“It’s not a lie, Mon. Even if you smashed a cupcake in my face every hour on the hour, I’d still be here.”
“What about Agent Glenn? What about…”
A shiver passed over her. He reached for the quilt folded at the bottom of her bed and covered their bodies. “I know Glenn said it would be a stretch to think that any of the people at the party knew your identity, but I don’t care. I’ll be damned if I let anyone touch a hair on your head. I don’t care what we have to tell people. I’m staying here with you. There’s so much to do for the festival. We’ll say I’m sleeping on the couch so that I can be closer to the bakery and Park Tavern.”
“Do you think I’m in danger?”
She was trying to hide it, but he could hear the shake in her voice. He couldn’t even imagine what she had gone through. He tightened his embrace. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You have nothing to do with cybercriminals or ransomware.” But just as the words escaped his lips, something cold twisted in his gut.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Me, too.”
She hummed a soft chuckle.
“What?”
“It could be fun pretending to hate you.”
“Oh yeah?”
She traced his ink. “I’ll have to smash a strudel in your face next time, you know, up my game.”
He flipped her onto her back and hovered above her. “I guess that means we’ll be having lots of make-up sex?”
“All the make-up sex,” she purred.
Her smile was back, and his cock was ready for round two.
16
Monica rubbed her bleary eyes and entered the hospital. She and Gabe had stayed up most of the night, sweaty and tangled together, their bodies falling back into the warmth and familiarity of their unbreakable connection. She ran her hands down her torso, smoothing her shirt and smiled. Her body still tingled from his touch.
She hadn’t wanted to leave the safety of her bedroom. Nothing seemed complicated in Gabe’s arms hidden away above the bakery. The saving grace was that the shop opened late on Sundays. But that didn’t mean they got to sleep in. They’d spent the early morning hours sorting through Oma’s office. With Gabe’s help and her patchy German, they’d pieced together her grandmother’s plans for Langley Park’s first Oktoberfest.
She entered the elevator and checked her face in the shiny reflection. She looked tired but not much worse for wear under the circumstances. The doors opened to Oma’s floor. She waved to the nurse manning the nurses’ station and found her grandmother’s room.
She gave the door two gentle knocks. “Oma, are you up?”
“Of course, I’m awake. Do you think I’m the type to lay about?”
Monica bit back a smile and set a box of sticky buns and bag of toiletries on the hospital bed’s attached table. “I brought you something sweet, and I thought I could do your hair,” she said, fishing a brush out of the bag.
Oma eyed her carefully. “You didn’t sleep well.”
It wasn’t a question.
“The last twenty-four hours have been pretty crazy,” she answered and gestured to the box of pastries.
Oma waved her off. “Gabriel’s at the bakery?”
Brush in hand, she sat down on the side of the bed. “Yes, I hope you don’t mind, but we went through your office this morning. Gabe organized all the orders and created a baking schedule.”
“You two are working together?”
Monica ran the brush through Oma’s hair, careful not to meet her gaze. “Isn’t that what you wanted? I distinctly remember you throwing down an ultimatum. I work with Gabe, and you go to the Senior Living Campus for rehabilitation.”
“He is useful. He can bake. You know this,” Oma said with a huff.
Monica bit back a grin. “I guess you’re right.”
Oma let out a sigh. “What a mess, enkelin!”
She gently worked through a tangle. “Are you in any pain, Oma?”
With a shake of her head, her grandmother straightened her spine. “Do you remember how much you hated having your hair brushed after your bath when you were a little girl? You and your mother both got my hair.”
Losing her parents so young, Monica’s memories of them were more like fragments and feelings rather than actual recollections, but she had always remembered her mother’s hair. She’d kept it in a long braid that swayed as it trailed down her back.
She smiled. “It didn’t help that I’d dip my fingers into the cherry filling and then wipe my hands in my hair.”
The corners of Oma’s mouth turned upwards, almost a smile. “You were always a good girl, Monica.”
She worked on another tangle and blinked back tears. “I’m sorry, Oma.”
Her grandmother glanced up at her. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m sorry I left the way I did.”
“Oh, Monica. Stochere nicht im Bienenstock.”
Monica stopped brushing and furrowed her brow. “What about a beehive?”
Oma sighed. “I should have taught you better German. In English, it translates to don’t poke a beehive, but it means, let it be. You have your mother’s spirit. I should have never tried to contain it.”
“Is that why you sent me to Sacred Heart?”
Oma sighed. “Your grandfather was adamant about sending your mother to public school. He wanted her to meet people from all walks of life. All races. All religions. We knew firsthand what happens when you live in a bubble, and when someone who is different is branded as an enemy.”
“Then why didn’t you send me to the school in Langley Park?”
“After your parents died, I blamed your grandfather for your mother’s death. I thought he allowed her too much freedom. I thought, had we kept her close, had we not sent her to public school and then allowed her to go to college all the way in Colorado, maybe she would still be alive.”
“That’s why you chose Sacred Heart.”
“I knew it was a rigid education. I thought that, if I kept you busy with me in the bakery and sent you to that school, it would dampen your spirit. I hoped it would keep you from taking risks like your mother did.”
Monica twisted her grandmother’s hair into a bun and secured it with her ebony combs.
Oma smoothed back a few loose strands. “I was wrong, enkelin. I was wrong to try and tame your spirit. I thought maybe Gabriel was the answer, but I was wrong about that, too. So, I had to let you go.”
Something passed between them. All her life, her oma had been firm but kind, demanding but helpful. As a teenager, she had seen the bakery as almost a prison. But now, as a woman, she saw the bakery for what it was: her grandparents’ labor of love. It was the place that allowed them to settle and prosper in a new country. A brick and mortar testament to hard work and perseverance.
Monica squeezed the brush’s handle and tried to steady her voice. “I’m back, Oma, and I’m not going to let you down.”
A stretch of silence passed before her grandmother spoke. “Do you remember all the stories I told you about Munich’s Oktoberfest?”
“I remember you telling me about the beer tents and the music. All the delicious food and women wearing dirndls and men in lederhosen. I loved when you’d tell me the story of how it all began as a party celebrating the wedding of Prince Ludwig and Princess Therese. And I remember that’s where you met Opa.”
Her grandmother squeezed her hand, but a sharp knock at the door caused Oma to pull her hand away and fold them serenely in her lap. Their rare heart to heart might have been over, but her grandmother’s eyes still shined with the sheerest glint of emotion.
“I hope I’m not bothering you, Mrs. Becker.”
Stacey Collier from the flower shop entered the room with an enormous bouquet of pale pink roses, sunflowers, and sky-blue delphinium.
Monica cleared a spot for the flowers. “I’m glad you stopped by, Stacey. I wanted to thank you. I can�
�t even begin to tell you how grateful I am that you were there for my grandmother and that you called me. And thank you for locking up the shop. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Stacey’s cheeks bloomed pink. “I’m just glad I could help. How are you feeling Mrs. Becker?”
“What are these flowers for?” Oma asked with a disapproving eye.
“They’re for you. My grandfather asked me to bring them over. He asked specifically for me to add the blue delphinium. He says it matches your eyes,” she added, ducking her head shyly.
“Your grandfather?” Monica asked, remembering years ago when Mr. Collier dropped by to escort her grandmother to church.
“Yes, he lives over in the Senior Living Campus now. He’s got a little independent living cottage there.”
“Is that so? My grandmother is going to be there for several weeks recovering from her hip surgery,” Monica said. She didn’t dare look at Oma.
Stacey smiled. “I’ll let him know. I’m heading over there now.”
The room was quiet for a beat, then two before Oma spoke.
“Please, thank your grandfather for the flowers, Stacey.” Oma touched a delphinium petal. “They were not necessary, but they are quite lovely.”
Stacey nodded and headed for the door. “Take care, Mrs. Becker.”
Monica glanced at the flowers. “Looks like you’ll have a friend over at the Senior Living Campus.”
Oma let out an irritated huff and glanced at the clock. “It’s getting late, Monica. You need to get back to the bakery. Don’t let Gabriel change any of my recipes. I know he’s a fancy TV chef now, but just because you can smile into a camera doesn’t mean you are an expert in German baking.”
“I’ll be sure to share that with him.”
Oma opened the box of sticky buns. “Who made these?”
“I did,” she answered.
Oma took a bite and chewed methodically. “The texture is good. Did you use a clean wooden spoon to test that the brown sugar had caramelized?”
“Oma, I spent my childhood watching you. I remember everything you taught me. I really do.”
Oma took another bit. “Yes, I can see you do.”
Monica’s phone chimed. She pulled it out of her pocket.
“Who is it?” Oma asked.
“It’s a text from Gabe. Zoe’s going to pick me up from the hospital. She wants to tape a segment today.”
Oma nodded. “I told Zoe Sundays were not as busy at the bakery.”
Monica glanced up and met Oma’s gaze. Her grandmother must have seen the apprehension in her eyes.
“Go, Monica. I know you can do it.”
“I don’t want to leave you all alone, Oma.”
“I’ll be fine, enkelin.”
“Are they moving you to the Senior Living Center today? I want to be with you for that.”
“Dr. Stein came in earlier this morning to tell me they’ll be transferring me there tomorrow. Now, go!” she said, shooing her with her hand.
Monica pocketed her phone then leaned in and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow to help get you settled at the Senior Living Center.”
“Good, you got Gabe’s message,” Zoe said, shifting her Jeep into drive.
Zoe had been parked in front of the hospital when Monica came out.
“How’s your grandma?” she asked.
“I think it’s going to take more than a fractured hip to hold her back.”
Zoe chuckled. “She’s one tough broad, your oma. I’ve gotten to know her a little since she and Sam started planning Oktoberfest. She cares a lot about you.”
Monica stared out the window at the landscape of her childhood. “Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”
Zoe reached down into her bag settled on the floor next to Monica’s feet. She pulled out a folder. “Here, take a look. It’s a loose outline. I pitched this to KPR as a storytelling project. When the focus was on your grandmother, we were going to delve into her time in Germany, and what it was like to attend the first Oktoberfest after World War Two ended.”
“It didn’t start right after the war ended in 1945. It was 1950,” Monica said, surprised she remembered this. While Oma rarely spoke about her time growing up during the war, one of her favorite stories as a little girl was the tale of how her grandparents met.
“Really?” Zoe asked.
Monica nodded. “Yeah, after the war ended they had a fall festival, but not the real Oktoberfest. It was 1950 when Oktoberfest started again with the twelve-gun salute and the tapping of the keg. My grandmother was thirteen. She met my grandfather there. It was love at first sight. They each traveled from their villages to sell baked goods at the festival. They’d only see each other every year during Oktoberfest. Five years later, they married in Munich, right there at the festival.”
Zoe hummed a sweet sigh. “That’s romantic.”
“Yeah, it is,” she answered as the image of a young Gabe riding his bike past the bakery, all skinny legs and elbows, flashed through her mind. She had been captivated by him from the first moment she’d seen him pedal through the town square.
“You’re blushing,” Zoe said, glancing at her with a wry grin.
“I’d forgotten how much I loved that story,” she answered and tucked the memory away.
As much as she liked Zoe, she didn’t want anyone knowing that she and Gabe were… What were they? The warmth from the memory of a twelve-year-old Gabe shifted into something prickly and uneasy. The familiar pangs of guilt and regret almost set in, but just as the Jeep pulled up in front of the bakery, she glanced over to see Gabe standing at the window. He patted his chest right where the sunflower M lay hidden beneath his shirt. It was a quick motion, but she caught it. He tossed her a wink, and her uneasiness melted away.
Zoe glanced her way. “Are things between the two of you okay? It was pretty intense watching you…”
“Smash a cupcake into his face,” Monica supplied.
Zoe chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, I can see the appeal of smashing a cupcake into the faces of both Sinclair brothers, but I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“We’ve agreed to be civil toward each other and work amicably together for Oma.”
That wasn’t the whole truth, but it was true enough.
Zoe nodded. “Let me know if it gets uncomfortable. I know a little bit about how hard it is spending time with someone you’ve got history with.”
Monica met Zoe’s gaze. Her usual laughing eyes had dimmed a fraction, but her phone chimed, pulling her attention away.
Zoe’s brow knit together. “Do you mind if I meet you inside the bakery in a few minutes. I’m working on another story, and I need to reply to this.”
“Sure, is everything all right?”
“Just a lead that I thought had gone cold.”
“Take your time,” Monica answered and got out of the car.
Gabe met her at the door. His eyes flicked to Zoe then back to her.
“Zoe’s just answering a text for a work thing,” she said, glancing back at the Jeep.
Gabe took a step toward her and smiled. “Do you know how badly I want to kiss you right now?”
She bit her lip. His dimple was back, and he looked good enough to eat. “I think I have an idea,” she said, sliding past him and making damn sure to brush against his cock.
“You’re not playing fair,” he growled.
She eyed the bulge in his pants. “You better get that under control.”
He pinned her with his gaze. While Gabe at eighteen took her breath away, Gabe the man, sent a rush of heat to her core. The sweetness in his gaze was still there, but something commanding and decisive in his eyes had her pulse racing. She knew the look of a man who desired her. She’d seen it a million times. Gabe’s look went beyond desire, beyond mere wanting. Gabe’s gaze claimed her, possessed her. She was his, and he knew it.
She released a tight breath. “I’m going to run upstai
rs and change.”
If he was going to be throwing panty-melting gazes her way, she needed some ammunition of her own.
“Why? You look beautiful, Mon.”
There was the boy who had stolen glimpses of her every morning. She gave him the hint of a smile. “Tell Zoe I’ll be right down.”
She passed the display cases and took the stairs up the apartment two at a time. She opened her closet and pawed through her old T-shirts and dresses until she came to what she was looking for. Red plaid and pleated, her Sacred Heart skirt hung unassumingly on a metal hanger. A devious smile crossed her lips. She peeled off her shorts, unclipped the skirt from the hangar, and prayed it would still fit.
She zipped up the skirt and glanced at herself in the mirror. Her sly smile was back. She pulled off her shirt and put on the uniform’s white Oxford button up. Knee socks and Mary Jane flats completed the look.
She skipped down the steps but paused in the back hallway before entering the bakery and listened. Zoe was updating Gabe on the babies, while he grabbed a few cookie sheets and parchment paper.
Monica smoothed her skirt and entered the bakery. “Sorry for making you wait, Zoe.”
Gabe and Zoe stopped speaking and stared at her. A perplexed look crossed Zoe’s face while Gabe’s jaw dropped.
“You didn’t have to change,” Zoe said and narrowed her gaze. “I’m just recording audio today. I may take a few still photos for the website, but what you had on before was fine.”
Monica glanced over at Gabe. He’d managed to close his mouth, but his eyes were as wide as saucers. She took an apron off the hook and put it on over her ensemble. “I spent most of my childhood working in the bakery in my school uniform. I thought it would help bring up old memories.”
Zoe cocked her head to the side. “That makes a lot of sense. Good call!”
“Everything okay?” Monica asked Gabe, doing her best to sound mildly irritated.
“I mean, yeah, of course. I, the puff pastry. It’s all. There it is.”
“Gabe, are you having a seizure?” Zoe asked.
“No, I’m fine,” he answered.
The Complete Langley Park Series (Books 1-5) Page 95
