Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Instead, I handed him the mixing bowl. “Soak this in the sink. Use hot water, lots of soap. Scrub brush is on the left.” He took the bowl without question and carried it to the sink and did exactly what I’d told him to.
I moved around him to get to the display case. He moved with me, sidestepping without looking, his shoulder brushing mine as he passed. The kitchen was eight feet wide. Two people made it intimate by default.
He scrubbed the mixing bowl while I counted the till. He hummed something low as he worked and I couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re good at this,” I said.
“Did a stint as a dishwasher in college. Before the fire academy.” He didn’t look up. “Hated every minute. But you learn things.”
“What college?”
He grinned. “Nice try.”
I laughed. My chest felt lighter than it had all day. I finished the till and moved to the sink. Three sheet pans needed scrubbing. I shoved my sleeves up to my elbows without thinking and plunged my hands into the soapy water.
The bruise bloomed red and purple above my left elbow. Four perfect finger marks, darkening by the hour. Inferno’s hand closed around my wrist mid-reach. His grip was gentle but absolute. He turned my arm slowly, examining the mark under the fluorescent light. His thumb traced the edge of the darkest bruise.
“Who did this, baby?” The question hung in the air between us. His voice had changed. Gone flat and cold, despite the endearment. All his easy warmth drained out of his voice like someone had pulled a plug.
“Brett came for his shit this morning.”
Inferno didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The silence built around us, thick and charged. I saw the pulse flutter at his neck, speeding up as his brow broke out in a sweat. This man wasn’t all right. “I’ll kill him.”
“No you won’t, Jonah.” I gave him a command, though I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I could see it in his eyes, and I didn’t think I was ready for this.
“He put his hands on you.”
“And if you kill him, you go to prison. And I lose my bakery trying to pay for lawyers. And nothing gets better for anyone.” I pulled my arm back gently. He let go. “It’s a bruise, Inferno. I’ve had worse from oven racks.”
“This isn’t an oven rack, baby.”
“I know what it is.”
He turned away from me. Crossed to the far wall and braced both hands against the counter. His shoulders were rigid under the black tee. The muscles in his forearms stood out like cables. I watched him breathe in deep, measured inhales and exhalations, a man talking himself down. He turned around. The anger was still there, banked but not gone, a cold fire behind his eyes. But his voice was steady when he spoke. “Show me the rest.”
“There isn’t any rest. He grabbed my arm and left a bruise. That’s the whole story.”
He came back to the sink. Took my arm again, gently this time, and turned it over in his hands. His touch was careful as his thumb brushed the edge of the bruise. “I need you to promise me something,” he said.
I studied him warily, because I knew whatever his ask was, I wouldn’t like it. “Depends what it is.”
“If he comes near you again. Anywhere. The shop, your apartment, the fucking grocery store. You call me. Not the cops. Me.” His gaze held mine as he stroked his thumb gently over my arm where he still held onto me. “Promise me, Juniper.”
That wasn’t unreasonable, and actually made me feel better. “OK. I can make that promise.”
He nodded. Once. Sharp. Then he bent his head and pressed his lips to the bruise. His breath was warm against my skin as he held my arm and kissed my pain better. And I didn’t mean the bruises.
Chapter Six
Inferno
I held my mouth against Juniper’s arm, over the offending bruises, longer than I needed to, breathing her in, convincing myself she was OK like she claimed. The bruise under my lips felt hot even though I knew it wasn’t. She didn’t pull away. Her hand settled on the back of my neck, her fingers working into my hair, and for a long moment neither of us moved.
Then the moment broke. She stepped back, tugged her sleeve down, and started wiping down the last counter.
“Can I walk you home?” I asked.
Her mouth curved. “I have a car, Inferno.”
“I know that,” I muttered. I did know, but I was kind of going on instinct, and my instinct was to pull her close, lock her away, then go hunting. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that.
We locked up together. She flipped the sign, killed the lights, and we stepped out into the cooling evening. Her sedan sat at the curb. My Harley waited a block down where I’d left it.