Page 31 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
It’s my MO. My history. I disappear before I can wreck something good. I don’t deserve good. Matt and his family would attest to that.
"Fuck," I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She let me in—literally and emotionally—and I ran. That’s what fear does. It sneaks in when things get too real, whispering all the reasons I’m not good enough. Too damaged. Too distant. Too... me.
I replay every second of last night, over and over in my head. The way she looked at me. The way her voice cracked when she said she doesn’t usually let people in. God, the way she curled into me afterward like she wasn’t afraid of my rough edges and what did I do? I left like the fucktard that I am.
What if the minute I stay, I give her the chance to see all the dark corners I’ve spent years hiding? What if she looks at me in the daylight and changes her mind? I don’t know if I can survive that.
I slam the heel of my palm against the steering wheel once. The horn lets out a short, angry honk that startles a seagull off a nearby post.
Coward.
I know better. I know I hurt her. It’s not just that I didn’t show up at the bakery this morning—my usual black coffee and raspberry danish routine was never about caffeine or sugar. It was about seeing her. Watching her smile when she caught me staring. Listening to her hum when she thought no one was paying attention. Letting her brightness seep into the cracks I swore were dark.
And now I’ve iced her out because I’m too much of a chickenshit to deal with what comes next.
She deserves more. A lot more. More than a man who sneaks out like a ghost. More than someone who panics at the first sign of something real.
I lean my head back against the headrest feeling the weight of it all.
She gave me everything last night—her trust, her body, her quiet strength—and I gave her silence in return.
What the hell is wrong with me?
* * *
Delgado shows up to my garage uninvited.
I hear his boots before I see him—heavy, confident, and always sounding like he’s got somewhere better to be. The door creaks open, and he strolls in, a takeout coffee in one hand and judgment in his eyes.
“Figured I’d find you sulking out here like a teenager who got grounded from prom,” he says, tossing the spare cup onto the workbench.
“I’m not sulking,” I grunt, sanding the same corner of a half-finished end table for the third time today.
Delgado leans against the wall, arms crossed, not buying my bullshit for a second. “You’ve been working that same damn corner for however long you’ve been out here. It’s smoother than a baby’s ass. You wanna tell me what the hell’s really going on, or should I start guessing?”
I don’t answer. He waits anyway.
“I noticed you didn’t go to the bakery this morning,” he says finally. “And don’t give me that ‘on patrol’ excuse. Dispatch didn’t have you on any calls this morning.”
I scowl. “You keeping track of me now?”
“When my best friend goes from low-key obsessed to a full-on disappearing act? Yeah. I keep track of him.”
I curse under my breath and set the sandpaper down, leaning on the edge of the bench like it might hold me up. “I fucked up.”
“No shit.” Delgado raises a brow. “How?”
“We slept together last night and this morning, I left. I didn’t say anything. Just left her to wake up alone and…” I shake my head. “I panicked. I fucking panicked.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, like he’s not sure whether to deck me or throw something at my head. “Dude. Come on. You’ve got a woman who actually gives a shit about you. She bakes you muffins, for fuck’s sake.”
“Danishes,” I correct automatically.
He gives me a long, flat look. “Not the point.”
