Page 38 of Knot So Sweet
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, shaping the dough into a ball.
Liam meets my eyes. "Because you care about her. More than you want to admit. And because she's going to need stability, not someone constantly trying to push her away."
Before I can respond, the apartment door upstairs opens. Soft sound of Violet's footsteps on the ceiling above us, then on the stairs.
She appears at the top of the staircase with her laptop tucked under one arm, a notebook in her other hand.
"I'm going to set up in the corner booth, if that's okay." She calls down, already starting to descend. "The light is better there, and I can observe without being in the way."
"Fine." I call back, though my voice comes out rough.
She walks across the bakery floor, her steps quiet but purposeful. Settles into the corner booth, spreading out her laptop and notebook with focused efficiency. The late afternoon sun catches in her blonde hair. Her scent carries determination mixed with that warm vanilla and honey.
Liam heads for the door, pausing to look back at both of us. "I'll leave you two to it. Violet, let me know if you need anything."
He leaves, the bell above the door chiming.
As I start mixing a fresh batch of sourdough, I catch myself glancing at the corner booth. Violet's bent over her laptop, fingers already flying across the keys, completely absorbed in her work.
And if Liam's smug prediction comes true, he's never going to let me hear the end of this.
9
VIOLET
The apartment above Rise & Shine is temporary. I tell myself this lie every morning, usually while doing actions proving I'm full of shit. Like right now, when I'm rearranging throw pillows for the third time this week because apparently I've become the kind of person who cares about pillow placement.
Temporary…until I save enough money to continue on to Texas, to Emma's couch, to whatever uncertain future awaits me there. At least when I'm with Emma, I won't be a burden. I can help with her kids and bills instead of playing house in a grumpy baker's spare apartment.
Except the apartment doesn't feel temporary anymore, which is a problem. I'm not sure when it started, this gradual transformation from "somewhere I'm crashing" to "somewhere I'm making myself comfortable." Probably the first night, when I couldn't sleep on the bed and found myself building a fort out of throw pillows like some kind of traumatized twelve-year-old.
I've been in Cedar Ridge for almost two months now. Eight weeks tomorrow, actually. Not that I'm counting.
This morning, I'm sitting at my relocated workspace, which sounds much more professional than "the dining table I movedbecause I have control issues about sight lines." I'm updating notes from yesterday's interview with Tom Bradley, but I’m distracted by the soft throw blanket draped over my chair.
I found the blanket a few days ago, buried in the closet under a stack of linens looking untouched since the Clinton administration. It's handmade, probably crocheted by someone's grandmother, in shades making the whole place feel less like a generic rental. I'd pulled it out ostensibly to check if it was clean, but really because its softness called to my damaged omega hindbrain.
Now it lives on my chair, and I find myself reaching for it whenever I need to think. Which is pathetic. I'm a grown woman getting emotional support from a blanket. Mark would have a field day with this regression.
My phone buzzes with a text from Liam: "Coffee break? I'm between appointments and could use some caffeine which doesn't taste like disinfectant."
I text back I'll meet him downstairs, but not before I automatically fold the throw blanket and arrange it just so over the chair back. Then I fluff the small decorative pillow I've positioned in the corner where the chair meets the wall.
The pillow is another recent addition to my temporary living situation. Found it in the linen closet along with the blanket, and originally thought I could use it as a seat cushion. Instead, it ended up creating a barrier in the corner. I need to protect my six from imaginary threats while I work.
I catch myself straightening my notebooks, arranging them in a neat stack with my pen positioned at a precise angle, and pause. When did I start caring about having everything arranged just so? I've never been particularly neat, but lately I can't concentrate unless everything is positioned exactly right.
The realization makes me uncomfortable. Like I'm turning into one of those people who has opinions about home decor.Next I'll be buying scented candles and talking about "creating ambiance."
Downstairs, the bakery is already bustling despite the early hour. Garrick moves behind the counter with efficiency, explaining the difference between his sourdough starter and commercial yeast to a tourist who clearly regrets asking. The way his forearms flex as he demonstrates kneading techniques makes my mouth go dry, which is absolutely not why I'm lingering by the stairs longer than necessary.
At a corner table, Frank Stern sits with his usual coffee and newspaper, occasionally offering commentary on Garrick's impromptu bread science lecture.
"Morning, Violet," Liam calls out as he pushes through the door, bringing mountain air and his cheerful chamomile scent. "Ready for some non-medical coffee?"
"God, yes," I say, joining him in line behind the tourist, who's now asking Garrick whether his sourdough is "authentically rustic enough for Instagram."
Liam and I exchange amused glances as Garrick's expression cycles through barely contained irritation before settling on professional politeness. The muscle in his jaw ticks in a way I'm starting to recognize, and great, now I'm paying attention to his facial tics like some kind of creepy stalker. Get a grip, Violet.
