Page 34 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
She hums. “Maybe he’s scared.”
“Yeah, well, so am I and I didn’t run.”
She nods, quiet. “You’re stronger than he expected. Sometimes, that scares men more than it should.”
I glance at the mirror, then at her. “Is it bad I still wanted him to show up today even though I’m pissed as hell?”
Desirae gives me a soft smile. “Not bad. Just honest.”
I change back into my clothes and thank her. As I leave the shop, carefully carrying the garment bag like it holds my whole heart, I look up at the sky. The sun’s just starting to sink, casting amber light over the quiet town.
I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to shift.
And God help me… I don’t know if I hope it’s him or dread it if it is.
* * *
By the time I turn onto my street, the golden hour is softening everything into something too beautiful to bear. The violets embroidered on the dress Desirae gave me catch the light even through the garment bag, and for one fleeting second, I think maybe today hasn’t been as heavy as I expected.
Then I see it. A familiar truck parked in my driveway, engine off, windows cracked.
Marcus.
He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other scrubbing the back of his neck like he's been debating getting out of the truck for hours. He looks like hell—like he hasn’t slept, like he’s been carrying around something heavy and refuses to set it down.
Well. So have I.
I pull into the driveway beside his truck, heart pounding as I throw the car into park and step out, careful with the dress.
He gets out of his truck slowly, eyes locking on me like he’s bracing for impact.
Smart man.
“You’ve got one hell of a nerve showing up now, King,” I say, slamming the door with more force than necessary.
“Julie—”
“No.” I hold up a hand, my other one white-knuckling the garment bag. “You don’t get to speak first. You lost that privilege when you walked out of my house this morning without saying a damn word.”
His jaw ticks. He opens his mouth, but I keep going.
“You think I don’t know what last night meant? You think I just hand over pieces of myself to anyone who looks at me like I’m some… piece of ass?” My voice cracks, but I don’t let it break completely. “I let you in, Marcus. In my home. In my bed. In my heart.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“I don’t care!” I shout, surprising both of us. “You don’t get to come back now, hours later, and pretend it was nothing. I’m not some one-night stand who can’t take a hint. You could’ve said something—anything—but you didn’t.”
He takes a tentative step forward. I step back.
“I’m a catch,” I snap, voice low and shaking with all the heat and heartbreak that’s been building in my chest all day. “I bake the best pastries in town. I’m funny as hell when I’m not elbow deep in cookie dough. And I don’t let people in easily. But you? I let you in.”
His throat works like he’s trying to swallow everything he wants to say at once. But I don’t stop.
“So, if this is you realizing you’re not cut out for anything real, then fine. Walk away. But do me a favor—find someplace else to get your precious raspberry danish because I don’t want to know you.”
He stands there like he’s been struck, not saying a word.
Good.
