Page 9 of A Veteran's Desire

He turns to me. “I’m not sure. Like you say, perhaps it blew away in the wind.”

He moves through to the cafe, and I hear him try the door followed by the scrape of furniture. It sounds like he’s checking under the tables to make sure no one’s hiding.

If someone was after the deeds to the farm, they’ll be disappointed. It was a high school art project, not an exact reproduction. She left off pages of small print.

I switch on the ovens and the coffee machine. Grant doubles back to the office and the bathroom, which is also out back. A few minutes later he comes into the kitchen, looking slightly less tense.

“All clear?” I ask.

He nods. Not acknowledging my teasing smile. I hate that he has to be here, but I’m glad he is. I can’t imagine what it would have been like arriving here on my own after yesterday.

I pour us both a mug of coffee and slide one over the counter to Grant. “So, you just going to sit around all day and watch me bake?”

He sips his coffee. “Something like that.”

“How about my sisters? I’m not the only one who works here.”

“You’re the only one who works here alone at four a.m.”

Which is true. Rachel gets here just after the school run to serve coffee during the morning rush.

“It’s going to get boring for you, hanging out here all day.”

He peers at me over the top of the mug. “I don’t think so.”

A different kind of shiver snakes its way up my spine. His words seem like he’s flirting, but his don’t-fuck-with-me expression says otherwise. Maybe he’s just really good at waiting, which makes me wonder what he did in the military.

I could lean on the counter and stare into his intense gray eyes all day, but I have cookies to bake.

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Today is honey cake day, and I take the jars of fresh honey Abby gave me and place them on the workbench. We always use honey from our hives and the fresher the better. She extracted this batch in the spring.

My phone’s hooked up to a speaker, and I put on my pop girl playlist. I need something light this morning to take my mind off the fact someone was in here throwing rocks through the window.

I grab a mixing bowl and the flour and tip in a large portion. Then I add the honey, the baking powder and eggs. I sing as I work, and my hips sway in time to the music.

Then I move to the other bench, and with a separate set of baking tools and the gluten-free flour, I adjust the recipe to take into account the lack of gluten and make this batch smaller. There’s a small but loyal group of folks with celiac disease living on the mountain, and they know they’ll always find something they can safely eat at Sweet & Strong.

With the first two trays in the oven, I pause for a cup of coffee. Grant went to check the perimeter, and I find him near the back door with an open toolbox. He has the door off its hinges, and he’s fixing the lock.

He holds the screwdriver in his thick hands and deftly turns the screw. His knuckles are thick, and there’s a scrape on the index finger of his left hand. His nails are short and surprisingly neat, and every time he turns the screw I see a thick callus on his palm. I imagine it scraping against my skin, rough against smooth. His movements have a rhythm to them, a slow turning, driving the screw in deeper and deeper each time with his thick, competent hands.

My mouth goes dry, and there’s a tug deep in my core. He’s quietly taking care of me, and it’s an unfamiliar sensation. I feel as unhinged as the door he’s holding in his hands.

Grant looks up, and I forget what I was going to say. I rake my gaze away from his hands to his face and catch a flicker of amusement in his expression. He caught me staring at his hands, which shouldn’t be a problem. It’s not like I was staring at his ass, although I have checked it out previously and can report it’s fine.

“I, ah, do you want another coffee?”

“Sure.”

I spin around so quickly I almost trip over my feet.

“And one of those honey cakes when they’re ready,” he calls after me.

I retreat to the safety of the kitchen where I can pretend the heat I’m feeling is from the ovens and not because I just got turned on by a man’s hands.

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