Page 17 of Choosing the Rejected Mate

“Stop saying that,” I tell my wolf.

She does not, of course she does not.She’s a fluffy menace with no respect for trauma or business hours.

Sleep eventually takes me, but it’s not restful.I dream of hands.Strong hands streaked with grease.Hands fixing broken things.Hands holding themselves still instead of reaching.A warm voice saying, “No.But that simple.”

When I wake before dawn, I hate him a little more, mostly because I’m well-rested.

By five, I’m downstairs in the bakery pretending everything is normal.It is not.The mixer works, and that alone is suspicious.It chugs along, grumbling like an old man denied a chair, but it works.Dough folds and stretches beneath the hook, soft and glossy, and I try very hard not to think about Daniel’s hands inside the machine.

That sounds worse than I mean it ...probably.

Maisie arrives at six with two coffees, a grin, and the energy of a woman who lives to see me suffer.“I brought peace offerings,” she says.

“Unless one of those cups contains the blood of my enemies, I’m not interested.”

“Vanilla latte.”

“Fine.One enemy may live.”

She places the cup beside me and leans against the prep table.“So.”

I point at her.“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m excited.”She does a little bounce on the balls of her feet.

“I can tell.It’s upsetting.”

“He asked about lunch.”

“I heard.”

“And?”

“And he can bring the estimate.”

“And lunch?”

“I’m an independent woman who can feed myself.”

“You ate frosting with a spoon for dinner last week.”

“That was self-care.”I defend my dinner choices vehemently.

“That was a cry for help.”

I ignore her because she’s correct, and correctness is unattractive in an employee.

****

The morning rush comeshard and fast, which is good because it leaves no room for thoughts.Thoughts are dangerous.Thoughts lead to feelings.Feelings lead to choices.Choices lead to men with tool belts sitting across from you while your wolf tries to throw rose petals at his feet.

Instead, I sell pastries, steam milk, refill the display case, and scold Patricia the oven when she starts running hotter than usual.By ten, my feet ache.By eleven, the rush has thinned to a steady trickle.By eleven twenty, I begin watching the door.By eleven thirty, I hate myself.

At eleven forty-two, the bell jingles, and my body knows before I look.The bond lifts its head, and my wolf finally goes still.