Rub

Chapter 1

one

“Fired?” I frown at the Prada-clad dictator standing in front of me and adjust my grip on the muffin-ladened tray in my hands. “Why?”

Grimacing, my boss—or should that be ex -boss?—clears her throat, gaze darting around the small café kitchen we’re standing in. “Dad, I mean, Mr . Japher says you’re not performing to his expectations.”

I blink. “To his expectations?” Yeah, his expectations . He expected me to let him feel me up every time he came into the kitchen. I slapped his hand off my arse every time he did. Which was damn near every day for the last two months.

“He says the patisserie is going in a different direction.” An awkward scowl replaces Imogen Japher’s grimace, and she shoves her hands on her hips. If I weren’t being sacked, I’d laugh. Imogen didn’t do menacing well. Instead, I frown.

Imogen huffs. “Do I need to repeat myself? You were lucky D— Mr . Japher even gave you a chance, given your lack of credentials. You should consider yourself lucky he doesn’t call the police.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “For what? Since I started here customer numbers have exploded. People need to line up outside the café sometimes.”

“For lying on your resume,” Imogen shoots back. “You said you were a trained pastry chef.”

“No, I said I’m an exceptional pastry chef.” Elon Japher had spent most of my interview trying to look down my shirt instead of listening to me. “With years of experience.”

No lie there. My father was one of the best pastry chefs in Western Australia. From the time I was old enough to tie my own apron until the time he was killed in a hit-and-run accident five years ago when I was seventeen, he’d taught me everything he knew. Since then, I’ve been alone, bouncing from place to place, picking up jobs wherever I can and looking for… Well, something.

Connection?

Love?

Ha. No chance on that last one. Love is something I don’t even want, let alone being something I’d bother wishing for. Mum abandoned Dad when I was five, and it almost broke him. No way am I going to let the same thing happen to me.

Love is a fairy tale I want no part of.

“If you don’t believe me,” I said, fixing Imogen with a level look, “check my resume. I didn’t lie.”

She snorts and holds out her hand, palm up, and wriggles her fingers. “Mr. Japher says to hand in your apron now.” Does she have any clue how gropey and creepy her father is? Should I tell her the last time he tried to feel me up, I casually mentioned I’d cut his balls off if he tried again? Or should I congratulate her for not calling Japher Dad this time?

“Al?”

Both Imogen and I jump at the excited voice coming from the kitchen’s doorway. Imogen swings her glare at the young man, barely a teenager, standing there.

“Arlo,” she snaps. “We’re in the middle of?—”

Arlo, the café’s waiter-slash-dishwasher ignores her, his grin wide. “He’s back. He’s here, and he’s asking to speak to you.”

I blink. “Who?”

“Who?” Imogen echoes.

Once again, Arlo ignores her. Brave boy. His grin stretches wider. He’s almost bouncing on his toes. “Jackson Maine.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Seriously?”

Arlo nods with such excitement I’d be worried about him hurting his neck if I wasn’t internally freaking out about Jackson Maine being here. Jackson Maine? The Jackson Maine? And he’s been here before?

“Who’s Jackson Maine?” Imogen slides a frown my way.

I gape at her. How does anyone in the pastry/baking business not know who Jackson Maine is? I’m too stunned to laugh.

Arlo does though. God, this kid is awesome. “Only Australia’s most successful and influential patissier,” he explains. “He’s won every award there is to win both here and overseas. He has his own patisserie chain and his own international streaming show. He is the patissier version of royalty. Practically a prince.” He points a finger at me. “And he wants to talk to Al.”

A prickling heat rushes over me. Jackson Maine wants to talk to me. Oh God. Oh God. Oh?—

“Why?” Imogen demands.

Arlo looks at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “I guess because he likes eating everything Al bakes. He’s been coming in here twice a week for the last six weeks and buying one of everything.”

The tension in my body curls around my chest, and I suck in a shaky breath. How did I not know this? “Jackson Maine has been eating my— Arlo! Why didn’t you tell me this before?—”

Before I can finish, Imogen shoves Arlo out of the doorway and damn near sprints through the bakery.

Arlo barks out a confused laugh. “What the fuck?”

Stomach knotting, I hurry after her. What is she planning to do?

The sight of her at the café’s counter shaking the hand of a tall, stunningly gorgeous man in a white linen shirt and jeans makes me grind to a halt. Holy shit, it is him. He’s really here.

And he’s shaking Imogen’s hand.

“Jackson Maine,” I hear her say from the kitchen door, a flirty heat in her voice. “I am so honoured to meet you.”

“What the fuck is she doing?” Arlo whispers beside me.

Mouth dry, head roaring, I shrug. “I have no idea.”

“Get your arse over there, Al. Before she tries to pretend she’s you.”

Arlo gives my back an enthusiastic push, and I stumble out into the dining area with a surprised grunt, fully ladened tray of muffins still in hand.

And slam into Jackson Maine.

The tray flattens against my chest, the edge of the tray swinging upwards to smack into the coffee mug he’s holding. The mug jolts upwards, its contents fanning up into the air in a dark-brown glistening wave to splash all over his neck and the front of his pristine-white linen shirt.

“Oh shit,” Arlo mutters behind me in an I’ve-fucked-up voice.

I want to spin around and glare at him. I want the floor to open up and eat me, in the exact way Jackson Maine has apparently been eating my pastries, muffins, cakes, and cookies. I want to throw up my hands and scream in frustration. Of all people to run into, it had to be the prince of pastries?

Instead, I cover my mouth with my hand and stare up at him.

His blue eyes lock onto mine.

God, he’s gorgeous.

A frown creases his forehead. Coffee drips from his chin. “Excuse me?” he says. He’s not happy.

I do what I always do when I’m ridiculously stressed and under pressure. I burst out laughing.

Thankfully, my palm muffles most of it. I hope.

“Oh shit,” Arlo repeats from the kitchen door. This time in an Al ’s-fucked-up whisper.

Imogen gapes at me. “Alaina? What are you doing ?”

Jackson’s frown deepens, and his gorgeous blue eyes narrow a little. “Aliana? As in Aliana Barker?”

Dropping my hand from my mouth, I brush at the muffin carcasses on my chest, the crumbs sticky but still so light and moist. My blueberry and white-choc muffins drizzled with dark chocolate ganache sell out every time I bake them, and I’m devastated no one got to try them today. Especially Jackson Maine, who’s currently studying me like I’m a dubious souffle.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’m she. I’m her. I’m Al. Aliana. Aliana Barker.” I pull in a deep breath and let it out, forcing myself to relax. “Hi, I’m Aliana Barker. Sorry about the coffee.”

An enigmatic hmmm vibrates low in Jackson Maine’s throat.

He towers over me. And he smells so good. Like expensive cologne and cinnamon and vanilla. I stop myself leaning closer to him and drawing in a deep breath. As far as first impressions go, I’ve already crashed and burned. Do I want to make it worse?

“You’re the one responsible for the extra five kilograms I’ve put on this last fortnight?” he asks, his tone as enigmatic as his hmmm .

Before I can stop myself, I rake an open gaze over him. The coffee has drenched the front of his white linen shirt, making it cling to his chest and the very impressive pecs that chest has. There’s not a hint of excess fat on him.

I meet his stare once more. “I guess. But unless you’re hiding it in your arse, I don’t know where it is.”

His eyebrows shoot up. Behind me, still at the kitchen door, Arlo snorts. Beside me, Imogen gasps.

Crap. Did I really just say that?

Something important to know about me is that my dad raised me alone. No help from relatives or family friends. We didn’t have any of those. Yes, he was the best pastry chef in Western Australia, and yes, he got work no matter where we went, but he was a loner, and I wasn’t kidding when I said Mum leaving us broke him. Dad dealt with his shock and grief by numbing himself with vodka. Sometimes he numbed himself so much he couldn’t stand up, and sometimes he numbed himself until he lost control of all the grief and anger and confusion inside him. And sometimes— all the times—those numbing vodka bottles meant any work Dad did get didn’t last long. We travelled a lot. A lot. We were never in the same city or town for long. Which meant I really didn’t get the best schooling and really didn’t get a hang of social interactions.

Which means I now say things like “you’re hiding it in your arse” to someone like Jackson Maine.

If I wasn’t fired before, I was now.

On cue, Imogen huffs out a disgusted sigh. “I apologise, Mr. Maine. Aliana is no longer employed by Japher’s Patisserie. Now, let me get you a replacement coffee and something to clean up with. My d— Mr. Japher can be here in a matter of minutes to help you with any?—”

Jackson reaches out, plucks a chunk of blueberry and white-choc muffin from just below my collarbone, and deposits it into his mouth.

I stare at him.

“Oh shit ,” Arlo says for a third time, this time with a this-is-fucked-up laugh.

Jackson arches an eyebrow at me and points at his mouth. “You made this?”

I blink.

“The muffin?” he clarifies with a slight grin that turns my heart into a ticking bomb. He plucks another chunk from my shirt and tosses it into his mouth. Chocolate ganache sticks to his fingers, and he licks it off. “You made the muffin?”

I nod.

He swings his attention to Imogen. “Why does she not work here anymore? What kind of idiot would fire someone who bakes like this?”

Imogen’s lips part and then come back together. She swallows, flicking me the quickest of looks. Embarrassment burns in that look. And malicious contempt. Returning her full attention to Jackson, she straightens her spine and lifts her chin. “She lied to get the position here. Misrepresented herself.”

My stomach sinks. Oh God, no.

“I didn’t—” I begin.

“How?” Jackson cuts me off, his slight grin fading. It’s his turn to slide me a look, and the ice in his eyes, eyes that only a second ago held playful mirth, cut me to the core.

“Said she was fully trained,” Imogen declares, and I don’t have to be an expert in human behaviour to know she’s enjoying the moment. I don’t know what her father has told her, but she hates me. With a venomous passion. “But it turns out, she has no training at all.”

The ice in Jackson Maine’s gaze grows colder. If a stare could have a sound, the stare he’s directing at me would be that of splintering glaciers. “She pretended to have studied?” His voice makes his icy stare seem like a warm hug. “Just because she’s good in the kitchen, she pretended to be something she’s not?”

My mouth falls open. Heat prickles all over me, hot and itchy and crawling, like I’m slowly being wrapped in molten wire. “I’m not just good in the kitchen,” I snap back. “I’m?—”

“Oh my God, Aliana,” Imogen snaps before I can say I’m amazing in the kitchen. “Don’t embarrass yourself anymore. Dad knew you were trouble when you threw yourself at him during the interview and kept shoving your b—cleavage in his face.”

It’s too much. Way too much.

My fists bunch at my sides, and my eyes burn. I glare at her. “That’s bullshit.”

“Where did you study?” Jackson asks with that same chilling flatness. “What school? Here in Australia? Or overseas? Who have you apprenticed to?”

And there it is. The end of the conversation. Because I haven’t studied at a school, nor have I been anyone’s official apprentice, and Dad destroyed any worth to his name after my mum left. As far as the country’s most esteemed, revered, influential and gorgeous pastry chef goes, I’ve got nothing. I am nothing.

Something hot stings my eyes and I blink.

Tears. Damn it, tears. I’m freaking crying. In front of people. In front of Imogen and Jackson Maine and— Oh God, is that…that…

“What’s going on?” Elon Japher strides into the bakery through the front entrance as smug and arrogant as ever, his permanent leer locking on me immediately.

Nope, I’m done. No way I’m hanging around for this. I’m outta here. Spinning on my heel, I damn near bolt for the kitchen.

Imogen sniggers behind me. Jackson Maine says something. I don’t know what. My heart is pounding too hard, too fast in my ears to hear.

“Al,” Arlo mumbles as I push passed him, sympathy and worry in his voice, but am I stopping?

Nope nope nope.

I snatch up my bag and my tools, the ones I travel with, the ones I use no matter what kitchen I’m in, and I rush through the back door.