Page 17 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

Nobody came to the back door this early. Tessa had her own key. Deliveries usually came later in the morning. And the only people who knew I'd still be here working were the ones who knew me well enough to know I processed stress by organizing, planning, strategizing.

I grabbed my phone, finger hovering over the keypad to call 911, and approached the door.

"Maya?" A man's voice, muffled through the door. "I know it's early. I just... I need to talk to you."

I knew that voice. I'd heard it just hours ago, explaining to a room full of islanders why selling our businesses to his investment group would be good for us.

Ethan Caldwell.

Every instinct told me not to open the door. To tell him to go away, to make an appointment through proper channels, to maintain the distance that kept me safe and him firmly in the "enemy" category.

But curiosity—and maybe something else I didn't want to examine too closely—made me unlock the door.

Ethan stood in the harsh glow of the back-alley security light, and I noticed details I'd missed at the meeting. He was tall—at least 6'2"—with light brown hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it since he got up. His expensive suit jacket was gone, his white dress shirt rumpled and untucked slightly, his tie loosened. Those light blue eyes that I remembered from twenty years ago looked tired now, almost vulnerable, before his professional mask slid back into place.

"I know you don't want to see me," he said, his voice measured.

I crossed my arms over my flour-dusted apron, studying him with the same assessment I'd use for evaluating a questionable ingredient. "That's an understatement."

He looked uncomfortable standing there, like he'd rather be anywhere else but had forced himself to come anyway. Good. He should be uncomfortable.

"But I can help with your permit issues." The words came out rushed, like he was afraid I'd slam the door before he could finish.

I laughed—sharp and humorless. "Help? You're working for the people trying to steal my bakery."

His jaw clenched. I noticed he did that when he was holding something back, some emotion he didn't want to show. Hadbeen noticing it since I was fourteen and I hate that I still remember that look.

"I know how this looks, but the legal mess you're in? It's fixable. I can untangle it."

"Get out!"

"Please Maya, let me help."

"Why would you?" I kept my voice cool, analytical. This was a negotiation, and I'd learned in Seattle restaurant kitchens never to show weakness. "You spent last evening explaining why buying out struggling businesses is actually doing us a favor. Why would you help me keep mine?"

He paused, and something shifted in those blue eyes—something that looked almost like regret. "Your grandfather gave me a second chance when I didn't deserve it. Let me repay that."

The mention of my grandfather hit harder than I wanted to admit. I kept my expression neutral, but my hands tightened on my crossed arms. "Vovô gave you a second chance twenty years ago. You repaid him by leaving without even saying goodbye face to face. Why should I trust you now?"

Ethan flinched, like I'd hit him. "You're right. I should have thanked him properly. I should have..." He ran his hand through his hair—that nervous habit he'd had at eighteen, apparently still present at thirty-eight. "I was eighteen and ashamed and I ran. But I never forgot what he did for me. Never forgot what he taught me."

"And what was that?"

"That it’s better to build than to destroy." His voice was quiet, but unwavering. "That the man you become is a choice. And that sometimes people deserve a second chance—even when they haven’t earned one, yet."

I studied him, looking for the angle, the manipulation, the strategy behind this sudden offer of help. CIA had taught metechnical precision, but four years in competitive restaurant kitchens had taught me to read people. To spot when someone was lying, when they were sincere, when they were playing games.

Ethan looked... conflicted. Tired. Maybe even genuinely remorseful.

Which made him dangerous in a different way.

"Why my bakery specifically?" I kept my voice level, professional. "There are other businesses on that island facing problems. Why are you here at 5:00am offering to help me?"

"Because your grandfather was the man who changed my life." Ethan met my eyes directly. "Because I looked into your permit issues today, really studied them, and realized they're not the result of poor management. They're manufactured. Someone has been deliberately creating legal problems to make you vulnerable."

"Someone." I raised an eyebrow. "You mean your investment group."

"Yes."