*-*-*-*

“So,” Duncan said as he carefully jumped up on the counter a few feet away from the woman working with the largest industrial mixer that he’d ever seen in his life, “when did you know?”

“When did I know what?” she asked absently, seemingly unaware that she’d said anything or that he was even there. All of her focus was on the insanely large bowl of batter that she was making.

“That you were an artist,” he said, adjusting the large bag of ice on his sore balls as he watched her.

“I’m not an artist,” she said in that absent tone as she picked up a gallon sized bottle of pure vanilla extract and began slowly pouring the liquid directly into the bowl big enough to fit a couple of kids.

He watched her face as she poured, the way her eyes watched the brown liquid pour into the batter as though she could see every single drop and her lips moved as though she were counting those drops. When she suddenly stopped the flow of vanilla with a smooth flicking action of her wrist, he knew that he was definitely watching a true artist in the midst of creating a masterpiece.

“Yes, you are,” he said with a smile as he reached over and gently replaced a falling lock of black hair teasing her cheek back behind her ear where it belonged.

When the touch didn’t seem to phase her in the least or even register on her face, he knew that the klutz that she’d been showing him for the last year wasn’t the real her. Right now, he was seeing the real Necie and he had to admit that he was definitely intrigued.

*-*-*-*

Surprisingly, she didn’t want to kill him.

Not that she normally had homicidal tendencies, but when she was cooking for some reason, she did. Always had even as a child. Her grandmother, God bless her soul, used to love to watch her cook and see what she would create next when all Necie had wanted was for the woman to allow her to place a lock on the kitchen door so that she could work in peace. For whatever reason her grandparents made a big deal about leaving a three year old operating a stove and using chef’s knives unsupervised.

Since she hadn’t had much of a choice, and yes, she’d argued for those damn locks for years, her grandparents always made it a point to be in the kitchen when she was in there, or to work the bakery when she was working a shift, just to watch her work. It was sweet and all, but it also irritated the ever-loving hell out of her.

She hated when people watched her, hovered over her, asked her how she did this or that, asked if they could lick the bowl, try a sample, or how she knew how much flour she used without using a measuring cup. When she tried to explain that she just did, they would take that as an open invitation to ask her even more questions, demanding that she teach them her “tricks,” so that they could cook as well as she did and when she refused simply because she had no idea how she did it, she was suddenly just a selfish bitch.

So, after a while she’d stopped trying to explain herself and simply ignored everyone and everything around her and focused on the one thing that she loved to do. Unfortunately, that hadn’t stopped people from trying to hover, ask questions or get in her way. Sometimes she ignored them, sometimes she used the glare that her grandfather had shown her to scare people off and other times, the man himself would step into the kitchen, focus his glare on the person bugging the shit out of her, wait until they got the hint and left her or alone or he would…

Okay, she really didn’t like to think about what he would do when they didn’t take the hint the first time, because sometimes just thinking about theirs cries of pain or pleads for mercy terrified her and she really didn’t feel like dealing with the nightmares later. They were unsettling and made her feel-

“Go out with me,” the man that up to this point she’d been able to ignore, said, reminding her of his presence and the fact that she been able to work comfortably with him hovering around her.

It had surprised her how comfortable she’d been with him around, watching her, but then again, her response to his command probably surprised them both.

“No, thanks,” she said, barely sparing him a glance as she reached past him, grabbed the bowl of eggs that she’d prepared and dumped them into the mixing bowl before she turned on the mixer, destroying the awkward silence that had followed, which was probably for the best, she decided as she returned her attention to adding the second bowl of eggs to the mixer while Duncan stood there, gawking at her.

Yup, she’d definitely taken them both by surprise, but what shocked her more was that she meant it. Her grandparents hadn’t raised a fool and it would definitely be foolish to give him another chance to hurt her.

Once had been more than enough.

Chapter 21

Wednesday, December 9th.

“Walk away,” Darrin said firmly to his right as Reese stepped up to his left and said, “Now.”

“Not fucking happening,” Duncan said, ignoring the implied threat that the dozen or so large Bradford males standing between him and Dixon’s Bakery represented.

“Just turn around and go home, son,” Danny, his brother and one of his best friends said sternly as he leaned back against one of the trucks they’d used to block him from entering the bakery and kept his glare locked on Duncan, daring him to try something.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, keeping his attention on the front door of Dixon’s bakery as he waited for the woman that had obviously lost her fucking mind to come out so that they could finally have the talk that he’d been trying to have with her since yesterday when she’d lost her fucking mind.

That was the only way that he could explain it.

He’d asked her out and she’d flat out turned him down without batting an eye. For a minute there, he’d been too stunned to react. He hadn’t expected her to say no, especially that fast, so he’d waited, giving her a minute or two to realize what he’d asked her, reward him with one of those beautiful blushes of hers, jump up and down for joy, get down on her knees, sob a little bit and thank God that this day had finally come.