Page 12 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
We make several trips, moving everything into the back storage room. The quiet isn’t awkward exactly; it’s just dense and charged with something unsaid.
Once the last box is set down, I lean against the counter and push my hair off my forehead. “Thanks. That would’ve taken me forever on my own.”
He shrugs, wiping his hands on his pants. “My pleasure.”
I cross my arms. “So… is this your thing? Checking on bakery owners? Moving bulk flour around Pelican Point?”
He smirks. Just barely. “Only the ones who give me coffee and call me Officer King like they’re trying to keep things professional.”
My cheeks flush. “What should I call you?”
“I told you yesterday. Please call me Marcus.”
There’s a beat.
“Well, Marcus,” I say, testing the name on my tongue like it might bite, “what do you do when you’re not chasing bad guys or lifting heavy things for helpless women?”
His mouth twitches again. “You’re not helpless.”
“The flour bag says otherwise,” I tease.
He shrugs. “I do woodworking. Build furniture. I do a lot of sanding.”
I blink in surprise. That… was not what I expected. “Woodworking? Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“That’s really cool.”
He leans one hip against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Keeps my hands busy. Keeps my head quiet.”
There’s something behind his words. Something darker but I don’t push. It’s none of my business.
“Alright then,” I say, straightening up and picking out a cupcake from the display case, “as a thank you for your help, this one’s on the house.”
He eyes the cupcake like it might explode.
“It’s chocolate with espresso buttercream,” I offer, holding it out. “It’s either this or you walk away and break my sugar-loving heart.”
He accepts the treat, our fingers briefly brushing, and a jolt runs up my spine.
He doesn’t really smile, but his eyes soften just enough for me to question if I should let my guard down.
“Thanks,” he says softly.
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t eat the cupcake right there; he just holds it like he’s trying to figure out what the hell he’s doing with it—or maybe what to do with me.
A silence settles between us—not awkward, but something with sharp edges that might grow into more.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks abruptly, his tone dipping into genuine concern.
I meet his gaze, conflicted emotions swirling within me. “Eventually,” I whisper, though the word itself trembles with doubt.
He nods slowly, studying me for a moment longer than feels safe, then leaves. The bell over the door chimes a melancholic farewell in his wake, leaving me with his lingering presence—an aroma of cedar, the echo of his soft voice, and the ache of a connection I never expected to crave so desperately.
Marcus King might be quiet, brooding, and closed off, but now, despite the chaos, he’s lodged himself in my thoughts and taken up permanent residence in my head, and maybe I don’t want him out. I’m torn between chasing him away and holding on, even as every part of me is conflicted over what that might mean.
