was professional, yet friendly.
Clara shoves a fancy clutch under her arm as her eyes scan my half-full bakery. “It’s quite convenient, don’t you think?”
I stare at her, lost as to what she means.
She doesn’t keep me hanging long. “That your bakery has a revival at the exact moment you start dating my brother.”
Confusion is stripped from my face, replaced with nothing but anger. "My relationship with Cormack has no consequence on my business."
Clara laughs. “Ha! Cormack has made a name for himself in this town. By attaching yourself to him like a leech, people falsely believe you hold the same qualities as him. I guess he failed to get the memo that when you lie with dogs, you’re bound to get fleas.”
My mouth gapes open and closed, but not a peep seeps from my lips. I'm stunned—utterly mortified. If our exchange wasn't being witnessed by three people standing behind her waiting to be served, I'd wipe the arrogant grin off her face with my palm, but since my bakery comes before anything, and a twinge of doubt for its sudden recovery is keeping my anger at may, I use a weaker, more pathetic retaliation.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
Before I can gesture for the person behind her to step forward, Clara thrusts a piece of paper into my line of sight. “Can you explain this?”
I scan the paper three times before it registers. I don't know what my intuition was warning me about. The article is a flight manifest for our trip to Mummo Koti this coming weekend.
“It’s a flight manifest.” Confusion echoes in my tone.
Clara rolls her eyes. “Clearly. I’m referring to this.” Her polished-to-perfection French-tipped nail points to Isabelle’s name jotted just below Isaac’s.
“That's my friend, Izzy.”
“Oh my god, you really are daft, aren’t you?” Since she's stating a fact rather than asking a question, I don’t bother answering her. “I want to know why her name is on the manifest, not who she is, you twit!”
Over our conversation, I gesture for the next customer to step forward. “How can I help you?”
Clara splays her hand over my customer’s chest, stopping him midstride. Although peeved she's holding him up, the wink he awards her hides his annoyance.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Clara snarls at him. “But it's never going to happen." She drags her eyes down his body, which is well-presented in a pair of dark jeans, black boots, and fitted shirt. "Ever."
After pushing him back two inches, she returns her slit gaze to me. “I’m not leaving until you tell me why she's on the manifest.”
Even though I’m not in the mood to play her games, it's either ease her curiosity or murder her. I’m going for the one that creates less mess. “She’s on the manifest because she's coming to Mummo Koti. Isaac invited her.”
Clara gasps as if I told her spoilers for every romance book I've ever read. "Isaac invited her? Why would he do that? He doesn't invite women for sleepovers." Her tone is as high as her manicured brow.
“I don’t know,” I reply with a shrug. “Maybe he likes fleas?”
Using her shock to my advantage, I signal for my next customer to move forward. This time, Clara lets him advance without protest.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” I moan against Cormack’s lips when he drops them to mine to greet me as he has the past four weeks.
The minty freshness of his breath soothes the grumbles in my stomach. “Good morning. What time is it?” This is the first time in weeks I’ve awoken without a tired headache.
I jackknife into a half-seated position when Cormack says, “A little after noon.”
“Noon! You let me sleep until noon?”
The delicious smells seeping through the wooden floorboards announce my bakery is in full swing, but it doesn’t lessen my guilt. We leave for our weekend getaway this afternoon. I should have been assisting Renee and Phoebe in preparation for the weekend, not loading them with more work.
Ignoring the scorch of my tongue, I guzzle down half the coffee Cormack handed me before charging into my bathroom. “What time do we fly out?”
“The time doesn’t really matter, but I’d like to have wheels up no later than 4 PM. Geese become an issue if we leave too late.”
My fingers stop raking my hair. “Geese?”
What the hell is he talking about? I thought geese only lived in Canada? And why would they affect a commercial-sized aircraft?
Realizing I don’t have time for a discussion about birds, I slice my hand through the air. “No later than 3 PM. Should we meet at the airport. . .?”
I stop talking when Cormack shakes his head. “Isaac and I will pick you up. You just need to tell me where? Here or Izzy’s?”
I curve my brow high, answering him without words. He knows I'm embarrassed about my living conditions, so the fewer people subjected to it, the better.
“Harlow. . .”
“Don’t,” I warn, holding my toothbrush at him like it's loaded with more than toothpaste.
He ignores my caution. “I have access to dozens of apartments in Ravenshoe—”
“And I have pride by the bucket loads, which means I'm fine here.”
When he steps closer to me, his pleading blue irises thaw the ice around my heart. “Your bakery is pulling in enough income for you to reconsider your living conditions. I’m merely offering you suitable suggestions. Don’t be angry at me because I care about you.”
I'm tempted to tell him the record sales of the past four weeks have barely shifted one-tenth of my debt, but I decide on a more playful route. We’re about to go away for the weekend. I don't want our getaway thwarted by our first fight. "Are you worried about me or your back?"
Cormack smiles, hearing the jest in my tone. I’m a sucker for his smile. “Would I get in trouble if I said both?”
“Never,” I reply. “I’d rather you be honest than lie to me.”
The weird boom-boom, skip a beat, boom-boom thing Cormack’s attention regularly causes my heart takes on a new routine when guilt filters over his eyes. He closes the small space of air between us, looking like he wants to say something, but unsure how to articulate it.
“What is it?” Nothing but worry resonates in my tone. He’s had no problems expressing himself the past month, so I’m a little lost as to why he looks so tongue-tied. “Is it Clara again? I know she isn’t a fan of mine, but if it isn’t bothering me, why let it bother you?”
"It's not Clara." He takes a deep breath that expands his chest high. He has me worried. Even more so when he says, "I should have told you this weeks ago."
“Please don’t tell me you’re going on a gluten-free diet?”
Cormack laughs, appreciating my levity. My wit has the effect I'm aiming for, but it doesn't entirely erase the tension.
“Come on, out with it. You’re killing me. Are you married?” The brisk shake of his head lessens the severity of my next set of questions, “Do you prance around my loft in high heels when I’m not around? Are you a dog killer? Did you father eight children with eight different women?”
He shakes his head for each question, his smile growing.
"Then what is it?" Before he can respond, I cut off his reply with a warning, "If I find out you've built all this tension to tell me something I don't care about, I'll kill you. I can't handle drama, Cormack. It's why I never read trilogies until all three books are out and binge watch my favorite shows—the suspense kills me. So unless you're going to tell me something that will dramatically tilt the axis of my world, maybe you should keep it to yourself—"
My rant comes to an end when the smell of smoke lingers into my nostrils. Peering past Cormack’s broad shoulders, I see smoke billowing through the floorboards of my loft. It is thick, black, and choking.
I race down the stairwell with Cormack on my heels. My heart smashes into my ribs as bad feeling after bad feeling bombards me. A fire is the last thing my bakery needs. I don’t have insurance. It was one of the many things I had to cancel to pay the electric bill. If there is any damage to my kitchen, the health department will shut me down without a second thought.
The fear invading every inch of me fades when our dramatic entrance reveals the cause of the smoke. It isn't an out-of-control blaze determined to force me into bankruptcy, just a tray of bread left in the oven too long. They’re like charcoal, almost as black as Cormack's expanded pupils. Dumping them into the sink douses their flames instantaneously, leaving my kitchen un-scorched.
“I’m so sorry,” Phoebe apologizes when she spots my pale face. “I was trying to get a head start for tomorrow, then we got busy, and I forgot I pull them out.”
My eyes drift to Cormack. Out of respect for Phoebe, I don’t speak, but my eyes articulate on my behalf. I can’t leave my bakery, or I may not have a business to come back to.
"No," Cormack replies without hesitation. "We've had these plans for weeks. We're going to Mummo Koti.”
“Cormack. . .” I follow him to the shelf housing his wallet and keys.
Usually, I’d relish the confidence our relationship has given him, but right now, I’m afraid it will cost me more than I can afford. I’ve always believed if something is too good to be true, it is. Our relationship is the stuff of magic, but is it worth losing my bakery for?
If you had asked me two months ago, I would have said no chance in hell. Now, if I had to pick between my business and my boyfriend, Cormack would always triumph.
After cramming his wallet and keys in his pocket, Cormack raises his eyes to mine. The indecisiveness in them confirms my earlier assumption. He doesn't like being stuck between me and my business any more than I hate putting him there.
“You’ve trained Renee well. She's as qualified as you, and she won’t let you down, but you'll let her down if you don’t give her the same level of trust. You know your bakery, Harlow, and I know you. You would have never agreed to come to Mummo Koti if you didn’t want to. For that alone, we’re going. Together.”
His bossy demeanor should piss me off. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes me horny. . . and has me thinking recklessly.
Before three stupid words way too early for our blossoming relationship can spill from my lips, I nod. The adoration blazing through Cormack’s beautiful blue irises from my agreeing gesture makes it even harder to hold in my emotions, but his brisk departure ensures my focus remains strong.
After a quick peck to the edge of my mouth, Cormack spins on his heels and darts out of my bakery. “I’ll pick you up from Izzy’s apartment at two,” he shouts without so much of a backward glance.
I watch him leave with my mouth hanging open, suddenly panicked I said my private thoughts out loud.