She wasn’t too concerned that her curls would frighten the good chief. Despite what she was loathe to call a “moment” earlier today, Sean barely noticed her beyond her rent check, or lack thereof, and she was fairly certain he’d never think of mixing business with pleasure. Not the perfect police chief.
Shaking the weighty bulk with her fingers, she took one additional step into the café to avoid the door tweaking her in the back, and gave herself a pep talk. Remember, he’s your landlord. Not your friend. He’s…come on! Think of a reason. There were a thousand this morning. He’s mean. Well, except for his kindness to sweet Mr. Thompson. And, renting this building to someone with cash, but no credit history. No. No. No. He’s mean. He’s a bully. He’s the landlord. Tonight is business. Stay on the offensive. He’s a cop. You can’t trust anyone—not even cops.
The chief walked into the café and her heart dropped to her stomach, crushing all of her arguments with a thud.
~*~
Sean pushed open the front door. The jingling bell announced his arrival. His gaze shifted to the connecting door and he froze. Reflexively, he tightened his grip on the handle of his toolbox. The vision of Maggie, hair down and no apron, hit him like a prize fighter in an opening round. Swiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he couldn’t tear his gaze from her.
She was catch-your-breath stunning, but her saucy mouth usually curbed her appeal. In the six months he’d known her, he had not experienced the full force of the waterfall of tresses framing her gorgeous face. Seeing her hair flowing around her shoulders made him yearn to tangle his fingers in her curls. He said a silent prayer for God’s strength and willpower. Tonight would be a challenge.
A sweet twist of her lips matched the twinkle of welcome in her eyes. She stopped just inside the narrow walkway connecting the dining area and the sales counter. The smile seemed genuine, free from her typical nasty bite.
Maybe they’d made a breakthrough this morning as they’d bonded over Mr. Thompson?
“I really appreciate you coming,” she said.
“Well, I’d like to pay the mortgage on the building…”
Her smile bent to a snarl. Pivoting on her heel, she said, “Oh, yes...the rent.” She rammed open the door and let it swing back, nearly slamming into his face.
He sucked in a deep breath and then released air slowly through tight lips. He slid his hand up the smooth wood and pushed the door forward with the barest touch of his fingers. Thanks, Lord. That helps.
She waited for him by the first of three prep tables, her arms crossed. Her foot tapped to an impatient rhythm. “I have my checkbook handy. As soon as you finish up, I’ll write you a check for three months’ rent. How’ll that be?”
“No need to give me more than the two months’ rent.”
She turned toward the back of the kitchen.
He followed as she expertly wove through a delicate obstacle course laid out in the shoebox-sized kitchen, stopping just to the left of the back door. Memories of running through the door to sneak a warm cookie off of one of his mom’s trays floated across his mind and squeezed his heart. Closing the final two steps to the rear entrance, he set his tool box on a wooden crate and crouched down next to the door to inspect the existing lock. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder.
With her arms hugging her middle and her brows lowered in a questioning glare, she exuded the intimidation intensity rivaling his former partner.
He suppressed a chuckle. “I can take it from here. You don’t need to supervise, unless you don’t trust me?”
“Of course, I trust you.” A tiny sigh slipped through her lips and her arms dropped to her sides. “I guess if you don’t need my help, I’ll wrap up the kitchen.” Glancing back towards the bathroom, “Please, don’t forget the toilet. One of the interns nearly wiped out on the growing lake in there today.”
He nodded. He caught the shimmer of water pooling around the base of the toilet. If he wasn’t careful, he could be replacing an entire floor rather than tightening a few nuts. “Gotcha. Lock, then toilet.”
She opened her mouth as if she wanted to add a comment. But silently, her lips slammed shut as she twisted away from him and scooted back toward the kitchen. A silent Maggie was definitely more attractive than the speaking version. When she stepped out of his view, he rose and shifted back to project number one, replacing the dead bolt. Staring at the door, he struggled to concentrate on the simple steps he learned from Mr. Thompson when he and his brothers first inherited the building. Come on Taylor. Get with the program. Running his hand down the outside edge of the wood, he zeroed in on the existing lock. The facing was severely damaged. He wouldn’t be adding an extra lock tonight. He would be replacing one.
He unhooked the latch on the toolbox. Metal clanging against metal echoed off the walls of the tight space as he shuffled various tools. Shoving aside loose nails, tiny screwdrivers and two pocket knives, he found a pew pencil hidden under a receipt for the paint he’d purchased to spruce up the building three doors down from the bakery. He lifted it from the cubby, marked a few spots where he would drill the cylinder for the deadbolt, and then dropped the pencil back into the tray.
Pulling the tiny metal rack from the box, he released a soft sigh at the sight of his coveted and very expensive drill. God definitely wasn’t in favor of a love affair with inanimate objects, but this drill was high on his “like” list. He turned the drill in his hand and fit it with the best bit for the job.
In two swift moves, he yanked the old lock from the casing. He scrutinized the damage. The deadbolt was a mess. Someone had broken into the bakery. He glanced over his shoulder.
Maggie was scrubbing a cookie sheet and swaying to the soft sounds of jazz floating in the air. Why hadn’t she reported the break-in? Was she unaware? Or maybe she was reluctant.
Telling the police meant telling him and that may have been enough deterrent.
Break-ins were rare in Gibson’s Run. A few B and E’s from time to time, often by local high schoolers looking for a thrill in a town with only two traffic lights—one of which was always blinking. The police division only employed four full-time cops. As chief, he was one of them.
He stared at the mangled face and shaft. Whoever had taken a fancy at getting into the bakery either really liked Maggie’s cakes or had some anger management issues.
He lifted the new deadbolt out of the box and slid it into the opening. The drill whirred, tightening the screws in place. Sliding his hand against the fresh lock and slightly damaged door frame, he scanned the back entrance and parking lot.
A single light, perched on a warped electrical pole, flickered and hummed against the chill of mid-October. Security definitely needed to be upgraded.
He glanced through the framed pass-through window, and his eyes locked on the gentle movement of Maggie’s hips as she swayed with the beat. She had an unconscious grace he hadn’t noticed before, or rather, he hadn’t let himself notice.
From the first moment she walked through the door with his childhood friend, Jane, to enquire about renting the empty building, Sean was struck with her unique beauty and presence. Her smile and unabashed enthusiasm for her new business kindled a desire he could not fan to flame. Instead, he quickly shoved his instant attraction to her onto the back shelf of one of the many cubicles in his brain and plopped her into a folder marked business associate. He was her landlord. He wasn’t her friend. He couldn’t be her boyfriend.
They were in a business relationship and that was all it should ever be. His brothers trusted him to run their joint properties with professionalism. They would not appreciate him making nice with the pretty baker. Actually, they wouldn’t care about the landlord-tenant issue and would probably love for him to make nice with the pretty baker. Then they would have something to hold over his head. One could not underestimate the power of a good burn amongst brothers regardless that two out of three were in their thirties. That’s what brothers did. Hassle. Tease. Burn. They might
be too old for noogies behind the barn, but they would never be too old for sibling harassment.
Sean wasn’t about to give the two yahoos he shared DNA with any softballs to pummel over the back fence of his ego. And yet, at this particular moment, watching Maggie clean up the kitchen, he was having a hard time remembering all of his sound reasons for his not-mixing-business-with-pleasure rule.
But whether or not he should date Ms. McKitrick wasn’t why he was here tonight.
He shifted his focus to the parking lot. He needed to talk to Maggie about upping the security, maybe putting in a couple cameras or motion detectors that would be directly tied to the station. He began mentally making a list of the necessary improvements to ensure her safety. It wasn’t just because she was renting his place. He’d feel the same need to protect any of his residents. He was the police chief. This was his town. The safety and security of all of the residents was paramount. Sure, that was it.
~*~
Maggie lifted a soapy hand and reached for a scrub pad. The faint whirring sound of the drill laid over the woeful tones of a trumpet solo. Jazz warmed her soul. The woeful tunes were an outward voice to her inward pain and nothing she had musically experienced before or since rivaled the peace she found in the melodies. She squeezed the scrub pad to eliminate some of the excess water before attacking the burned caramel coating a large cookie sheet. She was thankful to have the culinary interns, but they were both still learning her ovens and their timing was not quite right.
Today, Anna-Beth, a perky twenty-two-year-old from Portsmouth, Ohio, tried to make a new recipe she was developing for caramel apple cookies. She misjudged the temperature in the convection oven and the cookies ended up as a giant, charred slab of caramel without a speck of recognizable apple to be found. Nothing had been salvageable. Instead of the chewy, apple goodness Anna-Beth promised, Maggie was left with pruned fingers as she attempted to rescue the sheet, scrubbing the pan back to shiny.
The sound of steel wool against metal scraped at her ears, but she released a dreamy sigh. She was living her dream. She owned her own business in a town that was starting to feel like home. Life was peaceful and calm with the exceptions of a certain landlord and unexpected envelopes.
When she opened the package from Florida that morning, her mind had skittered through various exit strategies. She always had a plan. She had multiple. Today’s message sent her from high level future concepts into deep dive tactics. She’d run dozens of scenarios through her mind before noon, all while playing happy hostess to her unaware patrons. She shouldn’t need any of the plans, her initial design was nearly flawless, but one could never be too cautious.
She hoped she was right; that she was untraceable. Maybe she could finally stop running.
She liked this new dream; this new life.
Maggie’s life.
Pruned fingers and burned cookie sheets were a small price to pay. For the first time, in more years than she cared to think, she felt settled and safe, almost unafraid. She wasn’t about to let today’s little note rob her of stability. She needed to stay calm and alert. If she didn’t, the monster would not only haunt her dreams, but she would give him the power to leap into her hours among the living.
She flipped on the faucet, lifting the heavy metal pan under a stream of water to rinse, and then settled it on the large drying rack. She released the stopper and the dirty water swirled down the drain. The popping sound of the water from the expandable sprayer against the metal sink mixed with the whirring of the drill, drowning out the jazz and sucking Maggie’s thoughts back to her landlord.
Not that she should have thoughts about her landlord. Well, at least not beyond when the rent was due and maintenance issues, but she couldn’t seem to stop. He was like the last brownie in the pan, too tempting to resist.
Sean Taylor. The middle child of Lorraine and Frank Taylor was the only Taylor boy still living in Gibson’s Run, not that his status made the family’s presence any less tangible. Even though their parents had passed, everyone in town still talked about Frank and Lorraine and their boys as if they were going to walk into her shop any day. There was something all-American, real and sprawling about the Taylor family.
Something Maggie always wanted but never had. She wanted a slice of Americana, simple, sweet, and quietly uncomplicated. And thanks to her little shop and the man fixing her back door she could sense it nearly in her grasp. Maybe Sean was more than just the holder of the key to her building? Maybe he was part of her dream, too? “Well, that’s just silly,” she muttered as she wiped down the inside of the stainless steel sink.
“What’s silly?”
Maggie whirled around at the deep timbre of his voice, flopping soap from her hands onto the floor.
He wore a Henley T-shirt that had seen better days and equally well-traveled jeans slung low on his hips. He leaned against the tall metal shelf that held various cake pans, cookie sheets, and mixing bowls, and crossed his arms. He looked annoyed. “What’s silly?” he asked again.
Heat rose from Maggie’s belly, flaming up her neck. “Oh, nothing. I tend to talk to myself.”
He stepped away from the shelf, closing the gap between them.
Maggie’s stomach dropped. When was the last time she had been this close to a man?
Him.
A shot of ice through her veins slowed her heart to its normal pace. She turned her back. The slow burn of bile replaced the flutter of nerves. A healthy reminder of how quickly butterflies twisted into a swarm of hornets ready to sting. “Are you all finished?” She asked over her shoulder.
“Yep. I’ll have to come back later this week to fix the toilet or I’ll send someone. It needs a new wax ring and Bauserman’s closes at 6:00 PM. I should be able to pick up what I need tomorrow. If you don’t mind, I can send Mr. Thompson over first thing in the morning. Just don’t distract him, OK?” His voice cracked as he spoke.
“That’ll be fine.”
He could have suggested that Sissy Jenkins, the town busybody, whom Maggie avoided like a root canal, would be her new barista and she would have agreed. She would agree to anything to give her the space she needed to return to neutral. Nice, happy neutral. “Do you want me to walk you out?” she asked without turning from the sink. She happily would carry him firefighter style back to the police station if he would grant her the space she craved.
The jazz trumpeter’s trademark trill seeped through the crowded space as she waited for his response. Gritting her teeth, she turned with the final cookie sheet in her hand. With a sigh, she stretched around him to stack the pan on the rack. Her back against the sink, she looked him in the eye. She always made eye contact. She refused to be frightened of anyone. Not ever again.
He smelled like the outdoors, the kind of aftershave that made her think of men chopping wood, strong men who rescued damsels in distress.
Her heart started fluttering again. Get it together, girl.
His eyebrows scrunched as if he was trying to solve a problem.
She didn’t think it was the wax ring on her leaky toilet.
“Umm, so…umm…have you noticed anything missing recently?” he asked.
HE’S OUT.
The bold scrawl of the morning’s note flashed through her mind. She sucked in a deep breath as the two ton weight of her past crashed down on her. Scrubbing a hand over her face, she tried to keep her voice light and unconcerned. But she wanted to run.
“I’m sorry. My mind’s distracted. What did you say?” She misjudged the space as she moved and her foot landed on the bottom shelf of the baker’s rack next to a stack of metal mixing bowls. Instinctively, she lifted her foot to save the bowls from clattering to the ground and tumbled forward into Sean.
He reached out his hands, gently touching her arms to steady her. “Whoa. Are you OK?”
She broke away quickly. Heat bulleted from her toes through her body, flooding her cheeks with color – exploding the butterflies permanently housed in her stomach into a r
iot. “I’m good. Just a bit clumsy,” she mumbled, biting her bottom lip.
He shoved his right hand through his hair and tucked his left in his front pocket, letting out a sigh.
Swallowing, she sidled around him until she stood behind the stainless steel prep table and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Now what were you saying? Am I missing stuff?”
His brows drew closer together, deepening the crease in the middle of his forehead. “Huh?”
“You said something about missing stuff. Why would I be missing stuff?” She released her arms and rested her hands on the smooth metal surface.
“Oh, yeah. Umm…it looks like someone tried to tweak your backdoor.”
Every hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. Shallow spurts of breath thrust past the knot fighting to rise in her throat. Her hands gripped the edge of the table. She willed her stomach not to reject the chocolate chip cookie she’d eaten just before Sean came. She swallowed, forcing the lump back down her throat. “What do you mean, tweak?”
“The backdoor lock was pretty messed up. Why didn’t you mention that earlier?”
A wave of frustration engulfed the fear growing in her belly. “I believe, Chief Taylor, that I’ve requested a new door lock for the last two months. Wouldn’t that qualify as ‘mentioning’ it to you?”
Sean lifted his hand to his neck and methodically kneaded the space just above his collar bone. “Sorry. But why didn’t you tell me that someone tried to break in?”
Lacing her arms, she slowly turned from the table. With a soft push of her shoulder, she opened the door and walked into the café. “Because I didn’t know,” she said. She dropped onto the nearest chair. The heavy thud of male footsteps stopped to her right. She twisted in her seat, rested her chin in her hand, and lifted her focus to him. His gaze locked with hers and the concern reflected in them tilted her balance. He’s a cop. Don’t forget. Sharing isn’t always caring. Keep your troubles to yourself.
From Scratch Page 2
