Page 39 of Knot So Sweet
"If you're more worried about how it looks than how it tastes, you're in the wrong place," Garrick says with admirable restraint.
While we wait, I find myself studying the bakery with the same obsessive attention I've been giving to my workspace upstairs. Everything has a purpose, a reason for being exactly where it is.
"You've been making some changes upstairs," Liam observes quietly.
"What do you mean?" I ask, immediately defensive.
"Just little things. The other day when we had our coffee upstairs, I noticed the table is now by the window, you've moved some furniture around. It looks good. More lived-in."
Heat rises in my cheeks. "I hope it's okay. I know it's not my place to rearrange things, but the lighting was better for work if I moved the table, and..."
"Violet," Liam interrupts gently, "it's fine. Garrick wants you to be comfortable."
Right. Comfortable. Because it's worked out so well for me in the past.
"It's just temporary," I say quickly, like repeating it will make it true. "I'll put everything back when I leave."
A flicker crosses Liam's expression before he nods. "Of course."
We reach the counter, and Garrick looks up from the espresso machine. His expression immediately shifts from professional to warmer when he sees us. The way his gaze lingers on my face for just a moment too long makes my pulse quicken.
"Morning," he says, voice carrying the gravelly quality I definitely don't find attractive. Except it makes my stomach flutter which is becoming a serious problem. "Let me guess. Liam wants his usual rocket fuel, and Violet wants coffee which won't keep her up all night but still has enough caffeine to function."
Great. The grumpy baker has memorized my coffee order. Next he'll be asking about my favorite color and whether I prefer sunsets or sunrises. When he slides the latte across with fancy foam art he definitely didn't need to make for someone who's "just passing through," I catch the scent of coffee and cedar clinging to his skin.
"You know us too well," I say, because apparently I've lost the ability to maintain proper emotional distance.
"Plus," Garrick adds, pulling out a small paper bag, "This was gonna go stale anyway." He pushes the bag toward me, and our fingers brush during the transfer. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt of electricity up my arm.
I haven't mentioned lemon scones are my favorite, which means he's been paying attention to my pastry choices. Because nothing says "healthy emotional boundaries" like getting flustered over baked goods surveillance.
"Thank you," I say, accepting the bag. "You didn't have to do it."
"Day-old pastries don't sell anyway," he says, but there's color in his cheeks suggesting this kindness is more intentional than he’s saying. The slight flush makes him look younger, softer, and I have to grip my coffee cup to keep from reaching out to touch his face.
Liam and I find a table by the window, and I sit on my chair with my back straight, laptop angle optimized, coffee positioned within reach but safe from accidents. It’s as if I’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
"You've been sleeping better," Liam observes, studying my face with clinical attention.
"Have I?" I ask, though he's right. The constant exhaustion which has been my companion for months has started to ease. "I guess the mountain air agrees with me."
"Or the feeling of safety," he suggests.
The words hit deeper than they should. For the first time in years, I go to sleep without worrying I'll be woken up in the middle of the night and told to sleep on the floor, because I smell bad. Or worse still in the garage in case someone steals his car. Even though he has an alarm and a camera in the garage. I wake up without the immediate spike of panic about where I am and whether I'm in danger.
Exactly the kind of thought I swore I’d never have again. Way to go, Violet. First decent sleep in months and you're already planning your emotional downfall.
"Maybe," I agree, because what else can I say? I've been stupid enough to let my guard down again?
We sit in comfortable silence, which should probably worry me more than it does.
"I should get to work," Liam says eventually. "But let me know if you need anything, okay?"
After he leaves, I head back upstairs to work on the garage article. But as I settle into my carefully arranged workspace, I find myself distracted by how the afternoon light has shifted. The throw blanket looks different, richer. The small pillow catches the sun in a way making the whole space warmer.
Without thinking, I get up and adjust the blanket's position, smoothing out a wrinkle. Then I straighten the pillow, making sure it's positioned at exactly the right angle. The movements feel automatic, necessary.
My workspace isn't the only area which has evolved. The living room has undergone its own transformation, though I didn't realize the extent until yesterday when I was looking for my phone charger.
