Page 27 of Killer Confections
I position the rod in front of me, angling my shoulder before ramming through the doorway. I spot as the back entrance leading to the alleyway closes and race over to it. I throw it open, stepping out into the path as I whirl around in a circle, but there’s no one there.
“Oh, what the fuck!” I yell, hoping the mystery person can hear me. “Just because I didn’t see you doesn’t mean I’m not calling the cops!” I receive no answer back, but I figured I wouldn’t. Whoever was in my bakery didn’t want to be seen, but they wanted me to know they were here.
I head back inside, my anger rising as I lock the back door and head toward the lobby to do just the same, but stop when I spot something on one of the metal tables in the centerof the room. The pole falls from my hands, clanging against the floor as I slowly step towards it.
Sitting in the center of the table, an enormous bouquet of two dozen yellow and red roses rests as if they belong there. The blooms are covered in shiny, shimmering sparkles like the florist dipped them in some kind of coating.
It’s breathtaking and I hesitantly lift a hand to it, confirming that there is in fact a sparkle filled finish on the flowers.
I spot the white card jutting from between the blooms, raising a shaky hand as I remove it and examine the chicken scratch writing.
And what lesson have we learned tonight? Good luck tomorrow.
This cocky son of a bitch! This has to be a prank.
Addison is supposed to be here tonight, but she doesn’t know where the bakery is, so that rules her out. Maybe one of my employees?
No, that doesn’t seem right. Their lives are fast-paced and entirely too busy to back track just to leave a bouquet. We were also together all afternoon and if they wanted to leave me flowers, they would have said something. Not to mention the massive boot prints that don’t fit anyone’s profile.
My blood runs cold at the realization that this can’t be rationalized. Whoever this is, I don’t know them. And they were inside my bakery.
I pace in front of the table, my eyes occasionally straying to the beautiful bouquet as I run through everyone I’ve met since coming back to Columbus. The few people I’ve met were cordial, and no one seemed odd. Most were old friends and the handful of new people I’ve introduced myself to hadn’t given me any reason to consider them as the culprit.
I haven’t even been in the city for a month. How is it possible to get a stalker that quickly?
My phone rings and I quickly snatch it up, hitting the answer button. “Hello?”
“You answered fast,” Addison laughs, unaware that I’m currently having a mental breakdown. “I made it to your apartment—”
“If I give you the bakery’s address can you come pick me up?” I cut her off.
“Sure…” She trails. “Are you okay? You sound like you’re freaking out.”
I ignore her, rattling off the address and giving her a minute to put it in her GPS before I hang up. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling violated and unnerved. The gesture is nice, but none of this makes any sense.
I still haven’t called the police, but what would I say?
Oh, hello officer. Someone broke into the unlocked door I left wide open and left me flowers without revealing their identity?
I’m sure that would go over well.
I groan as I rub a defeated hand down my face before grabbing my bag and the black vase. As I go to pick up the flowers, I strain under the weight and nearly drop them to the floor. It feels like there are a ton of bricks in my hand instead of a flower arrangement.
They couldn’t have given me something smaller? This weighs a ton.
Now I’m agitated and violated.
I walk out of the kitchen, switching off the lights in every corner of the store before making my way to the exit and locking up for the night. As the lock clicks into place, Addison’s white SUV pulls up to the curb, the loud music thumping and muffled from the outside.
She rolls her window down, gasping in surprise at the gift in my hands. “That’s beautiful!” She shouts before lowering the song’s volume.
“How I got them isn’t,” I mumble before sliding into the cramped and cluttered passenger seat. I shift my feet through the mountain of trash near the floor, attempting to getcomfortable as the term ‘passenger peasant’ whispers in my head. My friend is a lot of things, but clean is not one of them.
I heft the bouquet into the back, setting it down gently so nothing gets destroyed on the short ride to my apartment.
Then I quickly scold myself for actually liking the flowers.
“What do you mean?” Addison asks, lifting a brow.
