Chapter 2 - The Sound of a Broken Glass
Reid didn't move toward the counter immediately. He let his gaze drift slowly around the small shop—the copper mixing bowls hanging from the reclaimed beams, the chalkboard menu written in Mara’s neat, slightly slanted handwriting, and finally, back to her.
""You’ve still got flour on your left wrist,"" he said. His voice was lower than she remembered, rougher around the edges, like winter gravel. ""You always missed that spot when you were in a rush.""
Mara gripped the edge of the butcher-block so hard her knuckles turned white. ""We’re closed for walk-ins until twelve. If you want a pastry, you have to order online like everyone else.""
""Mara.""
The single word wasn't a question. It was an anchor dropped into a stormy sea, dragging up everything she had spent two thousand five hundred days trying to forget.
""How did you find me?"" she asked, her voice dangerously steady.
""It’s not hard to track someone when they use their legal Social Security number to register a commercial kitchen lease in the state of Oregon,"" Reid said, taking two slow steps forward. The floorboards didn't even creak under his boots; he moved with the predatory, controlled quiet of someone who was used to owning every room he entered. ""The real question is why you thought a bakery named after your grandmother’s favorite poem would throw me off the scent.""
""I didn't think about you at all, Reid.""
A dry, humorless sound escaped his throat. ""Right. That must be why you changed your bank accounts, sold your share of the Chicago storefront to a man who looked like he’d rather lose a limb than talk to me, and vanished into the Pacific Northwest without leaving a forwarding address.""
""Tessa told you where I went?"" Mara’s eyes narrowed.
""Tessa didn't have to tell me anything,"" Reid said, stopping three feet from the counter. The scent of him—rain, expensive cedarwood, and the faint, familiar trace of mint—hit Mara like a physical blow. ""Tessa was too busy packing her own bags once I figured out what she and my mother did that night at the hotel.""
Mara blinked. ""What?""
Before Reid could answer, the door to the storage room clicked open.
Julian stepped out, carrying a tray of empty muffin tins. He stopped short when he saw the stranger standing by the register, his dark eyes—that exact, unmistakable shade of slate gray—locking onto Reid with an instinctive, defensive caution.
Reid stopped breathing.
May you like
His eyes dropped from Mara’s face down to the small boy standing in the oversized apron. The color seemed to drain out of Reid’s face entirely, leaving his skin looking like wet plaster.
""Mara,"" Reid whispered, his gaze never leaving the boy. ""Who is he?""
