Page 17 of ICED
That stays with me more than anything else today. Not the chirps from the guys. Not the slap of blades on ice. Not even the ache in my shoulder.
She barely knows me. But she trusts me enough to let her daughter stand next to me with a piping bag in hand. That trust, the fragile, fierce thread of it, feels more important than anything I’ve ever earned on the ice.
And I want to honour it. Earn it. Without asking for anything in return.
It’s not love. Not yet. But it could be. It could grow into something real and solid and slow. The kind of thing that doesn’t break when life gets loud.
I pull out of the car park and turn toward the community centre instead of going home.
The bakery’s probably shut for the day. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going there to talk.
I just want to see the lights on.
To remind myself that they’re still there. That they made it another day.
And so did I.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MAYA
Ikiss Lila’s forehead outside the nursery door, heart tugging with that familiar ache. She’s gripping her stuffed bunny like a knight clutching a sword. I crouch beside her, brushing a rogue curl from her forehead.
“You’ll have fun today, yeah?” I ask, managing a smile that feels thinner than yesterday’s croissant dough.
Lila nods solemnly, then leans in to whisper, “Tell Bunbun I’ll share snacktime.”
I smile for real this time. “Deal.”
But my fingers twitch as I wave goodbye. I watch her go inside, hand-in-hand with her key worker. I know she’s safe. I know the staff are trained, background-checked, endlessly patient. But fear isn’t rational. It clings to every corner of my brain. What if today is the day something goes wrong?
I shake myself out of it. One foot in front of the other, Maya.
The bakery at the community centre is already warm when I arrive, the scent of warm sugar curling into my coat before I even take it off. I hang up my scarf, tuck my phone into my apron pocket, and take a deep breath.
Pastry smells better than anxiety. For a few hours, at least.
Simone is fussing with an industrial-sized bag of flour in the corner. “Morning, love. Got a few school kids coming in at ten for their workshop. You alright doing the dough demo?”
“Sure,” I say, already rolling up my sleeves.
I lose myself in the rhythm of measuring, and kneading, setting trays into the humming ovens. My hands know what to do. It’s the closest I get to peace these days.
But still. Every time the door creaks open, my heart stutters. The sound of raised voices outside? My mind goes blank. A man’s laugh that echoes too loud? My stomach clenches.
It’s stupid. Irrational. He doesn’t know where we are. Except it’s not stupid. Not really. Because hehasfound us before.
By mid-afternoon, I’m pretending to laugh at something Simone says while my eyes flick to the door again.
It’s not that I expect Jamie to walk through it. He wouldn’t come here, not with people around, not when I’ve kept our new address buried under layers of silence and caution.
But even the possibility keeps me tightly wound. Like I’ll snap at any second.
I mess up a custard ratio and have to bin a whole tray of eclairs. My hands shake a little while I start over. No one notices. I’m good at hiding things.
By the time the clock ticks toward four, the bakery slows. Janine’s gone home. The student volunteers have drifted out. I’m finishing off the washing-up, heart already lifting at the thought of seeing Lila again.
She should be here soon. Her childminder, Nadine, usually drops her off at four on the dot after nursery.
