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Wafts of cider-scented steam curled above one pot, while the other bubbled away, enticing Brass closer to discover its secrets. He leaned over the lip of the brazier closest to him, inhaled with his celestial senses, and nearly dove in headfirst. Plump bratwurst simmered in a pool of malted cider broth, while its sibling vessel cradled tight little jewels of molasses baked beans studded through with glistening hunks of applewood smoked bacon.
He would have said he’d died and gone to heaven if he hadn’t already seen the place.
Molly, not Benny, had made these, and mages above, she’d somehow managed to wrap up her entire essence into tiny morsels of ecstasy. Even without tasting, he knew what he’d find built in: joy, pleasure, skill, succulence.
This was her. This was what she’d fought so hard for every day of her life.
And he’d abandoned this? Her?
He was just about to reach for a spoon when another intriguing aroma had him turning around. On the counter in the middle of the kitchen sat a tray of amber crystals cozied around the tips of popsicle sticks. He lifted one to his nose and smiled.
Maple.
“It’s hard maple taffy, but it’s not perfect yet.” Molly walked into the kitchen with the same steel in her spine that had lashed his tongue down the entire walk back.
“It sure looks perfect to me.”
“Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving. The only thing perfect in this kitchen is the bourbon bread pudding that’s still in the oven.” She glared at him with the quiet feminine rage of an ancient goddess. “The jury’s still out on everything else. Here.” She thrust a white envelope at him.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking it from her.
“Your wages for the time you worked here.”
Brass’s fingers halted at the envelope’s flap, never even reaching the cash inside. Then he tossed the whole of it on the counter as understanding dawned on him. “You think I came back for the money? I don’t need your money, Molly.”
“I don’t really care what you need. I’m paying you for the hours you worked, as we agreed upon. It’s a simple transaction.”
Simple transaction? The words tumbled through his mind like a paraglider meeting the sharp, craggy edge of a cliff.
Had that been all this was? Did she think he’d just been there for money?
A shrill cackle, feminine and fiery, sizzled his senses, riling his rage into a burgeoning tempest of torment. His lip curled on a snarl, and the array of silver kitchen equipment before him began to blur into a blanket of hazy metal. A low growl formed within his throat like some baser animal whose only known language was that of a mindless captive.
No. Not now . . .
Brass swallowed, doing his best to blink away the reactions. When he risked opening his eyes once more, soft elfin features leveled him with wide-eyed concern.
Concern but not fear.
In a moment of inexplicable clarity, Brass saw his reflection in the espresso depths of Molly’s eyes.
And holy hell, was it just as pathetic as he felt. A true dressing-down of epic proportions.
Abandonment. Betrayal. Every unspoken hurt written in the tight lines of her face whipped him across his own, firmly cementing her shit stain opinion of him. With a single disappointed frown, she’d essentially piled him high on the heap of every other man who’d ever taken advantage of her and treated her like the thing she feared most: a transaction.
“Molly.” The plea thundered past his lips on a pulse of power. Just breathing her name when she was near was enough for his internal fire to beat back the beast and lift his lungs with a hope he didn’t deserve.
But he’d already been in this position before, hadn’t he? Asking for her forgiveness as though it was some pantry staple commodity for him to seek out whenever he had wounds to lick and peanut butter to indulge in.
Damn.
“Yes? Do you finally have something to say?” She placed her hands on her hips.
He risked a glance at her eyes once more and welcomed the chastisement he saw there. Welcomed it and selfishly indulged in any length of time she chose to look at him. “You’re not a transaction, Molly.”
She started at his words, and he leaped at the opportunity to finally say what he needed to.
“Do you know how much courage it takes to even breathe the same air as you? How my favorite sound in the world is the first sigh on your lips after you’ve tasted coffee I’ve brewed for you? I can’t feed you, not in the way you should be fed, because anything I can make wouldn’t come close to what you can manage with a tenth of your skill. I can’t support you with anything more than my strength and stamina, which fail me more each day.”
