Cinders

by Asha King

  On top of the stolen money, the shop would have to be closed for the day pending repairs after the investigation, which meant more lost orders. If Gina was paid, she had no doubt all of it would be taken out of her check. Since she wasn’t, she expected it taken out of her flesh.

  “Gina? Gina!”

  She glanced up and looked around at the sound of Brennen’s voice, then glimpsed him working through the crowd forming around the police cars. His mustang was parked up the street near his father’s office.

  She slid off the edge of the ambulance onto the pavement and sent a worried glance toward her stepmother. The woman was still engaged with a police officer but wouldn’t be for long.

  Brennen pushed between a pair of police cars and rushed to her, his dark brows pulled together in concern. “Are you okay? What—”

  Before his hands could reach for her, she took a cautious step back and gave him a warning look, tilting her head in Maureen’s direction.

  His lips pressed in a straight line and jaw set, but he halted nonetheless and crossed his arms over his chest. He clearly wasn’t happy about the enforced distance but didn’t push and get her in any more trouble. “What the hell happened?”

  “Apparently I walked into a robbery in progress this morning.”

  “Are you all right?” His voice was steady and even, his crossed arms tightened as if he restrained himself from going and breaking something.

  The concern warmed her. Though the police and EMT had checked her over and ensured she was okay, Maureen had taken over the bulk of the conversation—she was the shop’s owner, after all—and Gina had felt largely forgotten. But Brennen cared, focused solely on her, and some of the morning’s exhaustion dissipated under his attention.

  “I’m fine. A bump on the head but it all checked out. We’re waiting for the police to finish up so we can assess the damage and I can clean up.”

  “Clean up?” He leaned closer to her and she fought to hold his gaze when all she wanted was to look away. “You were just attacked. You should be resting—”

  “Is there something we can do for you this morning, Mr. Prescott?” Maureen stepped to Gina’s side and gave Brennen a critical look.

  Tension gripped Gina’s shoulders and she held her breath. This was going to go even further south in the blink of an eye—

  “Actually, yes.” Brennen turned his steady gaze to her stepmother and Gina’s eyes shot between them. “You might have heard it’s my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in two weeks and they’re having a rather large party. The evening will be catered but I haven’t been happy with the dessert selection and my parents want someone who can work around dietary restrictions and food sensitivities. I’d like Gina to take care of the anniversary cake and other snacks. I think it’ll be excellent business for you but I’ll require the food prepared on the premises the day of the event, and I’d like Gina to take a look at the facilities, meet with the other caterer, and put together a menu and list of supplies. Unless, of course...”—he drew the silence out for a moment, his unblinking stare on Maureen—“...you have a problem with it?”

  Gina didn’t dare draw a breath, the ice coming from her stepmother enough to freeze her in place. The Prescotts were among Midsummer’s elite and declining would definitely make Maureen look bad. On the other hand, she most certainly would not want to let Gina do it.

  “Very well,” Maureen said at last with a chilly smile. “So long as it doesn’t interfere with Gina’s schedule too much. Give her the plans and I’ll draw up a contract—”

  “That won’t be necessary, we have our own contract drafted. I’ll send a copy with her later.”

  Maureen’s plastic smile didn’t falter. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Brennen’s hand wrapped around Gina’s upper arm and he guided her away from the shop front and police cards toward his Mustang across the street.

  “Was that for real?” she whispered when they were out of earshot.

  “It is if you’re interested,” he replied, his hand warm and gentle, sliding down her upper arm to caress her wrist. “Obviously I don’t want to make things harder on you but if it grants you some leeway for a while, all the better. You cater the dessert for the party, you’re in charge and the majority of the payment goes directly to you, not the shop. I’ll see that it’s in the contract.”

  Though it might backfire later, for now she’d enjoy the reprieve—even if she was working for the duration of it, being out of Maureen’s influence would do wonders for her sanity for a while.

  “Today, though,” he rounded the Mustang with her to open the passenger side door, holding it open for her, “all we’re sorting out is the contract for the event. You’re resting.”

  Gina leaned back in the seat and smiled gratefully. Her head still throbbed but she felt worlds better. The day might actually improve from there.

  Chapter Six

  The house sat outside of Midsummer, one of the largest homes on a court of similar places. Doctors, lawyers, as well as those who came from money. Gina’s family home was in the older part of town and certainly nothing to frown at, but the newer mansions where Brennen lived were a different kind of stunning. The lawns were bright green and flowers cheery and colorful after the previous day’s rain, trimmed and manicured in a way Gina could never achieve with the little time she had to see to her home’s grounds.

  There were no vehicles in the long curved driveway, but the doors to a separate garage to the side of the house were closed. Brennen swung the Mustang between the massive house and garage, along a narrow gravel round that wound around back toward a cottage.

  “So this is my grandfather’s,” Brennen said, gesturing to the main house as they passed it to the right. “I manage his money, the staff, the nurse, and I’m his power of attorney. In exchange I stay in the guest house.”

  “We’re not going to your parents’ place then? For the catering stuff?”

  “I’ll email Mom about it. I got thinking that if you were attacked this morning, you probably hadn’t eaten yet—right?”

  Gina nodded. God, she hadn’t even thought about it, but as if on cue, her stomach gave a sudden quiet rumble.

  “I’ll make you breakfast. We can talk shop over pancakes, if you like.”

  He parked in front of the small bungalow and escorted her inside. Though styled after manors of old, the area seemed far more modern—the architecture was solid in the guest house, new, decorated simple and masculine with navy walls and polished light hardwood floors. There wasn’t much to it, other than the sheer size; it opened to a massive living room space that branched off into a kitchen nook, a breakfast bar instead of a full dining area. Toward the back she guessed was the bedroom and bathroom. A perfect small bachelor pad.

  If you’re ridiculously wealthy, that is.

  Though he offered to have her sit in the living room, she followed him to the kitchen and drew herself up onto a barstool. The glass of water he offered helped ease some of her remaining headache—it occurred to her she hadn’t had anything to drink yet that day either.

  “I will confess,” Brennen said as he rifled through the cupboards and fridge for ingredients, “I’m suffering a bit of performance anxiety. You make food for a living.”

  “Things always taste better when someone else makes them.” She watched his large frame move in the small kitchen with a small smile. “And no one ever cooks for me.”

  “Not ever?”

  “Dad did, when he was around. And that was a decade ago.”

  He had the pancake batter done, complete with a handful of blueberries in it, and butter sizzling on the pan. “I’m going to ask you again, and now you can’t run away: why do you stay there.”

  She shifted and looked away. It seemed impossible to explain to anyone outside of the situation. “If I left, where would I go?”

  Brennen cast a look over his shoulder at her. “Here, for starters.”

  Right, exchange one cage for another. N
ot that he meant to cage her, no, but she was not going to be beholden to another person to survive. “I wasn’t allowed to go to college and even my high school grades suffered because I had to work all the time, so I have very little education, which means very few employment opportunities.”

  “Yes, but,” he flipped a pancake over, “you can bake.”

  “And there is precisely one bakery in town. Food service would be a fine option but no one in town is going to hire me with Maureen’s word against mine.”

  “So you look outside of town.”

  “With what money?”

  He frowned but kept his focus on the pancakes, flipping the finished ones onto a plate. “Didn’t your dad leave you any?”

  That’s the question, isn’t it? But she held her tongue. “Let’s assume I manage to pick up and walk ten miles to a town near Midsummer. I apply for a job with, once again, nowhere to live so I can’t offer a permanent address on my application, which I can’t afford without a job.”

  “Vicious cycle,” he filled in.

  “Exactly. I have no references other than Maureen.”

  “And my family after you cater their party.”

  He really was persistent, she had to give him that. “Fine, and them. And do I live under a bridge while I’m applying for jobs? With no phone number?”

  Brennen set a white dish with four big pancakes stacked in the middle in front of her, along with flatware and local maple syrup, then moved toward the refrigerator with a glass. “You use my address and phone number.”

  “Brennen, you don’t know me.”

  He set orange juice in front of her and brought his own plate around the breakfast bar to sit next to her. “I am trying very hard to rectify that.”

  She busied herself with her fork, running its side through the stack of fluffy warm pancakes, the smell of blueberries drifting up to her. A decade with Maureen echoed in her head, and even as an adult, even knowing the woman was abusive and wrong, rewriting years of being told she was worthless and useless was difficult to do.

  Brennen pushed a hunk of pancake through the syrup on his plate and frowned. “I think the blueberries kind of exploded. Sorry.”

  “Freeze them overnight before adding them to the batter,” she said. “Trade secret.”

  “When you feel better, I think it’s definitely your turn to make me breakfast.”

  “I think I’ll have a hard time getting here early enough.”

  “Not if you stay overnight.”

  His devilish grin was infectious; she looked away and returned her attention to her food.

  ****

  Brennen wouldn’t even let her help load the dishwasher after breakfast; he scooped up their dishes and did so himself, telling her to take a seat. But she didn’t know how to relax, how to have someone feed her and wait on her like that. Anxiety rushed through her and she couldn’t sit still, pacing in the tiny kitchen while he puttered about languidly. Her eyes were continually drawn to the clock—even though Maureen knew full well she wouldn’t be back later, she couldn’t shake the habit of looking. Micro-calculations constantly went on in her head, figuring out how much time she had for certain tasks and when she had to be certain places. Even Sundays, when the bakery was closed, she had housework to do that took her all day, and then there were meals to prepare, and—

  “If you don’t sit down, I will force you off your feet,” he warned as he closed the dishwasher door and turned to her.

  Her feet halted but hand fidgeted in front of her. “Maybe you should call your mom about the—”

  Brennen stepped forward, cutting off whatever she was about to say by cupping her face in his big hands and tilting her head back to better meet gazes. Her back was pinned against the breakfast bar, her front practically pinned by him, and her heart beat extra hard. Like the walk home the other night, this close made it clear precisely how tall he was, and the warm protection of his strong arms beckoned to her.

  “How’s your headache?” His eyes darted between hers, brows pulled with concern. “It seems odd they didn’t take you to a hospital.”

  She swallowed, her throat and mouth suddenly parched, and reached up to fold a hand over his. She’d meant to pry his fingers from her jaw but instead found her hand lingering there, drawn to his. “I don’t have a concussion and I feel a lot better having eaten. And I’d feel even more better if you let me get started with some initial prep for the catering job.”

  His lips quirked into a grin. “Working relaxes you?”

  “When it’s just me in the back of the shop baking? Yeah.” Everything else, well... She didn’t mind the prep and the planning, but the pressure Maureen had her under was generally unbearable.

  He took her hands in his. “I’ll keep worrying about you.”

  “I know. If you can get me some paper and a pen, outline the plans you know of, I’ll ask you some questions and get started on ideas for the dessert menu. We’ll sit on the couch and I promise to let you know if I’m suddenly feeling concussed after all.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Seven

  Keeping on top of the housework and cooking, the work at the shop, and catering preparations for the Prescotts’ anniversary party would’ve been impossible if Maureen hadn’t relaxed her usual demands.

  But she had, oddly, though Gina couldn’t figure out why.

  Perhaps she worried about losing face with one of Midsummer’s top families or perhaps she gained something else from it. Regardless, Gina was grateful when her stepmother eased back a bit. Her chores around the house were non-negotiable, of course, but after working mornings in the shop, she had a few afternoons free the first week to start organizing her end of the catering for the party, and then was permitted even more time in the second week. She’d spoken to the Prescotts and conferred with the dinner caterers, then drafted up a dessert menu; she’d made samples for the Prescotts to taste; she’d planned to the last detail how long it would take the day of the party to prepare last minute items. And despite the usual exhaustion that plagued her throughout the day, she found herself looking forward to the catering. She was completely in her element and enjoying every minute of it.

  Still, she became lost in it, and frequently reminded herself that when it was over, she’d likely pay in some way or another. But Brennen was right—it gave her more experience, more options.

  And more opportunities to spend time with him, even if much of their time was spent with her working and him watching with a smile. It became a familiar rhythm, something she looked forward to all day, and a bright spot of light in her otherwise dark life.

  Of course, there was still time to be spent at Sweet Haven, and she spent the Thursday before Saturday’s party filling the supply shelves and ensuring things were neat and tidy. She cautiously checked the entire store in the mornings now before setting to work, flipping on all the lights, inspecting the locks, and ensuring she was alone before setting to work. Gina never did hear precisely how much cash was taken or what the repairs cost, but Maureen was more irritable than usual about it, taking in an impossible number of orders that she had to know no reasonable baker could meet in a day. Still, Gina didn’t say a word, keeping her head down to work.

  As the early hours passed, the sun grew brighter and the clock on the wall ticked steadily. When Tatum didn’t show to work cash, Gina opened the shop, checked the float in the new cash register, and kept an eye on the front as she stocked the shelves with loaves of fresh bread, biscuits, tarts, and cupcakes. A handful of people stopped in on their way to work to pick up breakfast, then the pace slowed—from about nine-thirty until eleven, the store usually grew quiet enough that she could work in the backroom peacefully and still not miss much out front. When the lull hit as usual, she decided to go back and tidy up a bit—she was due to meet Brennen early afternoon.

  Just as she was about to head back through the curtain to return to her work in the kitchen, the bell over the door jangled.

  Gina turned an
d paused, watching as a middle-aged man and woman, both Caucasian and in suits, entered the bakery. They both glanced around just briefly but didn’t browse, instead heading straight to the cash register. Gina went to meet them, plastering on a smile no matter how uncomfortable their appearance made her—whoever they were, they didn’t strike her as customers.

  “Can I help you with anything?” she asked pleasantly, folding her hands on the counter in front of her.

  The woman carried a brown leather suitcase, slung over her shoulder with a matching strap, and her pale fingers tapped the side of it as she looked at Gina. “Is Ms. Chandler not here?”

  Uh, no, she never is. But Gina kept the snark aside and maintained the grin. “She isn’t, no. But I work here every day—I’m sure I can assist you.”

  The pair of them exchanged a look, one Gina couldn’t interpret. When the man gave the woman a slight nod, she removed a large manila envelope from her briefcase and set it on the counter. “Please see that she gets this.”

  “Of course.” Gina kept her head lifted and smiled at the both of them until they exited the bakery, then her expression fell into one of confusion. She watched them move past the window toward a black Town Car...

  Wait, wasn’t that the one I saw around here the other week?

  Very strange.

  She looked down at the envelope and turned it to face her. Nothing but Maureen’s name and the bakery’s address on the front. And it was sealed.