Page 7 of Sterling Heat

This wasn’t a mistake, but she’ll eventually forget me. I’m forgettable.

On that thought, I press back from her and reach for the door at her side. Tugging it open, I hold it by my outstretched arm.

“Goodbye, Enya.”

Her name is a song as sweet as a Beatles’ tune.

“Goodbye curmudgeon.” She slips to the side and gives me her back. As soon as she crosses the threshold, I close the door and lock it. Then I fall against that sliver of space and swipe both hands over my face. My palms smell like her. Rainwater and sugar. I crane my neck to sneak a peek out the front window, but she’s already gone.

With the table clear of our plate and mugs, and the air conditioning humming along with the somber music, this afternoon feels like a dream.

Maybe she wasn’t really here.

Then I return to my office where Enya’s presence haunts me by her dress over a chair and her singular shoe on my floor.

The reality of her absence burns a small hole in my chest.

Chapter 3

The following May

[Enya]

I probably shouldn’t be here. I’d done everything in my power to avoid the Curmudgeon Bakery since that embarrassing moment months ago when I fell on my ass outside the shop and then kissed the baker.

My emotions had been all over the place that day. They’ve only gotten worse over the past several months. I’ve never been an emotional woman. I’m someone who thrives on structure. Numbers are my thing. As an accountant, I work best with digits and derivatives.

At thirty-four weeks pregnant, the other thing that’s changed is my body. My cheeks have a permanent ruddiness to them. My fingers are thick like sausages. My ankles have disappeared. I should have never worn these shoes today, but I had a meeting just outside of town. I’d made it through another tax season, but I had clients who needed additional accounting services. The forty-minute drive from my hometown of Huntington became a necessity today.

And while I told myself I wouldn’t return to the scene of my crime—kissing the curmudgeon baker—the craving for one of his lemon baby-Bundt cakes is too great today. I’m so desperate I’m willing to face the possibility of running into my kissing victim.

Despite the unsettling pain in my belly.

“Come on, Cookie. Behave for mommy,” I mumble to myself as I enter the bakery, holding my breath, hoping that the kissable baker won’t be present, and gritting my teeth through the pain.

Since early this morning, the tightening of my belly and the pressure in my lower back has been building, but I’m not due for another six weeks.

Braxton-Hicks contractions. I can work my way through them.

Still, I falter in my steps once I enter the bakery. The gripping ache is like a vice, squeezing my belly. My hand protectively covers the stretched skin while I wait out the clenching. As the tension subsides, I glance up to find the curmudgeon himself behind the counter in what looks like an argument with a woman on the customer side.

“Sebastian,” she groans. Finally, I have a name for him. Sebastian. Tilting my head, I puzzle over how the name strangely fits him. He reminds me a little bit of a historical romance rogue. Someone dashing with a hint of rebel inside him.

The woman’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “It’s only for a night. Why can’t you take him?”

“Because I’ve told you, Vale.” He draws out her name. “I’m not good with kids. And I’d make a shit babysitter.”

“He isn’t a baby. He’s almost nine.”

“Ask Stone or Clay,” he grumbles.

“You know I hate asking Stone for things and Clay is busy.”

“What about Knox or Judd?” he suggests, ducking behind the counter where his body is distorted by the display case. He pulls a tray of brownies in a variety of chocolate, blonde, and something with coconut on top out of the case.

My, she certainly has a lot of men in her life. Provided all those names correlate to men.

“I can’t. You’re the only one available.”