Chapter 3

FROM SCRATCH

3

At home, I take a long, soothing hot shower and eat a simple dinner of instant chicken noodle soup.

Then I'm ready for bed. Snuggled under the covers, I pick up the cowboy book from the nightstand. I open it, almost expecting a new chapter to have popped up. But of course it hasn't. I close the novel again. I could search for something else to read, but, honestly, I don't want to read somebody else's love story. Get lost into a narrative where I'm not the protagonist. I prefer to dream about my own imaginary romance.

I hug the book to my chest and close my eyes, willing the fog of sleep to take over. It takes a while. But eventually, memories and fantasies swirl together until I become lost again in a world of my own making.

This time it's daylight in Lakeville Hills and I'm standing behind the counter of a bakery, hands sunk deep into a ball of dough. I stare down at myself clad in the most ridiculous baking attire I've ever seen. Shorty-shorts again, of course, a red-and-white checkered shirt tied in a knot over my stomach that leaves my belly button exposed, and high-heeled clogs.

Who bakes in high heels?

Dreamland me, it seems.

None of my curls are falling over my eyes. I catch my reflection in the display glass to confirm that my hair is being held back by a handkerchief hair tie secured in a pretty bow just above my forehead.

I stare around at the shop, presumably the one Killian rented to me after stealing ownership of the lot.

The walls are covered in strips of brown paint and pastel pink, like the kind on the inside of chocolate boxes, while the floor is made of white tiles in a basket weave pattern with black accents. Wooden tables and chairs are arranged in a variety of shapes and sizes around an extra-long counter where two glass cases display an array of pastries, cakes, and cupcakes.

The place smells like a gingerbread house and coffee and it's adorable—but dishearteningly empty of customers.

I'm not entirely sure what to do. I pinch a small piece of the dough and taste it, confirming it's some sort of sweet preparation. Should I attempt to finish whatever this version of me was making?

I wouldn't know where to start.

Thankfully, the me in Lakeville Hills is well organized and has a handwritten recipe book open on the counter.

"Cinnamon buns—improved recipe," the annotation at the top of the page states.

So, in this world, not only do I bake in heels, but I also make up my own recipes. I quickly scan the instructions, which inform me I should knead the ball of dough for eight to ten minutes. I'm not sure how long I've been kneading it, so I decide to give it the full ten minutes. In for a penny, in for a pound of cinnamon gooeyness.

I check the time on the clock mounted on the wall opposite the counter—six-thirty.

From the way the sun is hanging low and warm in the sky outside, I'd say six-thirty in the evening.

"All right, boss." A woman comes out of the professional kitchen at my back, making me jolt. "I'm heading home. Do you want me to switch the sign on the door to closed?"

A pang of relief squeezes my chest. Maybe the shop is empty because we're near closing time.

"Yeah, please, do that. Err—" I've no idea what her name is. "Thank you."

"All right. Have a good evening, Leigh." The woman gives me a weirded-out glance but proceeds across the shop toward the exit.

"You, too. Bye." I lower my gaze to the dough to avoid making eye contact again, even more embarrassed that I don't know her name.

The bell over the door chimes.

"I'll take care of that, Suzy," a deep, masculine voice says.

My head snaps up just as the woman—Suzy—walks out of the shop, and Killian St. Clair swaggers in. He turns the sign on the windowpane from "Open" to "Closed" and locks the door behind him.

Uh-oh.

Today, he's wearing a black suit. Black shirt, black leather shoes. No tie. He looks like the dark angel of smut incarnated.

"What are you doing here? We're closed."

He smiles, wickedly. "Closed to the general public, surely not to the owner."

I narrow my eyes. "You might have stolen the property, but you don't own my business. So, again, to what do I owe the displeasure?"

"I came to collect rent."

"All right, Sheriff of Nottingham, I've deposited your tithe check this morning." My brain snaps in place providing this random bit of info. "So you can go count your doubloons or whatever it is you do when you're not busy trying to ruin my day."

Killian chuckles. "You're cute when you're annoyed."

I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to the dough, which is no longer in a nice, round ball, but it's being splattered in a death grip. "Is there something else you wanted, or are you done messing with my peace and quiet?"

He leans against the register, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes lower to my hands. "Aren't you mishandling that poor dough?"

I drop the sticky ruin onto the counter and glare at him. "I was doing just fine before you walked into my shop."

"You mean my shop." He flashes me annoyingly white teeth.

I roll my eyes and grab a pinch of flour to dust my hands off. "Fine, your shop, my business. Now that we've established rent has been paid, is there anything else you need?"

He shakes his head. "Nope, just came to check on things. Make sure everything is running smoothly." He takes a seat on one of the stools that line the other side of the counter. "What are you making?"

"Testing a new recipe for cinnamon buns."

"Oh, my favorite."

I flash him a viciously sweet smile. "Pity you won't taste any."

He smirks. "Of course I will. You need an expert's opinion if you're trying a new recipe."

I sigh. "Whatever I say, you're not going to go away, are you?"

"Nope." He opens one of my display cases and pops a mini donut into his mouth.

"That's two dollars fifty."

Killian shrugs. "Add it to my tab."

"You don't have a tab here."

"I do now."

Aaargh. This man is so insufferable, so frustrating. On impulse, I grab another pinch of flour and throw it at him.

The shocked expression on his face and consequent sneeze are priceless.

While he's busy cleaning himself with a paper napkin, I transfer the reformed dough ball into a well-oiled bowl, as per the recipe instructions, and cover it with plastic wrap and a kitchen towel.

When I turn around to place the bowl into a turned-off oven in the kitchen, I find Killian standing behind me.

He drops his hands on the counter, one on either side of me, effectively caging me in. The only thing providing a sliver of space between us is the bowl in my arms.

"W-what are y-you doing?"

He flashes me a grin—the evil kind. "You ruined my suit."

"I'm sure you can afford more designer suits."

"With all my ill-gotten doubloons?" He leans in ever so slightly, but in our current state, even half an inch makes all the difference. The heat between us is palpable. So much so I'm worried the dough in my hands won't simply double in size, it will grow to fill the whole shop. "I'm more of an eye-for-an-eye kind of guy."

While I was distracted by his proximity, he must've reached behind me and coated his right hand in flour because now he smears it over my face. His fingers spread the powdery substance over my cheek and then down my nose to my mouth. His thumb lingers on my lower lip especially long, doing a thorough job of spreading the white powder.

Revenge accomplished, Killian drops his hand back on the counter. A self-satisfied smirk curling his devious mouth.

My heart is pounding at a million beats per minute, but I'm not about to let him see that. Since I'm still holding the bowl, and have no other means to clean myself, I lean forward and wipe my face as best as I can on his black shirt—mouth and all.

I meant the move to be retaliation, but the sensation of his hard chest under my cheek… I don't hate it.

When I meet his gaze again, he's looking at me with a mixture of surprise and amusement and some other emotion under the surface that I'm not touching.

"Are you asking for more, Sugar Spoon?"

"I'm not going to food fight with you." I wish the warning had come out steady and collected, but there's only so much a woman can take, and my words resembled more of a squeak.

Killian is so little intimidated that he drops his mouth to within a breath of my ear. "What else are you not going to do with me?"

Finally, I regain some grit and shove him away. "Talk to you. This conversation is over."

I cross into the kitchen, slamming the metal door in his face. I lock it, and, through the small glass windowpane, I point at the red "staff only" sign on the other side.

The door is pretty thick and almost soundproof. But I can still see Killian as he brings his hands to his chest, pouts, and mouths, "You wound me."

I wave at him through the glass and disappear into a corner of the kitchen where he can't track me.

I push the dough into a random empty oven and slam the door shut. The cinnamon buns experiment will have to wait. The real me can't bake on a good day, let alone after that kind of incendiary interaction.

I stare around the kitchen and hope that Suzy took care of whatever safety measures one needs in place in a bakery before going home. That's when I spot a handbag in a corner, I pick it up and explore the contents: a wallet with only some cash inside, tissues, a small notebook with a worn leather cover, a pen, and a bunch of keys, including those of a car. No phone.

Excitement pulses through me. Do I own a car in this world?

The logo on the key is Chevrolet. I exit the shop from the back, search for the right key to lock up, and find it on the third try. Then I peek out from the side alley to check if the coast is clear of devastatingly handsome billionaire cowboys.

It is.

The street is empty except for an old light-blue Chevy K20 pickup parked near the front of the shop that would totally be appropriate for a Nicholas Sparks movie.

I sneak out of the alley and lock the main door of the store as well. Then I turn to my car. I have a car! In twenty-four years of life, I've never owned a car. My parents couldn't afford to buy me one when I was sixteen. For undergrad, I went to Notre Dame in Indiana, where everything of interest was within walking distance from campus or reachable with public transportation. Same in Evanston. The Metra might take forever, but it gets me everywhere. Still also can't afford a car, especially not now that Ivy has moved out.

But I can't deny that the idea of owning a car has always been appealing to me. And this Chevy is a beauty. It's not perfect, there are a few scratches and dings, but it's got character. And it's mine! I unlock the door and climb inside, inhaling the scent of old leather and motor oil.

The pickup only has a front bench seat, which makes me love it even more. Bursting with anticipation, I turn the key in the ignition. But when I go to put the car into D for drive, there is no D. Also there's an extra pedal at the bottom that my foot slips on. The pickup rattles forward and then dies.

It's a stick shift.

Deflated, I drop my forehead on the wheel. Not that I had anywhere important to be. But why does my first car have to be one I can't drive?

Wait. Maybe my brain in this dream world will have muscle memory and I can actually drive a stick. I turn the pickup back on and fiddle with the clutch and gear stick. But after several tries, I only manage to lurch forward to the sound of screeching tires and almost run into a nearby streetlight. Panicking, I hit the brakes, and the pickup comes to a halt only a few inches away from a fender bender.

I turn the engine back off and decide that maybe it's best if I leave the driving for another day. Just like the cinnamon buns.

I'm about to exit the pickup when a knock on my window makes me jolt. My heart trips in my chest as I turn to find Killian leaning over, one arm braced on the roof, with a mischievous expression on his beautiful face.

"Need a hand?" he asks, just a second before my alarm goes off in the real world.