Chapter Eight
Gemma was back at the bakery long before dawn. Three cups of coffee had given her enough energy to keep moving forward, despite her lack of sleep.
She unlocked the front door and went inside the dark space. The brass bell tinkled merrily, bringing back fond memories of summers spent at her aunt's side. The smell of vanilla and yeast permeated the white eyelet curtains and decorative quilts lining the walls. Stronger than those pleasant aromas was a pungent, musty smell that didn't belong—that of mildew and rooms left closed up for too long.
She hoped she would be rid of that nastiness soon, because no one wanted to buy baked goods from a shop that smelled like condemned building.
Yesterday she'd been able to clear away the pile of soggy plaster ceiling on the floor, and pry up all of the floorboards that were swollen, warped and beyond repair. A few more boards at the perimeter of the water damage she'd left, hoping that when they dried, they'd be salvageable. Looking at them again today had her questioning that choice.
The basement beneath the bakery was only used for storage. Aunt Beth had made improvements to the space years ago, pouring a concrete floor over the packed earth that had been there for decades. The basement walls had been painted with a white waterproofing compound, but there were signs that a leak had sprung somewhere downstairs.
Some of the wooden shelving Aunt Beth had installed for storage had gotten wet, but Gemma couldn't tell if the water had come from the leak in the floor above, or from a crack in the foundation wall she couldn't see.
What really worried her was the steady drip that had come from a pipe snaking between the rafters in the basement. She'd shut off the main water valve to the building, but still had no idea what the problem was—even after several hours of YouTube videos she'd watched on the subject.
The building was old—built way before there were any kind of codes or restrictions—and nothing she'd seen in her research looked like the rat's nest of snaking pipes and wires she'd seen downstairs.
Today's agenda included moving everything off the shelving behind the sales counter so that she could figure out how many more cabinets she was going to lose from the roof leak. The three nearest the leak she'd removed yesterday. Their battered carcasses now waited for the construction trash bin she planned to order as soon as the disposal company opened. For now, she'd piled everything in the alley behind the bakery to get it out of the way.
The idea of moving all of that heavy wood and plaster again to pile it into a Dumpster made her muscles cramp in protest.
Suck it up, she told herself. This is for Aunt Beth.
Gemma tightened her ponytail, donned her work gloves and got her aching body moving.
She was scooping up the remnants of a particle board shelf that had disintegrated when Saxon pulled up in his shiny blue truck.
The sun had just risen above the low mountains to the east, painting a golden light across the little town. It reminded her of early mornings spent here, helping Aunt Beth bake the scones and muffins her patrons would want to accompany their morning coffee or tea.
The cheerful brass bell tinkled against the glass as Saxon strode in, sunlight gleaming on his dark hair. His work jeans showed wear, but fit his thick, muscular thighs like they'd been tailored just for him. His T-shirt was from a local BBQ joint, featuring a smiling pig in overalls. Old, scuffed work boots finished off the look, along with a leather tool belt that he wore like a second skin.
A bit of stubble shadowed his jaw. There were dark crescents of fatigue under his eyes, but his gaze was bright and clear. When he saw her lifting a shovel full of what used to be a shelf filled with ceramic coffee mugs, he frowned.
"What are you doing?"
Gemma dumped her load into a large metal trashcan. "Digging out a path to the counter. I think I'm going to have to take out a section of cabinets along the back wall, too. I don't think they can be saved. This one couldn't." She nodded toward the shards of broken mugs and crumbling particle board.
"Do you need something?" she asked as she wiped sweat from her brow.
He stared at her for a long moment—one she didn't have to spare, so she went back to working.
"Gemma. Put down the shovel." His tone was one of restrained irritation, as if he were using all of his patience not to raise his voice.
Hoping that her acquiescence would get him moving on his way faster, she propped the shovel against the wall and gave him her full attention.
He crossed the obstacle course between them—one filled with stacked chairs and tables covered in dishes, flatware, and everything else that had been under the counter—like it was a smooth ballroom floor. His grace reminded her once again just how ill-suited she was for this kind of work.
At some point soon, she was going to have to call in the professionals. Every hour she spent working only showed her more clearly that she had no clue what she was doing.
It doesn't matter, she reminded herself. You'll find a way to make it work for Aunt Beth.
Saxon took Gemma's hands in his, and she couldn't hide her wince of pain. She'd been working for hours, and yesterday's blisters were already red and angry. Not even the thick leather work gloves managed to cushion her abused skin.
He stripped off her gloves. She let him do it, though she had no idea why. Maybe it was her lack of sleep making her compliant, or maybe it was her hope that the thrill of his touch could soothe away her pain as it had last evening.
When he turned her palms up to inspect them, she had to look away. Seeing those blisters—some now broken—was only going to make them hurt more.
His voice was a sharp scold. "What the hell, Gemma." Then he sucked in a deep breath and let it out. His tone was far gentler this time. "Why are you doing this to yourself? I told you I'd take care of it. We had a deal."
"You changed your mind," she reminded him.
"What? No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did. When you came over last night and said you couldn't stay, I knew what you meant. You had time to reconsider our deal and realized it was a bad business decision. I don't blame you. I told you from the beginning that it was lopsided in my favor."
"Hold on a second. I never said I was backing out of our deal."
"You didn't have to say it. I knew what you meant when you cancelled on dinner."
He looked at her hands again, clenched his jaw tight, and then let out another long breath. "Honey, next time you think you know what I mean, just ask. It'll save us both a whole lot of trouble."
The endearment sent butterflies fluttering happily in her stomach. She ignored them and stared at him with suspicion.
"So, you haven't changed your mind?" she asked.
"No. When I say I'm going to do something, I do it."
"But last night—"
"Was unavoidable. Family emergency." He crossed to one of the upturned chairs and righted it. "I'm still holding up my end of the deal. Now come sit. You look like you're about to fall over. I'll be right back."
He waited expectantly for her to sit, and then strode back through the obstacle course and out the door with the cheerful tinkle of the brass bell in his wake.
Gemma's body melted into the wooden chair. Her muscles trembled from fatigue. Even her bones seemed to sag a little.
A minute later, Saxon returned with a first aid kit.
"Wash your hands and then I'll treat those blisters."
"There's no water," she said. "I had to turn it off because of a leaky pipe."
"You can show me where later. For now, I'm more worried about your hands getting infected."
He knelt in front of her and opened the white plastic box.
"You really don't have to do this. I can manage."
He raised a black eyebrow. "Don't be obstinate. My mom is a doctor and she taught all of her kids the basics. I promise not to maim you."
What choice did she have? She didn't want to be a bother, but she also didn't want to insult him by questioning his first aid skills.
She needed him. Or rather, Aunt Beth needed him. If Gemma pissed him off now, he might change his mind about helping for real.
She held out her hands like a good patient. She didn't protest even when he disinfected the raw spots with something that burned like fire. He blew gently across her skin, cooling the burn until it died down to a slow simmer.
"You're tough," he said. "Most grown men would wine and cuss. You didn't even flinch."
"I've had my share of cuts and burns. Comes with working in the kitchen for a living."
He lifted his green gaze and stared at her for a moment. "I imagine so."
Now that her skin was clean and dry, he covered the raw patches with adhesive bandages he'd spread with antibiotic ointment. His fingers lingered longer than necessary as he pressed the adhesive tape down to ensure a firm hold.
"All done," he said, but didn't let go of her. Instead, his thumbs slid over the pulse in her wrists, stroking her.
Warmth swirled in leisurely circles up her arms, wrapped around her torso and settled into a cozy heap in her abdomen. She was too tired to fight the little shiver that shook her spine and gave away just how good his touch made her feel.
A small sigh escaped her mouth against her will. She swayed toward him, and until that very instant, she hadn't realized that she'd closed her eyes to better enjoy the feel of his skin on hers.
Her eyes shot open to find him watching her with a strange expression. He was utterly calm, but there was a deep speculation in his eyes, like he was trying to make a big decision.
One that involved her.
A feeling of awkward shyness coursed through her. Her face heated with embarrassment, and all she could think about was getting away—out of the strong gravitational pull he had on her.
Gemma jumped to her feet so she could back away. Put some distance between them. Breathe.
"Thank you," she said, though her voice trembled slightly. The effect this man had on her was too intense. She didn't know if it was lack of sleep, or if he simply had some bizarre pull on her she couldn't explain. Maybe she was just horny and any handsome man she met was going to make her insides quiver like a strummed chord on a finely tuned guitar.
Before that last thought finished forming and flittered through her mind, she knew it was a lie. She'd been around several men since she'd come back to Whisper Lake, and not one of them earned more than a second glance.
Saxon was different. She didn't know how or why, but if she didn't want to end up ruining the amiable relationship he and Aunt Beth had, it was important that Gemma keep her distance.
Aunt Beth needed someone to take care of her more than Gemma needed to get laid.
"My pleasure," he said, and the deep rumble of his voice vibrated her down to her bones.
She couldn't look at him yet for fear he'd see how flustered he'd made her, but she heard his grin in his voice. "You look a little shaky. Have you eaten breakfast?"
"Just coffee." Then she realized. "I'm so sorry. You thought I was going to make you breakfast this morning, didn't you? Since you still thought our deal was in place?"
"It is in place, and no, I didn't expect you to make my breakfast. Or lunch, for that matter. But I do need to eat. Can't do manual labor on an empty stomach."
Maybe that was why she was so flustered and shaky. She hadn't eaten and was working her ass off.
The idea that food could help cure her crazy ailment buoyed her spirits. "Is the diner down the street still open? The Dockside Diner?"
"It is. My sister owns it now."
"Flora?"
He nodded, a fraternal grin warming his mouth—his deeply intriguing and utterly kissable mouth. "She used to give us free food, but we Grace men eat enough that we nearly bankrupted her."
"Breakfast is my treat," Gemma told him.
"I couldn't let you—"
She stopped him there. "If you don't let me pay, I can't go. You're already doing more for Aunt Beth than neighborly kindness demands. I owe you."
His grin widened. His tone dropped to a teasing lilt. "I think I might enjoy having you in my debt, Miss Fortier. A woman of your skills could provide any number of tempting treats."
Her face heated, though even she couldn't tell if it was from anger or desire. "If you think I'm going to sleep with you to repay you, then—"
His smile dissolved and he held his wide hands up to stop her. "Whoa. That's not what I meant at all. I mean, sure, you're sexy as hell, but your aunt, my mom, and every other matron in this town would whoop my ass for even thinking such a thing. I was talking about dessert. I thought I might con a cherry cake out of you—the kind your aunt used to make."
Way to put your foot in your mouth, Gemma.
The flush on her cheeks became one of embarrassment, and she lowered her head wishing the crack between the antique floorboards would swallow her whole. "Oh. Sorry. I misunderstood. I seem to be doing that with you a lot lately."
And then what he said hit her.
You're sexy as hell.
That quivery feeling rushed back, and she thought her knees might actually buckle and she'd make her humiliation complete.
"You really need some food, honey," he said. "Come on."
He took her arm and guided her toward the door like she was a wobbly old lady. Of course, she felt about as stable as one right now, so she could hardly blame him.
The fresh spring air hit her face, cooling it. The morning was a bit chilly, but she hadn't noticed it when she'd been working up a sweat. The damp scent of dew hung in the air, and a faint hint of rain tickled her nose.
The six-block walk to the diner was a blur. He pointed here and there, telling her what had changed since she'd last been here. The barber had retired. The grocery store got bought out by a chain in Kansas City. The lady that had run the fabric store had passed away and her heirs had yet to decide the fate of the little shop. For now, it sat closed with brown paper covering the inside of the windows to keep people from snooping.
"It's all different, but still the same, you know?" he asked.
Gemma managed a nod, but kept her mouth shut. She still hadn't quite gotten the taste of shoe leather out of it yet.
He opened the door of the diner for her to enter. The noise hit her first—the sound of flatware clinking on plates, voices lifted in a hum of conversation, the familiar kitchen music of meat searing on a griddle and a cook scolding an underling. The smell of coffee and bacon welcomed her like an old friend, hugging her in a warm, humid embrace.
It felt like home.
She'd spent so much time in various kitchens, working her way up the ladder, that restaurants were her home away from home. In fact, she spent way more time at work than she ever had sitting on her couch and watching Netflix.
Saxon steered her to the bar that ran along the back wall of the diner. The whole place had been renovated since she'd seen it last, and now it resembled a movie set from the 1950s, complete with black and white checked floors and red leather stools perched along the chrome bar. Vinyl records and neon signs adorned the walls, and a shiny new juke box sat in the corner. The vivid color scheme was cheerful and bright, lifting Gemma's mood instantly.
Flora Grace spotted her brother and greeted him with a smile and a wave. Her shiny black hair was pulled back in a tight French braid that showed off the perfection of her complexion and bone structure. She was as stunningly beautiful as all of the Grace women, but Gemma doubted that the other woman knew it. Flora had always acted more like one of the guys.
She and Gemma were the same age, but had rarely run in the same circles. While Gemma was at the bakery with her aunt, Flora had been at the lake with her brothers, swimming and fishing between summer jobs and helping at the family construction business.
She bustled over with a pair of mugs and a coffee pot in hand. She set the mugs down and started filling one. "I know he wants some. What about you, hon?"
"Yes, please."
"Do you know who this is, Flora?" Saxon asked.
"Sorry. I can't remember the names of every woman you date. There are too damn many." Flora said it with a smile and a wink, but Saxon didn't seem to find the humor.
"Oh, I'm not his date," said Gemma at the same time Saxon said, "Ignore Flora. I'm sure you remember how much of a brat she was when you were kids? Well, she still is one."
Flora narrowed her gaze and studied Gemma for a minute. "Gemma Fortier? Is that you?"
Before Gemma had time to answer, Flora launched herself halfway over the counter and gave her a big hug.
"Where have you been? We all heard rumors that you got some fancy chef job in the city, but Aunt Beth hasn't come in in a while, so I haven't been able to ask her about it."
"She's still having trouble getting around," Gemma said.
"She's tough. She'll bounce back in no time."
In the center of the diner was a round table with half a dozen older men. One of them—a man in his seventies whose wiry white hair had abandoned his head for the greener pastures his ears provided—raised his coffee mug and shouted across the room. "How about serving us paying customers?"
Flora stifled a growl. "The Coffee Council summons. I'll be back."
Once she was gone, Gemma asked Saxon, "Coffee Council?"
He offered an indulgent grin. "It's what Flora calls the retired men who have nothing better to do than hang out here and drink coffee all day while they solve the world's problems. At least, that's what they think they're doing. Mostly, they take up a table for hours and leave crappy tips. If Flora didn't love them so much, she would have booted them months ago."
"She doesn't look like she loves them."
As Gemma spoke, Flora was angrily sloshing coffee into mugs while demanding that they order food or leave.
Saxon shrugged. "That's just her way. She's a bit hard to read."
Flora came back to take their order and a few minutes later Gemma was digging into the tallest, fluffiest stack of pancakes she'd ever eaten—including Aunt Beth's. "Wow."
"Good, right?" asked Saxon around a mouthful of his own fluffy, sweet heaven. "The new cook she hired must have some kind of magic griddle, because everything that comes off it is amazing."
"I'm surprised you don't eat here three times a day."
"I'm often out of the area on a job site, or I probably would."
As they were mopping up the rest of the melted butter and syrup with the last bites of pancake, a young woman came in and propped her pert ass on the seat next to Saxon's.
He gave her a brief nod. "Morning, Lulu."
Lulu was a pretty thing, with golden blond hair and smooth, tan skin. Her eyes were a deep, rich hazel, rimmed with thick but pale lashes. She wore shiny pink lip gloss, and her fingernails were painted with purple glitter.
When Saxon addressed her, she blushed and beamed. "Good morning."
"How's business?" he asked.
Her smile faded on a sigh. "Mom forgets to order everything. We're always running out of stuff and I'm the one stuck coming here to beg."
Just then, Flora came over. Her mood was one of irritation, her tone longsuffering. "What does Wanda need now?"
"Straws. And napkins," Lulu said.
"I just gave you some last week. Business must be booming."
Lulu's gaze lowered to the counter. "Sure is," she said with false cheer.
Flora bent beneath the counter and pulled out a box of straws and a paper sleeve of napkins. She set them on the counter with more force than was necessary. "Please tell your mom that this can't keep happening. If she needs me to teach her how to put in a supply order or figure out when she'll need what, I'm happy to teach her, but coming here every week to borrow supplies is not good for business—hers or mine."
"I'll tell her. Sorry for the inconvenience." Lulu nodded and bowed her head as if scolded, but not before Gemma saw a bright spark of anger flash in her eyes. It disappeared fast, and when she looked up again, her face was a calm, serene landscape.
"We should get going," Saxon told Flora. "Can I get the check?"
"The check is mine," Gemma said. "He promised."
Lulu studied Gemma with suspicion, and then asked Saxon, "Who is she?"
"I'm Gemma Fortier, Aunt Beth's niece." She extended a hand to Lulu. "Nice to meet you."
Rather than shake Gemma's hand, Lulu grabbed up her supplies and slid from the bar stool. As she did, her breast grazed Saxon's arm.
Gemma was pretty sure it wasn't an accident.
"Gotta run," Lulu said. "See you around, Saxon."
Flora waited until the pretty blonde was out the door before she leaned over the counter and said, "Crazy girl has a crush on you, big brother. I'd tell you to watch out for a bunny in your pot, but I know you don't own any cookware."
"Leave her alone, Flora. Mom would spank your ass for making fun of the troubled girl."
"Troubled?" Gemma asked.
"Lulu has been in and out of institutions all her life. Her folks always lied and said she was away visiting relatives, but we all knew the truth."
Flora placed the check in front of Gemma. "The truth is she's bat shit crazy. She hid pot in my locker because the boy she was crushing on asked me to prom. I didn't even go with him, but Loony Lulu didn't care. I was a threat in her deranged mind, and she was willing to lie, cheat and steal to get me out of the picture."
"Don't call her that," Saxon said. "It's beneath you."
"You weren't the one who had to face Dad's wrath when he thought you were on drugs. I did."
"That was years ago. I'm sure it was just a phase she outgrew."
Flora shook her head. "You can't fix crazy. If I were you, I'd watch your back. The last guy she had a crush on ended up dead in the lake."
"That was a drunken fishing accident," Saxon said.
"Maybe," Flora said, her pretty face completely serious. "And maybe not."