Chapter 11

I stood in the kitchen and folded my arms across my breasts.

The insurance guy was a ratty dude with a bald pate and a moustache that looked like it’d gone through the chipper in the movie Fargo. Worse yet. He stunk. To high heaven like mothballs and stale booze.

He’d spent the first five minutes in the kitchen, snooping around, opening containers, sniffing things with his overly long nose. Ogling the cupcakes like they were flour filled porn stars. Gooseflesh crept up my forearms and landed on the back of my neck where all the fine hairs stood at attention.

“So, you said the fire was at what time exactly?”

“After nine at night,” I repeated, for the twentieth time. “It’s all in the police report.”

“Yes, yes, I see that here, but it’s procedure to ask these questions. Can’t be too careful, you know,” he grumbled. He’d introduced himself as Mr. Brown, and worn a suit to match his name. Hounds tooth tweed with leather patches on the elbows. Polyester slacks and tennis shoes completed his outfit.

“Do you really need me here for this? I should be out front. Tess isn’t great with customers,” I said.

He gave me a look. “Yes, I need you here for this. I also need you to be quiet.” He raised his clipboard and made a note. The nib of his pen scratched along the paper, making harsh marks and ticks.

This guy was a royal dickhead. He was everything Gabe wasn’t. Jesus, why did thoughts of Gabe fill my head every time an empty spot cleared. I chewed the inside of my cheek. I couldn’t think of him now, I had to focus. If the insurance company didn’t pay out, I’d be screwed. I wouldn’t be able to afford another oven with all the loans I had to pay off, and the bakery hadn’t broken even yet.

Gabe floated through my mind regardless. Mocking me with his presence in my thoughts. This time, he didn’t have his shirt on and his hair was rumpled. From my fingers threading through it.

“And the official cause of the fire?”

“They think there was a short,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

“Right, a short.” Brown twiddled the pen, then clicked the end once, twice. “A short. And most of the damage was contained to this area?” He pointed to the soot-stained oven and the shelves I’d stacked on top of it.

“No, I moved those from over here,” I pointed at the wall where the fire had started, then at the damaged goods. “I had to get them out of the way so I could continue with work as usual. I couldn’t delay my grand opening another day.”

“You moved them? Well that’s not good, Miss Wilson. Not good at all,” he murmured, scratching another note on his official form.

I’d had it. “What did you expect me to do? Leave it there? I have a bakery to run and it took you people a month to send someone out to come and assess the damages.” I unfolded my arms and let them hang at my sides, clenching my fists sporadically. Kind of like a muscle twitch. The pain from my fingernails digging into that tender flesh didn’t even register until I’d almost drawn blood.

This guy was one giant pain in the ass.

“Miss Wilson, Allegra, please keep your voice down. I am trying to concentrate,” he purred my first name like an endearment, peering at me over his clipboard. The first name I hadn’t given this douche bag permission to use. “The quieter you are, the quicker and easier this process will be.”

“You literally just asked me a question,” I countered.

He waved my comment away, then scratched notes with a vengeance.

I settled back against my kitchen counter and watched him with narrowed eyes. What a sleazebag. If he didn’t come through with a good report, I wouldn’t get the money for this. Then I’d have to find this weasel and slap him full on in the face.

My palm itched to do it now. He was so rude.

Not like Gabe.

I groaned and Mr. Brown shot me a warning look. I didn’t flip him off. I wanted to, though. The middle finger salute would never feel better than in this moment.

It’d been two weeks since I’d last seen Gabe and he hadn’t called. I’d really hoped he was different and I felt like a complete and utter ninny for trusting him. Believing in him. Maybe he really was a player to the core with his fancy wardrobe, fancy restaurant and even fancier bottle of wine. Not a hint of contact, not a glimmer of interest. After he’d insisted on getting my number.

Kelly thought he was a total tool for making me wait this long, but I figured the crazy fog had lifted and he’d decided he didn’t want to date me after all. Something better had come along. I was sure of it.

Or maybe he’d taken my dozen ‘no way am I going out with you’s to heart.

That was fine by me, easier to focus on work without some oversized hunk of meat hanging around. Very delicious hunk of meat. With a six-pack and ocean colored eyes and thick, silky hair that begged to be rumpled into bed-head.

“A short. Are you sure this was a short?” Brown bent over his potbelly and opened the damaged oven’s door. “It seems highly unlikely.”

“I can’t say whether it’s likely or not. That was the official cause of the fire. I assume the Minneapolis fire investigators are experts.”

I’d guessed it correctly that night. The oven had been faulty to start with. That was what I got for buying second hand stuff. At least I’d had the forethought to insure it.

“And they investigated that thoroughly?” Brown asked, narrowing his eyes. “They had an electrician come down here and check it out?”

“I assume so. They are the official experts. They tend to do things thoroughly.” I clipped the sentences off short and glared at him. What the hell was he getting at here? Did he think I started the fire in my own bakery?

“I see,” Brown said. He rose and closed the oven door, then grimaced at the soot staining his delicate fingers.

I didn’t offer him a napkin, just stared at him and waited for his verdict. My pulse quickened and my belly squirmed at the thought of losing it all. Just because some insurance dude had a bad attitude because he'd been beat with the ugly stick. No ring. Probably hadn’t been laid since the seventies.

“Hmmm, hmmm,” he made too distinct marks at the bottom of his form, then looked up at me. “Miss Wilson, I’m afraid we’ll have to send along one of our own technicians to have a look at your oven. We need to determine the real cause of the fire.”

“I’ve just told you the real cause of the fire,” I replied, gritting my teeth until they squeaked.

“Yes, you have. But as I said, one can never be too careful.” Brown strode toward me and I straightened to meet him. He brought out a card and I accepted it from his outstretched fingers. “We’ll be in touch to organize a date for the assessment.”

“And how long will that take?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Wilson, I really can’t say.” Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, his nose in the air.

“Shit.”

I crumpled the card in my fist and let it drift to the flour stained floor below.