Page 23 of The Patron Saint of Timber Hollow

It's morning for you, though.

Fair enough, Big Guy.

When I emerge from the room Jay and I share, I hear andsmellSaint in the kitchen. It's not until I descend the stairs and see him around the corner that I know he's not cooking; he'sbakingup a storm. Strewn all across the counters are cooling racks filled with cupcakes, cookies, and pastries. The oven light reveals a few pies inside. On my second glance down the counters, I notice a delicious-looking Apple crumble. Or at least, I think it's Apple. I'll have to taste it to be sure. Among the cooling confections lay bowls of frostings and toppings.

Saint's hair is tossed up in averymessy bun, his curls slipping free around his face and at the nape of his neck. He's clothed today. However, it's just a pair of silky gym shorts slung almost scandalously low on his hips. They're dusted with flour in some areas.

"Well, good afternoon, Cinnamon." I drawl, strolling up to the island where more sweets are arranged neatly. These are all decorated with little pumpkins and leaves in various shades of orange, yellow, and red.

"Good afternoon yourself, Tiny," Saint quips back, grin firmly in place and electric green eyes dancing in the kitchen light.

"What's with the mini bakery?" I ask, reaching for a sugar cookie decorated like a leaf.

"I do it every year, Tiny. Most of this is going to the Packhouse," Saint nods at me in approval while I swipe my cookie.

"Aw, so I won't get to try the crumble?" I pout, taking a dramatically sad bite of the cookie. It's delicious, just like all his food is.

"I saidmostof this was going, not all. Don't worry, tiny, I bake for the house, too."

"So what stays?" My cookie is rapidly disappearing.

"Some cookies, a crumble, cinnamon rolls, and danishes." Saint lists the confections while glancing around the room.

"Where are the danishes?" I demand, looking around the kitchen. If they're the cream-filled ones, I'm going to fuckinglose it.

"Are those your favorite, Tiny?"

"Depends on which type you made," I reply, dusting the remnants of my cookie crumbs from my shirt.

"Kagecreme and strawberry."

"I'm telling Jay you're not allowed to leave. Ever."

Saint throws his head back and roars with laughter. It makes his chest and curls bounce, his throat working with the sound. When I'd first moved in here, I'd assumed he was some jock douche simply for not moving out my way, but I can't think of anywhere this wolf is better suited for than the kitchen. He comes alive in here like I do in the forest. I can't say what comes over me, but I march over to him, throw my arms around his middle, and hug him tight.

"Thank you for being you," I mumble before withdrawing and saying, "Can I have one of those Danishes for the road?"

"Are you going to eat something substantial at work?" Saint asks, lowering his eyebrows.

It takes me almost half a minute to control my scowl before I can say "Yes."

"You'll have to send me a picture of it, or I'll hide the rest and swear the boys to secrecy," Saint warns, giving me a solemn look.

"Jay would never hide anything from me," I assert, hand propped on my hip.

"You're right…" Saint grumbles, and I almost let out a hoot of delighted victory. "I'll just take everything to the Packhouse then," Saint asserts, crossing his thick arms with a smirk.

"Youwouldn'tdare," I seethe, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Oh, I absolutely would. Everyone there would appreciate some pastries. I don't make them every year for the gatherings," Saint smirks, leaning his hip against the counter.

My internal debate lasts all of a heartbeat.

"Fine. I'll getrealfood at work. Where is my Kagecreme pastry?" I demand, extending a—surprisingly—manicured hand. Sam and I had gone together before opening the bar the other day.

"Andyou'll send me a picture so I know you actually ate it," Saint asserts, turning and grabbing something from the back shelf.

"Yes, yes.Stop holding my sweet treat hostage, Cinnamon!" I demand, making grabby hand motions at him.