Page 33 of ICED
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MAYA
I’ve been elbow-deep in pastry cream since nine, and there’s flour dusted on my eyelashes, but it’s the good kind of exhaustion. The kind where the quiet hum of the ovens and the low indie playlist in the background feel like safety. The kitchen’s warm from the bake, the windows slightly steamed up, and I’m down to my sleeves rolled and hair twisted into a high knot that’s barely holding.
Lila’s at nursery until half three. The childminder is dropping her back here today since my shift runs late. Which means I’ve got another hour before the chaos resumes, and in the meantime, I’m armed with a cloth, a bucket of soapy water, and a to-do list longer than my sleep debt.
I’ve just started scrubbing down the bench when the bell above the bakery door jingles.
I expect it to be Chloe from the coffee shop next door, borrowing sugar again. Or Mrs. Faulkner, checking if I’ve set any pastries aside for her knitting group.
But it’s not.
It’s Jacko.
Massive, sweaty, grinning Jacko, in trackies and a faded Raptors hoodie, his hair damp from a post-training shower and a paper bag tucked under one arm.
“Afternoon, trouble,” he says, and my stupid stomach does this little somersault it absolutely has no business doing.
“You’re early,” I say, as casually as I can manage while my brain screams that he looks unfairly edible for someone who probably faceplanted into the boards less than an hour ago.
He shrugs. “Finished drills early. Coach is in a good mood. Figured I’d take advantage and swing by. Brought bribes.”
He holds up the paper bag.
“What’s that?”
“Salted caramel brownies. From that posh bakery on Main Street that you said was ‘overhyped nonsense with a decent swirl.’” His grin turns smug. “Figured I’d let you judge properly.”
I narrow my eyes. “This some kind of psychological warfare?”
“Only if I win.”
I snort and toss my cloth in the bucket. “Come on, then. But if they’re dry, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
Owen follows me through to the back kitchen, and even though he’s been in here before, it always feels different when it’s just us. The bakery’s closed to customers now, just soft afternoon light slanting through the blinds and the scent of warm sugar in the air.
He hops up to sit on the prep counter like he’s done it a hundred times, legs swinging slightly, watching me with that steady, observant way he always does. Like he’s not just looking, he’s seeing.
I hand him a knife and a plate and gesture to the bag. “Well? Let’s see if these overpriced squares of sin are actually worth your detour.”
He pulls out the box with a bit too much reverence, like we’re about to perform some kind of sacred baking ritual. “Brace yourself,” he says, then carefully lifts one brownie out, breaking it in half with a soft crackle of crust and a glossy, fudgy middle that glistens with sea salt.
I make a face. “Okay, thatdoeslook good.”
Jacko hands me half. Our fingers brush, and it shouldn’t feel like anything, but itdoes. Just for a second. Like warmth zipping from my knuckles to my ribs.
I pretend it doesn’t and take a bite.
Silence, save for the low hum of the oven and whatever moody ballad the playlist has wandered into. The brownie is disgustingly good. Rich, molten, just the right chew. I close my eyes and sigh.
Jacko’s watching me when I open them. He looks way too pleased with himself.
“Well?” he asks, a smug tilt to his voice.
I chew slowly, then lick a crumb off my thumb just to make his ears go a little pink. “Fine. It’s notcompletelyoverhyped.”
His smile cracks wider, like I’ve handed him a gold medal. “I’ll take that as a glowing endorsement.”
