Page 37 of Choosing the Rejected Mate

“That is not an answer.”

His gaze holds mine.“Because it matters to you.”

Oh.No.Not before seven.

I look away first, because apparently I have limits, and one of them is a man casually saying emotionally devastating things while holding machine parts.

“Fine,” I say.“After closing.”

His smile is small, warm, and victorious in a way he’s trying not to show.“Also,” he says, lifting the paper bag.“I brought breakfast.”

“I own a bakery.”

“I heard that somewhere.”

“And you brought me breakfast?”

“It’s from here.”

I narrow my eyes.He opens the bag and pulls out one of yesterday’s apple fritters wrapped neatly in parchment.

“I bought it yesterday,” he says.“Saved it for this morning.”

“That’s not breakfast.That’s theft from your past self.”

“Past me was generous.”

“Past you has excellent taste.”

His smile deepens.“Present me agrees.”

The way he looks at me when he says it makes the air leave my lungs.

Maisie peeks from the back.“I hate to interrupt whatever new dating ritual this is, but customers are approaching, and I refuse to run this place alone while you two eye-fuck over fried dough.”

I close my eyes.“I’m going to jail today.”

Daniel laughs.The sound follows me through the morning rush.I should be annoyed.And I am, but I’m also lighter, which is disgusting.

****

By the time we close, my feet ache, my hair is falling out of its knot, and Daniel has somehow become part of the bakery without trying.He comes and goes throughout the day between jobs, checking the mixer, carrying heavy flour sacks, fixing a loose hinge on the back pantry door, and letting Maisie bully him into taste-testing a new lemon frosting.

He likes it.I can tell because his eyes close for half a second.

That image is going to haunt me.

After the last customer leaves, I lock the front door and turn the sign to closed.The bakery settles around us, warm and quiet.Maisie has already disappeared, claiming she has “plans,” which probably means she’s lurking somewhere nearby with binoculars and poor boundaries.

Daniel is in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing as he works on the mixer.I should not watch, but I can’t not watch.

His hands are capable and sure, moving with easy confidence.He takes the machine apart like he knows exactly how every piece fits.It occurs to me that I understand that feeling.Taking ingredients, parts, broken little things, and making them work together.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking back.

“I’m supervising.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”