20. Maeve

TWENTY

MAEVE

It's the next morning after a day with the girls, and I'm at Whisked Away with JW. JW told me what Fletch had to say, and I was floored. I'm talking mouth dropping to the floor. Never would I have expected it from the looks of Clayton Smith. Apparently, looks can be deceiving, and boy, were they right.

The corner of my eye catches on the boxes stacked up by the front door. What has me confused right now though is why the delivery man didn't take the supplies to the back door. All my orders and drivers know me by name. They knock on the back door and wheel everything inside with a dolly. They stick around for a drink and a dessert then go about their day.

"I'll get it," I tell JW. He's got his head in the massive mixing bowl behind the counter. When it rains, it freaking pours. I'm really beginning to think we'll never see the light of day and catastrophe after catastrophe is hitting me at each and every turn. JW says something, but I'm already more than halfway to the door, and with him being here, the alarm isn't switched on. I'll be in and out in less than sixty seconds. What's the worst that could happen?

I turn the lock and push open the door, propping it open with the stopper. My eyes about bug out of my sockets. Box after box is stacked up right outside the door. I'm so lost in thought trying to figure out when I ordered all these supplies and what they could even be. I've slowed down on my monthly orders for paper products and baking essentials. As for my food distribution order, I received that order earlier this week, and the only reason I've kept up with that is because of the man currently working on my mixer. JW caught wind of me doing the bare minimum and put a stop to it, especially because his family is eating here and making requests. God, I love them. They all have helped me so much, my own included.

This week, I've had more stragglers than before, and I'm pretty sure it's all due to the fact I've had a revolving door. When there's more than three people, I keep the alarm off and keep the door unlocked. I'm lifting one package off the ground where there's a stack of three boxes. Instead of putting them inside the store, I dive into the first box. My curiosity really is a pain in the ass; any other day, I'd bring them in and then open them one by one. I'll even create content on my social media platforms, like an unbox with me . Other days, I'll do a day in the life as a baker , a get ready for me , and when I'm baking, I'll do a time lapse of what I'm making for the day. Lately, though, my creativity has been down in the dumps. There's nothing new calling to me, so it's been random pictures I've taken throughout the years or older content I hadn't culled to edit and post.

Not that it's doing any good. My website is so hacked and ruined, logging in is never successful, and no matter what I do, there's no way in. I've called and emailed my website host with no luck. JW told me the culprit is Clayton Smith. Yep, the guy I ghosted has some kind of vendetta for me, but I guess it's not just me. There's a slew of women he's swindled after meeting them on the same dating app. What I still don't understand is why me. Is there something on my forehead saying Pick me ?

I open the box, still wondering what all is packed inside. Instead of going inside and grabbing a pair of scissors, I use my brute force. The tape rips, allowing the flap to pop open, and that's when I get my first look inside.

Joseph William Johnson. He's done it again. New rubber spatulas, parchment paper, scoops for cookie dough and batter, measuring cups. There are still two more boxes to go. This is barely scratching the surface. Literally, all the blathering I do under my breath about needing this or that once things get back up and running, it seems JW took it to heart, made notes, then did his own thing by taking care of me yet again.

"Joseph," I mumble his name under my breath. He's still working on the industrial-sized mixer. The power isn't working, and at first, my concern was I'd need to replace the whole thing. JW had already told me last night he wouldn't be working at the ranch today and would come to the bakery with me. A damn shame, too, because I rather enjoy watching as he works with horses. I've gotten a glimpse in the early morning when I actually wake up with him and not after him. I'd grab a cup of coffee, put on a cardigan so I could avoid wearing a bra, and walk down to the barn to watch him work. Some days, he would be cleaning stalls, feeding horses, and on the days he does farrier work…goodness gracious, I'm practically clawing at him when he's done. My thighs clench remembering each and every stroke he makes with a hoof pick, his forearms flexing and pulling, muscles taut, and the heated looks he sends my way. Needless to say, he's sweating from working, and I'm sweating from watching.

There have been a few times we've snuck into the tack room, scrambling to get our clothes off, and the minute he slams inside me, everything else ceases to exist.

"Maeve." JW's voice carries a hint of worry. His eyes aren't locked on mine; he's looking over my shoulder.

"What? What's wrong?" That's when I feel it, a presence behind me. I'm afraid to turn around.

"What's wrong? What's wrong is you're trying to ruin me. You have ruined me." I know that voice after one conversation and only a few minutes at that. Clayton the scumbag douchebag fuckface who is trying to ruin my life for the second time.

"Don't. Stay still," JW says. I'm grabbed by my ponytail and I'm grasping for anything to get away. The man who has done more for me in the little time we've been together shakes his head, telling me not to keep thrashing. Tears instantly cloud my eyes, rolling down my cheek when I feel cold metal along the side of my throat.

"Oh god." I'm well and truly trapped. JW is helpless and I'm helpless. He'd never do anything to exacerbate the situation.

"God isn't going to help you," Clayton sneers. "Cuff yourself, now," he orders JW, taking his hand off my hair for a moment to toss the handcuffs his way. JW catches them but hesitates for a moment. "Do it or the fat bitch gets sliced and diced." I'm tempted to lift my leg and stomp him with my heel, except there's a knife at my throat, and depending on the size and serration, a lot of damage could be done.

"That won't be necessary," JW says. I watch as he hooks one cuff around his wrist, but when he starts to do the other, Clayton stops him.

"Behind your back." How he's going to be able to maneuver to meet his demand, I have no idea. Clayton lets go of my hair, keeping the knife at my throat as he walks me forward. The repulsive scent of his cologne has me holding back a gag, barely. Why do some men feel the need to douse themselves in super expensive disgusting-smelling shit?

"Done," he states. I gawk. How is that even possible? There goes any hope that he'd work on JW's handcuffs, and I could run my ass behind the counter to hit the panic button. Now, we're even more trapped.

"Walk," Clayton says to both of us. I don't have a choice in the matter considering he's behind me and I'd rather not feel him pressed along any part of my body. I move with a quickness which backfires on me. The tug on my hair puts me in my place. Apparently, whatever it is I did or didn't do, Clayton Smith is going to hurt me or the person I love.

We make it behind the counter where he lets me go. "Don't move a fucking muscle." He turns his knife to JW. My heart sinks. It's now or never. I've got seconds to move to the cash register before Clayton turns back to face me.

I mouth to JW, "We've got this. We're going to be okay." I'm light on my feet, thankfully in shoes that don't make any squeaking today, like flip-flips and sneakers. My slides really came in handy even though JW arched a brow at the tan leather and pearl accessories. I wanted to look cute since baking wasn't happening. Cute attire seemed like the best idea ever.

My man slightly shakes his head, but I'm already moving, slowly, while keeping my feet planted on the ground. My finger meets the button, the panic switch which is basically a silent alarm for alerting the police, and I smash my finger into it all before Clayton turns around. I breathe a slight sigh of relief until I realize JW is further away from me and now handcuffed in a permanent kind of way. God, please have the police here as soon as fucking possible.

"Where were we?" Clayton looks at me in a way that has my skin crawling. I stay quiet even though words are threatening to spew out on exactly what I think about Clayton Smith.