Sweet and Salty (Marshall My Heart #1)

41. Chapter Forty-One

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

J esse

Something about the cabin going up in flames and then having to discuss said experience with my maybe-not-fake girlfriend’s imposing brother means no sleep is had.

The ceiling of the apartment has exactly three water marks. One in the shape of a tear drop, one in the shape of a rabid bat dropping toward my head with fangs bared, and one that looks like an amorphous lump, a silhouette of something real, something that could have been.

Around four in the morning, I abandon all pretense of resting. Moe can do without me for another day. I’ve put in my time and deserve a couple days off.

What I need to do is talk to Laura. I might not be able to tell her everything, but even something might ease her pain. That’s all I want.

I dress quickly and head downstairs, ready to go to her bedroom, shake her awake, and apologize profusely. Then grovel, then apologize again.

But her car isn’t here. Where would she have gone?

As far as I know—which, granted, is still limited—no place is open overnight in St. Olaf, except the hospital. Even the local bar closes at eleven, and then only on weekends during the tourist season.

What I do know is that this entire peninsula isn’t that large. If I have to drive every inch of it to find her, I will.

In the end, it takes only about twenty minutes to find her. Her car isn’t at her mom’s house, but it’s parked in the lot by the bakery. I pull in beside her and sit for a moment, watching the cheerful curtained windows of Sweet and Salty. Nothing moves, so she must be in the back, but what am I doing? Maybe it would be better if I just ask for a reassignment to a new place. It would be a hassle for Harbor, but that’s his job.

My insides knot themselves together in a more complicated twist than any required in surgery.

Fuck it. I’m an adult, and I hurt her, and that’s wrong. I need to put on my big kid pants and deal with it.

In one motion, I step out of my truck and lock it, then head for the back entrance to the café, where the kitchen is. Soft music spills into the alley, otherwise silent this early in the morning. Not even Rove the sanitation guy is out at this time of day.

It’s nice, it just being us.

Or it will be once I actually go inside. Unless I scare the shit out of her, showing up at the back door at four in the morning.

Grandma would say knock, so I do.

A few moments later, Laura opens the door a crack. Her hands and clothes are covered in flour, and she holds a rolling pin high above her head, like she’s ready to whack me with it. I flinch instinctively. To my immense relief, she lowers it once she sees it’s me. “What are you doing here?”

“You don’t normally come into the bakery this early,” I say. That sounds nothing like the groveling I planned.

She opens the door a hair wider. “I wanted to get a jump on the day.”

“Oh. It smells good.”

“Thanks.”

How can I get past the one-syllable words and her reddened, puffy eyes, the universal signs that I’m a shitbag who hurt her? “May I come in? I’d really love to talk to you.”

She sniffs twice, as if considering. “Fine. But I have to work.”

Without saying another word, she turns into the kitchen and heads for the worktable, where there’s a large slab of half-rolled-out dough.

At least I’m another step closer. I follow her inside, shutting and locking the door behind me.

“What are you making?” I ask, keeping a respectful distance between us.

“Kringle.” She brings her rolling pin down on the poor defenseless dough with a whack that echoes in the kitchen.

“Oh. For the cherry festival?”

“Yes.” She makes the ess sound like it has two syllables, so maybe that’s a step in the wrong direction. “I mean, I never heard from America Bakes! , so this is all I have to look forward to.”

That cuts straight through me faster than a chef’s knife through hot butter. “I’m so sorry they haven’t emailed. That sucks. You deserve to be on a show like that.”

“Well.” She accents this with another whack on her dough, flattening it faster than a T-rex with mud. “Sometimes what people want and deserve is not what they get, and being an adult means you have to deal with it anyway.”

Wow. I step toward her and intercept the rolling pin before it cracks her worktable in half. It’s like an extension of her arm, and I can feel the trembling in her muscles. “I’m sorry, Laura.”

“Don’t be. I did it to myself.”

“No, you didn’t.” I set the rolling pin on the worktable, covering myself with flour in the process, and turn toward her. “You did nothing wrong. It was my fault. I should have been honest with you.”

“Why can’t you?”

Why couldn’t I? Why couldn’t I keep one person I love? My parents, my grandparents. For ten minutes, I want to live in this version of my life. The one where I can be the man she deserves.

I exhale and tip my forehead until it rests against hers. “I love you, Laura.” Truth. “When I’m with you, I finally feel like I’m home. I feel like I belong. I’ve been alive for more than forty years, but these last few weeks are the first time I’ve really lived.” Truth, truth, truth.

Her breath catches in her chest, and she snakes her flour-covered hands up my chest. She smells like chocolate and sweet, plump cherries. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes and no.” I kiss her softly, holding her lips for longer than I need to because it feels so good to luxuriate there, to feel the strain and anger ebb from her body. “Will you do something for me?”

“What is it?” Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are glassy. I kiss the crest of her temple and then move behind her, bracketing her between my forearms.

“Will you teach me to make kringle?”