Page 53 of Knot So Sweet
Until this morning.
Now I'm sitting in my usual corner booth at Rise & Shine, laptop open, trying to focus on work while he's behind the counter pretending I don't exist.
Not pretending we didn't kiss. Not pretending yesterday didn't happen.
Pretending I don't exist at all.
That's what's killing me. Because when I came downstairs this morning, expecting his usual soft "morning, sweetheart" and maybe a stolen kiss before customers arrived, I got nothing. A grunt. A cinnamon roll placed in front of me without eye contact. Cold shoulder so brutal it made me physically flinch.
Like the past two weeks never happened. Like his hands weren't on my body, his mouth wasn't everywhere, like I didn't fall apart under his touch on that prep table and again in his bed upstairs and once more against the walk-in freezer door when we thought we had five minutes alone.
I steal a glance at him now. He's wiping down the counter with aggressive precision, jaw clenched, shoulders tight. His scent is sharp this morning, cinnamon and cardamom with bitter notes of frustration that make my omega instincts uneasy.
What changed? What did I do wrong?
Because yesterday afternoon, he had me pressed against the pantry wall, kissing me like I was air and he was drowning. Last night, he brought dinner up to my apartment and we ate on my couch, his arm around me, talking about everything and nothing.
This morning? Ice.
The morning rush swirls around me, busier and louder than usual. Packed with tourists and strangers who gawk at everything like it's some quaint small-town experience. Like a tourist trap. Exactly what I've turned this place into with one viral article.
Is that it? Is he angry about the article?
But he's known about the article's success for five days. He was fine yesterday. Better than fine. He was... us.
"Excuse me," a woman in expensive hiking gear approaches my table, phone in hand. "Are you the writer who wrote about this place?"
I force my attention away from Garrick. "That's me. Violet Matthews."
"Oh my God, I have to tell you, your piece about this bakery was absolutely beautiful. The way you described the sourdough process, the connection between craft and community..." She gushes. "It made me drive three hours to try these famous cinnamon rolls."
Warm pride spreads through my chest, even as I catch Garrick's scent spiking with irritation behind the counter. Sharp. Bitter. Aimed at me.
"Thank you. That means a lot."
"And the discount code worked perfectly! Twenty percent off was such a nice touch."
Twenty percent. I thought I put ten. Fuck.
My smile falters as I risk a glance at Garrick. His jaw is clenched so tight I'm surprised his teeth don't crack. A muscle ticks near his ear.
But he knew about the discount mistake days ago. He laughed about it. Called me his "chaotic marketing genius" and kissed me until I forgot why I was apologizing.
So why is he so angry now?
"I'm so glad you enjoyed your visit." I manage.
The woman heads back to her table, probably to Instagram her breakfast with a #rusticvibes caption.
Five days ago, the article went live on a popular Colorado lifestyle blog. The response has been incredible. The bakery's been consistently busy since Tuesday.
And for five days, Garrick seemed okay with it. Stressed, yes. Working harder, absolutely. But he'd pull me aside between rushes, steal a kiss, tell me it was worth it because I was worth it.
Until this morning.
What the hell changed overnight?
The bell above the door jingles again. More tourists filter in, all matching flannels and open-mouthed awe. They snap photos of everything.
