Page 11 of Frosting and Flames

“Yeah?” It’s all I can seem to say, as her small smile directed my way is a shock to my chest.

“I wouldn’t have anyone to help me with these cookies, otherwise.”

I nod, not knowing what else to say. I still can’t believe she let me help her. That she didn’t kick me out the moment she saw me in the bakery, even if I put out that fire.

It doesn’t make up for what I did.

That firecracker going off in the wrong direction. The dry leaves piled against the weathered wooden side of the bakery acting as kindling. And the sudden wind fanning the flames, making conditions just right.

I’d stared at the growing flames, horrified, unable to stop it. That time of my life is hazy, so soon after Mom’s death, but I remember that moment crystal clear. The panic that should have made me run, but instead kept me rooted to the spot, the fire feeding it.

Not wanting to go home to a husk of a father. Instead, considering stepping forward. The flames were warm, and I was so cold inside.

The direction of my thoughts had finally propelled me to move, appalled and disturbed, running as fast as I could down the alley behind the bakery to the fire station two blocks away.

I found out later Rachel and her family had been inside their apartment upstairs at the time.

The memory sickens me all over again and I set my bowl down, taking a moment to compose myself.

She’s over there working at the mixer, unaware of my thoughts. Unaware that I wish I could make things up to her.

Being forced to do community service at the fire station after juvie had turned my life around in a lot of ways. But one thing I could never bring myself to do was go to the bakery again.

To face her.

Rachel will always be a what-if. But this time…

Well, maybe this time, I won’t completely fuck it up.

CHAPTER THREE

RACHEL

This is so weird.

Nick Henderson is here in the back area of my bakery, helping me make cookies. It’s like one of those bizarre dreams you wake up from and laugh at the improbability of it all.

I focus on scraping down the sides of the bowl, and there’s that prickling sensation running over me, like a physical awareness of him in the room. It’s not necessarily unpleasant, but mostly unnerving. Especially after Jae’s comment yesterday.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you, Rachel.

She was probably seeing what she wanted to see.

But I swear I’d felt the same sensation when we were fourteen years old, together in Mr. Locke’s math class. I’d turn around, sure he’d been looking at me, my neck tingling with intuition, only to find his attention elsewhere. Had he just looked away?

God, how egotistical does that sound?

We’d had an English class together, too, but we were seated on opposite sides of the room, him further up than me, so he couldn’t see me. I’d find myself staring at his back sometimes, not nearly as broad and muscular as it is now, or at the nape of his neck where the hair curled up, longer then.

He’d caught me staring at him once, and I swore there was something sharp and electric in his gaze.

I’d never looked at him again.

“I think I’m finished with this,” he says, gesturing to the bowl of dry ingredients.

Right. The cookies. That’s what I should be focusing on. Not memories of things best left forgotten.

“Yeah, let’s mix it in with this. Slowly,” I add, when he carries the bowl over and looks like he’ll dump the whole thing in.

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