by Ellie Hall
He grunted in response. His fists were still clenched, but his breathing had relaxed.
Like their interaction earlier in front of the bakery, they both lingered a moment longer as though waiting, anticipating, pondering... She didn’t know why, but it took a great deal of effort to turn away, locked by his blue-gray eyes, the color of a winter sky.
Safe in his presence.
The urge to linger a moment longer.
The fluttering of something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time if ever, rose in her belly.
At last, she turned to the door of the bakery and went inside. Gripping the door handle tight, she locked it and then double-checked. A long sigh of relief escaped.
Had her mother been right? Was she too sweet, too small-town to handle life in the city, to own a business, to fend for herself? If it hadn’t been for Teagh what would’ve happened? She didn’t want to think about it, but thanks to the many articles her mother had given her, she had imagined the range of possibilities and scenarios. It made the hair on the back of neck lift and goose pimples rise across her skin. Her heart started pounding all over again.
But as she turned off the lights in the kitchen and entered the front of the bakery with the display case, featuring what little remained of the baked goods she’d perfected over the years, her fears turned into a glimmer of pride.
In college, she’d imagined life as an accountant and someday having a corner office with a window. Then she met Hayden and was drawn into his elite world. She’d received her mathematics degree, but if they’d remained together nothing would’ve come of it. Math was always her thing. Baking came easily to her because it was a matter of ratios and as much a science as an art.
For Sophie, making cupcakes, brownies, blondies, and macaroons, just to name a few, was the perfect balance of using her mathematical mind and the creative side: experimenting with new ingredients, flavor combinations, and figuring out a pretty presentation.
There were a few cookies, sweet bread slices, and scones left in the case. She started to package them up to sell for half price the next day, tying them each with a ribbon then placing them in a decorative basket. The simple task settled her nerves even more.
She pulled a salted caramel cookie from the tray and took a bite. Like her work as a baker, the confection’s bits of flaked salt and the soft, sweet caramel made for a delightful balance of opposites. Crunchy and soft, sweet and savory, gooey and firm.
She straightened the tables and chairs. As the shiny fender of a car glinted from a pair of headlights outside on the street, the image of the man wielding the knife flashed before her eyes once again. His eyes had been empty, but there was something else there. Desperation. He was missing teeth and his cheeks were hollow. His clothing hung off him. Imagining the incident would haunt her forever, she shuttered and set the cookie on the table, bracing herself over it. She took a deep swallow of air.
Sophie blinked her eyes a few times as her gaze fixed on a painting of the dog she and her mother had rescued, Frenchie.
The mixed mutt with one floppy ear had wandered across their path during a hiking trip, emaciated, empty, desperate. She’d somehow found her way into their hearts and had never left. They assumed she’d been a hunting animal, but when she’d outgrown her so-called usefulness, she’d been abandoned in the woods, as happened to many animals near the mountains.
Sophie recognized something she’d seen in Frenchie—before they’d adopted and healed her—and the man in the alley. They were both hungry. Starved. For food, maybe something more. Purpose, dignity, faith that they’d be treated right, saved.
Sophie sunk into the nearest chair, pressed her hands together, and prayed.
Another long breath escaped.
Sophie bagged up the remaining baked goods and crept into the kitchen as her pulse increased. She paused at the back door, afraid of what might be waiting for her on the other side. Whether she was in an urban environment or small town, like Teagh, she knew enough to do the right thing. Still, she was no fool and held her pepper spray tightly in one hand.
Slowly opening the door, the near dark did little to calm her nerves. A few bare bulbs glowed over the rear entries to the neighboring businesses, including the boxing gym. The alley was quiet save for the city noises sneaking over the wall from the street on the other side.
She took a few quick strides to the space near the dumpster. A scattering of thin blankets, cardboard, and a garbage bag tied at the top showed the evidence that the man had been sleeping, if not living, there.
She set the box of baked goods, along with the address to the church she’d joined upon moving to New York, on a blanket. Whatever had driven that man to desperation certainly wasn’t a happy story, but he could be redeemed. There was hope. Always hope.
Thankfully, her return to the alley was uneventful and she went back inside. She locked up the bakery for the night and started the walk several blocks home.
The skip hadn’t yet returned to her step, but she was thankful she was living life on her terms. The sense of pride she’d felt while in the front of her bakery returned as other shopkeepers closed up for the night and restaurants and stores that kept late hours were packed with guests and in full swing.
She felt part of the community and part of something much larger than herself. It sure beat what Hayden had expected of her. Degree or not, she wouldn’t have worked and certainly not for herself. Hayden’s mother, Mrs. Berwick, and some of the other society women made it clear her role in the future marriage wouldn’t involve her own pursuits, least of all owning a bakery or baking period.
As Sophie put space and time between the near attack in the alley, her mind turned to other matters. Even though the close call had scared her, she was glad it hadn’t been Keisha who’d taken out the trash. She hoped the girl with long dark braids was feeling better after her bout with food poisoning. Not only that, but despite Sophie’s fancy address on the Upper East Side, she’d saved money by doing the double shift instead of having to pay the employee. Living in New York City wasn’t cheap and business ownership wasn’t particularly lucrative, at least not in the beginning.
She turned onto Park Avenue and into the tall stone and brick building that housed the old fashioned yet spacious apartment with Juliet balconies, green space, and a library. Her late grandmother had lived there for over thirty years. They were estranged and the last memory Sophie had was of her mother slamming the door at her grandmother’s back.
The doorman greeted her in his friendly, yet understated way and with a tip of his cap.
“Good evening, Mr. Spinigotti.” She passed him a paper bag containing a biscotti for his coffee the next morning.
“Oh my,” he replied, peeking inside and taking a deep breath. “Why thank you, Signorina Johansson.”
“I overheard you mentioning the place you usually get your biscotti had closed recently. If you like this one, I’ll be sure to bring you one each day.”
“Now, that is a real treat.” He smiled wide. “Grazie, thank you.”
She continued to the stairs as a rush of crisp air tickled her back.
“Good evening, Mr. Spinigotti,” said a rough voice with an unmistakable Scottish burr.
Sophie turned, still on the first step, as Teagh entered her building. She had the urge to avoid him and hurry away. But more than that, she wanted an answer to the question what was he doing there? Had he followed her? She remained paused on the wide, wrought iron staircase lined with a thick carpet that led from the grand lobby and common area to the elevator.
Her heart raced in her chest, but it was nothing like the way it had in the alley or afterward. It had more to do with the kind nod and greeting Teagh offered Mr. Spinigotti, the sureness in his step, and the sudden desire she had to want to see him smile with satisfaction after eating one of her cookies, muffins, or scones.
But before she could allow herself to think about what that could possibly mean, she dismissed the thought. But it may have been too late. A
t the same moment, his eyes caught hers. Surely, he saw the strange and sudden desire blanket her features because the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as if in a smile—something she was sure he rarely shared not even with the kindly doorman. From what she could tell, his mouth was more acquainted with a scowl than any other expression.
Still, she fought to unlock herself from the spot and will her mouth to form words. Was he making sure she got home safely after the incident behind the shop?
As he got closer, his expression hardened if it had even been soft in the first place. It looked like he’d bitten into a week-old scone. He frowned as though once outside Mr. Spinigotti’s sphere of kindness, he transformed into Mr. Agitated Boxer.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He glanced up and his eyes narrowed. “I’m wondering the same thing.” His tone was low and menacing as if they’d met in a dark alley, which they had.
“You’re wondering what I’m doing here or what you’re doing here?” she asked to clarify and meaning the second question as a joke because he sure needed to lighten up.
Her eyes flitted to the box in his hand stamped with the unmistakable Honey and Lavender logo. It was a whimsical sketch of a honey bee hovering over a few sprigs of the fragrant lavender plant and tied with a ribbon. So he hadn’t left the baked goods for the flooring guys. Maybe she could crack his craggy expression after all.
Teagh straightened and grunted before answering her question. “I live here.”
Chapter 4
Teagh
Teagh had been lost in thought on the walk back to his flat. Okay, flat wasn’t quite the right word. When he was younger, he’d lived in his share of what the British and Scottish called flats and the Americans called apartments. Some were dingier than others when he’d set out on his own, but his rapid success meant he’d moved up in the world rather quickly. Right up to the penthouse, in fact.
His current residence wasn’t a penthouse although it had more square meters than most people living in New York City could boast and came with a spectacular view of Central Park. It was bigger than his former penthouse, just not on the top floor.
He’d purchased it sight unseen but wanted to be in a quiet location, within walking distance to the gym, and as distinctly different from the previous home he’d owned as possible. In this case, old-world elegance and charm versus his former modern style with smooth surfaces, sleek lines, and cool colors. However, it didn’t help that he’d caught a whiff of a familiar sharp floral fragrance when he’d left earlier that morning. Teagh preferred the sweet scent of baked goods wafting from the bakery next to the gym than the cloying scent of perfume.
Teagh had come to prefer natural fragrances to those manufactured, time in nature rather than the city—though that was tough considering his current circumstances.
Give him the mountains and he was happy. Someday, he’d like to have land in the highlands like his parents, but he was in the prime of his second career and needed to be centrally located and where his clients were.
As he’d gotten older and more experienced, he’d rather spend a quiet night, in doing something meaningful or simply enjoying good company, rather than networking with people who only sought an advantage for their career by engaging with him. He’d had enough of the fame mongering—not that it was as bad in the States as it had been back home.
And he preferred a space that was simple and clean to one that was styled and designed to the point where he’d get scolded if he reclined on the sofa. Those days were over.
During the brisk walk with the pastries from his baker neighbor, he’d thought about the run-in with the vagrant behind the building.
What would have happened had he turned his music on full blast like usual and not heard the commotion? What if he’d been too late? The adrenalin had been slow to leave his system as he turned his anger into energy, pounding the heck out of his heavy bag.
His thoughts had skipped to an incident years ago with his sister at a party when he’d jumped to her defense and beat a guy to within an inch of his life who’d said something inappropriate to her and then had made an unwelcome move.
Teagh hadn’t realized his strength back then, but fear of what could have happened to his sister had he not been there to stop things—or to the guy had he not stopped pounding him—had always haunted the shadows of his mind.
After that, he’d trained in martial arts. Through discipline, he’d learned about honor and mastery over his emotions to try to resolve conflicts without violence—not that he was always successful at turning off his instincts.
Later, he became a boxer which had its own code of conduct and expectations.
Still, the moment in the alley disturbed him—the desperate look in the man’s eyes and what was sure to be the same in his own, but for something else. Justice. There was also a sudden and overwhelming desire to protect the pretty baker.
No, he needed to teach her to protect herself. Mainly from him.
Her sweet voice yanked him back to attention, standing on the antique rug at the foot of the wrought iron stairs in the lobby of his building. His eyes hadn’t left hers. It wasn’t a staring contest, but more of what his brother would’ve called a stunned stupid moment.
There was depth to her eyes he’d never before experienced. She had eyes he could look into all day, all night, for his entire life. He shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts and stupor.
“You live here?” she asked belatedly. Was she as transfixed as he’d been?
Before he could respond, her hand landed on her chest with surprise. “What are the chances that our businesses are next to each other and we live in the same building?”
He braced himself for a verbal assault. After all, his ex had laid into him at the slightest thing. The old habit was hard to break. However, he could already tell that she was different than Teresa.
The baker held up her hand as though stopping him from answering. “Wait. I know, it’s a one in nine thousand six hundred thirty-three chance that we’d be neighbors on both accounts.”
His eyebrow shot up in surprise, but his muscles slowly relaxed at her cheery demeanor.
The corner of her mouth lifted and she laughed. “I’m a numbers person but no way do I know the actual probability. That would require knowledge of the total number of privately-owned businesses and available homes in the area...” she trailed off. “Sorry. I majored in math in college. I’m such a nerd—” She started to introduce herself at the same time his phone jingled.
The name scrolling past on the screen caused him to stiffen once more. He entered an internal battle over whether to answer it. He’d like to tell Teresa to get lost. It was over. What more could she possibly want from him? But he also sought to take the high road. They’d gone at it in therapy, casting verbal blows at each other, couldn’t see eye to eye in mediation, and eventually settled matters in the court—not the ring, though Teagh sometimes felt like breaking something instead of enduring the way she’d broken him.
He blinked a few times when the phone went to voicemail. The silence returned him to his senses.
Standing in front of him was the pretty baker. In fact, she was Teresa’s exact opposite. She was on the shorter side while his ex-wife had been five foot ten and even taller in heels, her preferred footwear. He was a shade under six foot and when they were still together, he started to think she rather liked the idea of towering over him.
While Teresa had jet black hair and olive skin, the baker was petite, had dark blond hair, and a smattering of freckles on her nose.
Lastly, his ex-wife was a former model and all angles—when it came to her features and take on life. The woman standing before him was all around softer, sweeter, and gazing at him with her wide green eyes.
He shook his head, feeling strangely out of sorts at the same time a strident voice carried through the foyer.
“Oh, I see why you didn’t answer.” The words came out of Teresa’s mo
uth—standing there in the flesh, in his building. She followed up with what could only be called a cackle.
“What are you doing here?” he ground out, turning to face his ex-wife and the last person on earth he wanted to see, especially there, in his new home.
While Sophie’s smile was gentle and kind, Teresa’s was wicked.
“We just had the grand tour. I’m thinking of moving in, Teagh. We failed at living together so maybe we’ll work better as neighbors.”
He hated the sharp way she said his name.
The conversation echoed with the one he’d just had with the baker who cleared her throat, opened and then closed her mouth as though deciding not to say something and whisked up the stairs.
“No really, what are you doing here? Why did you follow me to New York?” Teagh asked.
Teresa leaned in close and he nearly coughed on her perfume. Her scent reminded him of deception and a woman playing dirty instead of living the life of husband and wife. It was then he realized it was all just a game to her. He leaned away, putting some space between them. No way was she going to bully him again.
Teresa’s lips snaked into a smile. “I hope to see more of you, neighbor.”
When Mr. Spinigotti opened the door, letting in a gust of cool autumn air, Teresa stalked back toward the main part of the foyer as though preparing to greet the newcomer.
As Teagh started up the stairs, her voice lifted as though on wings of war as she said, “Welcome home, darling,” to a man wearing a dark suit. She cut Teagh a cutting smirk like she was the cat who got the mouse. The guy had thinning hair and appeared as if he’d skipped out on the summer sunshine.
Teagh recognized Darren Davis from the fateful night when he’d learned the truth about his ex-wife’s ambitions. Ruin him, take him for what he was worth, and move onto the next guy. Apparently, she’d already done so since it had hardly been a year since he’d discovered the two of them kissing during a dinner date at what had been his favorite restaurant in Edinburgh.