Page 63 of Nightmare’s Playground

Cleo had spent the better part of her life helping women who’d escaped something terrible put the pieces back together, and if Jane Smith–the name was making sense now–was here at Cleo’s request, there was a damn good reason why.

I stood up. “Please, sit. Can I get you a coffee? Something to eat?”

“Oh, no, I’m–“

“Have a seat.”

While she got comfortable, I headed to the counter for a cup of coffee and a cardamom roll with cinnamon swirl for my guest.

She looked at the bun for a second, then back up at me. “Is this cardamom roll?”

“It is.”

“Did you proof it twice?”

My brows went up. “I did.”

“I can tell. It’s got that…” She made a little pulling motion with her fingers. “That stretch. Most people rush it.”

I slid back into my chair slowly. “Where’d you train, Jane?”

The light in her eyes was shining bright. Baking was her passion.

She told me about going to a pastry school in Chicago, then the three years she worked under a French chef in a hotel in Texas before she’d had to leave it.

“I haven’t worked in a kitchen in almost four years,” she admitted quietly. “But I haven’t forgotten. I bake at the shelter.”

“The hours are brutal,” I warned her. “Three a.m. most days.”

“I don’t sleep anyway.”

My chest squeezed.

“The pay’s fair. Hourly plus a cut of the tips, and I’ll bump it after ninety days.” I hesitated, then decided she deserved to know. “And this building belongs to my brother. He’s the president of the Bastard Saints motorcycle club. There are guys around here all the time, and there’s a man living upstairs who…” Who was mine. I still couldn’t say it out loud without blushing. “Who doesn’t let anything get past him. Nobody gets through that back door that we don’t want coming through it.”

Jane’s hands went still around her coffee cup.

“Cleo said that too,” she said softly. “That it would be safe here.”

“It is.”

She looked at the bun. Then at the case. Then at me.

“When can I start?”

I almost cried there on the spot.

“Monday,” I said when I could trust my voice. “Come in at three. I’ll show you the ropes, and by the end of the week we’ll split the early shifts.”

Split the early shifts.

Four months that sign had been up, and I was finally going to have some early morning relief.

I was so happy I could’ve floated out of my chair.

The second Jane was out the door, I yanked my phone out of my back pocket and fired off a text to Jax.

Me: I hired a baker!!!