Cinders

by Asha King

  Gina lifted the envelope and tapped the edge on the counter, glancing up to watch the car pass the shop and disappear down the street. She could call Maureen and tell her the envelope was there. But the whole situation didn’t sit right with her—who the hell were these people and what were they doing hanging around the store? Some kind of insurance thing, maybe, due to the robbery? But then she’d seen that car around before the place was broken into.

  Even as the plan entered her mind, she tried to talk herself out of it but knew, on some level, it wouldn’t work. Forewarned was forearmed, after all. She had to know.

  The lull in the front of the bakery would last a little longer—the faster she moved, the more time she’d have, however. Clutching the envelope, Gina swiftly rounded the counter and headed through the curtain to the back. An electric kettle sat near the double sink at the back, which she filled and turned on, waiting while the water boiled, listening carefully just in case someone arrived. When the bubbling water and whistle filled the air and she heard no indication anyone else was near, she took a deep breath and held the edge of the envelope over the threads of white steam.

  It took just moments for the edges to curl. She shut the kettle off and set the envelope down, easing the seal open. Her heart hammered hard and she swallowed dryly, fingers all but trembling as she carefully pulled out the sheets within.

  They were a stack of legal-sized paper, bound with a clip. She frowned and glanced over the page of text, scanning. Some kind of contract.

  A purchase agreement.

  Her lips parted in a gasp, her gaze darting back and forth across the page as she fully tore it from the envelope. God, it couldn’t be—she wouldn’t.

  She was.

  Maureen was selling the bakery.

  Gina didn’t know how long she stood there staring at the contract in horror but a sharp cold voice cut through the silence, shaking her from her thoughts.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She twisted and saw Maureen standing just inside the doorway, her hard eyes narrowed on Gina and the contract in her hand.

  “Opening mail not addressed to you is a federal offense, you realize.”

  For a long moment, Gina was too dumbfounded to be afraid. She simply held the contract toward her stepmother. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re selling my parents’ bakery?”

  Maureen’s heels snicked on the tile threateningly, but the tremors shaking Gina’s hands and rattling the stack of papers wasn’t from fear this time. No, rage coated her skin and heat crawled up her cheeks.

  Her stepmother stopped before her, slender fingers lashing out and jerking the contract from Gina’s hand. “I’m speaking to a buyer about my bakery because it’s not turning a profit and the robbery that occurred under your watch last week made the decision that much easier.”

  She couldn’t be hearing this. The woman was completely mad—she had to be. “What are you talking about? How can it not be turning a profit? I work all day here, taking more orders than ever before—”

  “Yes, I’m sure it seems so simple from your limited perspective.” Her smile was all ice. “From mine, it’s a very difficult business decision.”

  This couldn’t be happening—Gina couldn’t believe it. She clenched her hands into fists and forced them at her side before she did something she might regret, but couldn’t keep the words from striking out. “You bitch.”

  The air between them tensed and thickened, just the ticking clock and the slowing bubble of formerly-boiling water sounding.

  Maureen tilted her head to the side, eyes casually glancing toward the electric kettle on the counter just a foot away.

  Icy terror blasted through Gina, her shoulders tensing as she expected her stepmother to reach for it. The memory flashed in her mind, remembering the day she’d argued back with the woman and Maureen grasped the pot of boiling water on the stove. Gina had twisted and raised her arms to protect her head, which left her side exposed when the water came splashing down.

  An accident, had been her stepmother’s explanation at the hospital. She was playing in the kitchen and I warned her not to touch anything on the stove. And Gina had been eleven—who would believe her? She’d cowered and sobbed and nodded through the doctor’s questions.

  Now, though, she wasn’t a child. And if Maureen left one mark on her, Brennen would see, and she wouldn’t be able to keep back the truth this time.

  “Go ahead,” she said in a low voice, meeting her stepmother’s glare. “Try it.”

  But rather than reach for the kettle, Maureen simply gave her a broad, chilly smile. “Whatever are you talking about, Gina?” She lifted the envelope from the counter and turned to cross the kitchen once more, disappearing to the front room. Muffled voices sounded—one of the stepsisters must’ve finally arrived to work cash.

  Gina slumped against the counter, the hard edge biting into her spine, and stared blankly at the empty space before her. Her shoulders turned inward, tears springing to her eyes though she refused to shed them.

  Maureen had stripped away nearly everything she remembered about the shop. Made her work nearly constantly to keep things going. And she was selling it.

  Then what? There seemed to be an unspoken agreement: Gina lived rent-free in the house still because she did chores around the home and worked at the bakery, saving Maureen from hiring someone. Without the shop, she wouldn’t have a place to live.

  Her shop. By all rights, it should be, at least. She looked around the room again, at where her mom’s apron used to hang, remembering how the floors and cabinets used to look before they were so cold and foreign.

  A sudden hollow ache cleaved her chest and she gripped the edge of the counter to keep from tipping over.

  The plan is still the same, she reminded herself. She still needed to see the will, needed to know her father’s wishes. Because no matter how much he seemed to believe Maureen was a loving mother and not the horrible abusive woman Gina had grown up with, she couldn’t believe he’d intended her life to be this. Couldn’t believe he hadn’t done more to look out for her in the event of his death.

  Gina swiped at the random tears staining her cheeks, dumped the water from the kettle, and gave herself a mental shake. Maureen wouldn’t be doing this if not to throw her off balance. That meant she was hiding something—something Gina had to figure out if she wanted to save the family bakery.

  The plan is still the same, she repeated in her head.

  It just had to work a little faster now.

  ****

  Despite how busy she kept, the day dragged on and Gina's stomach was in knots while she waited for the house to go to sleep that night. She lay in bed in her tiny room in the attic well past one in the morning to ensure the others would be asleep before at last she crept from her room and headed downstairs.

  A storm had descended, thundering rumbling the sky and lightning periodically streaking. Rain hammered the windows, the noise loud enough that it would cover the sound of Gina’s movements even if the others work.

  She was more nervous than usual, the weight of the situation pressing heavily upon her. If her father's will didn't include any information, well... Well, she didn't want to think about it. But perhaps she could at least find some of Maureen's accounting records. The woman didn't use a computer—she was strictly old school with receipts and accounting books, and ran her own numbers. Gina had been all over her stepmother's office enough to know she didn't keep the books in her desk drawers or filing cabinets. That left the safe as the most likely spot; without a doubt, she had to see what was in there.

  A chill hung in the air, running gooseflesh up her bare arms; the sense of foreboding was nearly palpable. But Gina breathed deeply, calmly, and kept going, down the main hall and stairs, straight for the office. Her bare feet were silent on the floor, steps quick and sure. Lightning cut through the sky and light burst through the windows at uneven intervals, brightening the downstairs foyer before darkening aga
in.

  When no noise sounded from the upstairs rooms, she eased open the office door and crept inside, moving straight for the portrait over the safe in the wall. She was starting later than usual and didn’t have the time to waste.

  Lightning cut over the wall, highlighting her destination. She swiftly lifted the painting and set it gently against the wall, her memory going over the combinations to try as she reached for the safe.

  A click and then the light snapped on behind her.

  Gina spun, her heart up in her throat, as her eyes settled on Maureen seated in the high-back chair at the desk across the room.

  She was dressed as she had been for the day, pressed business suit and her pale blonde hair wound up tight in a bun. She hadn’t been to bed yet—she must’ve been waiting since evening for Gina to show up.

  She knew I’d be here. Any hope she’d had sank swiftly.

  Maureen stared unblinking, making no move to rise from her seat, and the patter of rain filled up the silence. “I changed the combination about six months ago but it was so adorable how you kept coming back to try, I didn’t have the heart to tell you.”

  No, no, no...

  But there was nothing to lose now, was there?

  She pushed back her trembling and swallowed a knot in her throat, forcing her voice forth. “What did my father’s will say about me?”

  “Whatever are you talking about, Gina?”

  “My father’s will. I never saw it but it couldn’t have...he couldn’t have...”

  “Couldn’t have what? Left everything to his loving wife to see things taken care of? He entrusted all of his assets and his child to me, Gina. I was the executor and I oversaw everything was done according to his wishes. And haven’t I given you everything? I could’ve shipped you off, abandoned you to the system. Instead I clothed you, fed you, provided you a home. Exactly as your father wanted.”

  “My father wouldn’t want you to sell the family’s bakery.”

  “Your father would want me to do what’s best. I simply cannot afford to keep the shop any longer.”

  “The only way the bakery isn’t making money is if you are the most incompetent manager in existence.” Gina snapped her mouth closed, holding back everything else that wanted to leap out and lash her stepmother.

  Maureen’s eyes hardened. She stood slowly and rounded the desk; Gina eased back until her spine hit the wall behind her. “Dear, sweet Gina...I would think long and hard about what you say to me right now. You’re soon to be without a job and I won’t keep someone so insubordinate under my roof.” She stopped two feet away and Gina trembled with grief and rage, bracing for the slap or a grasp of her hair or whatever physical violence the woman would resort to next.

  But it never came. Instead her stepmother gave her a small smile and turned, heading for the door. “You have an early morning ahead of you. Sleep well, child.”

  As the door closed behind Maureen, Gina crumpled, sinking into a heap on the floor. The tears fell freely, soaking her cheeks, as the world tipped and her future went blank before her eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  The thunder hadn’t woken Brennen, he was sure of it, but something roused him from a deep sleep in the middle of the night.

  His eyes opened sleepily, blinked up at the ceiling as lighting splashed across it. Rain beat the window panes and tree branches brushed the side of the cottage. He was about to roll back over to try to sleep but a noise drew him more fully awake, something from the front of his home. He rubbed at his eyes, swung his feet over the side of the bed to hit to cool hardwood, and rose.

  The storm raged on outside and he glanced at the clock by his bed. 3:15 a.m. Exiting his bedroom as he padded barefoot in just pajama bottoms, the sound became clearer—it was definitely a knock. Maybe the power had gone out elsewhere, or there was some kind of emergency at the house? His pace increased, weaving through the dark living room and around the plush couch, the shape of the space familiar to him so he avoided contact with the furniture.

  Brennen reached the heavy wooden door, threw back the lock, and pulled it open.

  Lightning split the sky again, briefly flashing over the figure on his doorstep. Her hand was still raised, held in a fist from when she’d been knocking. Blondish curls of her hair were dark with rainwater, soaked to her head and plastered over her shoulders, and her clothing was in a similar state. Her shoulders shook and shivered, and fear gripped him.

  “Gina...” He stepped onto the porch, rain hammering down on him immediately, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder to pull her inside. She moved willingly but stiffly, and he had the horrible fear she’d walked all the way there.

  Brennen shut and bolted the door behind her, flipped the light on the small table nearby, and immediately jerked a wool afghan from the couch to help with her shivering while he took the time to pull out towels from the other room. He guided her to the sofa, got her sitting, though her wide dark eyes stared absently ahead without acknowledging him and soft brown skin took on a sickly grayish hue.

  He ground his teeth, anger swiftly replacing any fear in the moment—if her damn stepmother did something to her... He didn’t let himself finish that thought, instead focusing on the present moment and getting her warm and dry.

  The kitchen was just a few steps from the hall so he swiftly put the kettle on and then ran down the short hall to the bathroom. A stack of freshly laundered, fluffy towels waited on a shelf just inside the door, and he grabbed three before returning to the living room.

  Gina hadn’t moved, huddled there beneath the blanket.

  Brennen perched on the end of the coffee table in front of her and eased the blanket off to replace it with a towel. He gently pulled her hair off her shoulders and let it soak the terrycloth on her back. “Gina?” He ran his hands up and down her arms, hoping to get her warm. “Gina, what happened?”

  At last her eyes lifted and met his and her voice came out soft and fragile. “Can I stay here for tonight?”

  It still didn’t give him any indication of what was wrong but at least she was talking. “Of course. You need to get warm—I’ve got water boiling for tea. I can put your clothes in the dryer. Do you want something to wear? Or I could run you a bath?” Despite the hour and his lack of rest he was fully awake and alert now, couldn’t fathom going back to sleep until she was settled. His fingers dragged up to cup her still-damp jaw and tilt her face up to his. “Whatever you need.”

  Breathless seconds passed and his heart surged—he wanted her badly, to taste her, to comfort her, to protect her from everything that was wrong.

  “That sounds nice,” she managed softly.

  He wasn’t sure to what specifically so he opted for all of the above. Leaving her with the two extra towels, he rose and backtracked to the bathroom. It was white and pale blue, simple and elegant with a large Jacuzzi tub. He didn’t own bubble bath but didn’t think she’d mind; he slipped the stopper in and cranked the taps, warm water spilling out and splashing against the porcelain.

  The kettle whistled and he was on his feet again, dropping a bag of black tea in a mug and pouring a cup. Gina rose in his peripheral vision, clutching the towel around her shoulders, her movements less stiff now as she walked toward the bathroom. He gripped the mug and followed, reaching her swiftly and gently wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him and said nothing.

  He didn’t want to ask again—wanted to give her space to tell him at her pace—but still burned to know what the hell happened to her.

  In the small, cozy bathroom, he set the mug on the shelf by the bathtub to steep and stepped back to hang in the doorway, his lips parting to speak but words hesitating. She’d stopped shivering, at least, but gazed in silence for a moment at the water filling the tub, her profile to him.

  “Sit in the tub and get warmed up,” he offered. “I’ll find you something to wear and collect your clothes for the dryer.”

  Gina turned slowly and met his eyes. Stepped toward him, clo
sing the distance between them, still gripping closed the towel over her shoulders with one hand and reaching out with the other. Her fingers touched his bare chest over his heart and he sucked in a breath at the contact, his pulse beating harder. She tilted her head back, eyes still locked on his, and he tried to push back against the desire rushing through his body, tried to remain neutral and careful with her, but all he wanted to do was pull her to him and keep her safe.

  “Gina,” he breathed out as she crept closer and then his hands were cupping her jaw, drawing her closer, their breaths mingling just a moment before their lips touched.

  She melted in to him, the towel from her shoulders dropping to the floor. Her hands crept over his broad chest, gliding smoothly and trailing heat everywhere she touched. He held, crushed her to him, kissing her deeply and enjoying every move of her lips against his, every sigh and moan that told him she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  The water continued to roar from the tap, steam filling the room and coating their skin in slick heat. Her lips parted from his for a moment and he struggled to contain himself, breathing hard as her fingers trailed down his chest, over his abs, tentative but staying the course. Her thumb played at the low waistband of his pajama bottoms and he glanced down between them; his cock stiffened, pushed against the cotton.

  “Can I touch you?” she whispered, her big dark eyes searching his.

  He didn’t know what happened, what had changed—she was still cautious, still inexperienced, but bolder somehow, her fingers dragging back and forth along the waistband. His erection hardened and he wanted to drive it against her hands, her breasts, her pussy, and lose himself at last.

  “Yes,” he breathed out and she did, carefully moving her hand down, gliding over the cotton to wrap her fingers around his hardness. His breath hitched, tremors working over his skin, but he held still and waited, letting her set the pace.

  “You’ll tell me if I do something wrong?” Her hand slid up, beneath the waistband, and down again to grip his bare, needy flesh.