Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan

15

Isabel

The man is true to his word. We spent all night in bed. Truly a sex marathon. Every time I tried to leave, he tempted me back and did beautifully wicked things to my body until I didn’t have the energy to stand.

It’s almost 4:00 a.m. I have to work at the bakery in a couple of hours, and I’m sandwiched between Logan and Lucky. Logan is behind me, his naked body stretched along mine, his arm over my waist, holding me tight. Lucky is curled into a ball on the other side, leaning against me, and both boys are in a deep sleep.

I allow myself to pet Lucky, slide my hand over his sleek fur, play with his soft ears, press my face against his head and breathe in his puppy scent. God, there’s nothing like the smell of a puppy. But I force myself to pull away because the memory of the pain I suffered when I lost my pup all those years ago makes that scar on my heart throb.

I need to leave. I don’t want to wake up with Logan. I don’t want to deal with the whole morning-after thing. And I’m starting to feel those telltale bubbles of panic deep in my gut. Panic over becoming attached. Panic over hurting Logan. Panic over being trapped in this small town. Panic over being nudged into a role I’m not ready for or interested in.

Hood River is beautiful, and the people are great, but outside of that, there’s nothing here for me, not unless I want to spend the rest of my life working two and three jobs. Not unless I want to officially give up my first love—fashion. And I’m not ready to make that heart-wrenching decision, even if it is obviously coming. Besides, if my past history with men is any indication of how my future will turn out, I need to save both Logan and myself the headache. Possibly, the heartache.

I roll to my back. As expected, Logan stirs. His big warm hand slides across my belly, up my torso, cups my breast. He presses a kiss to my neck. By the time he goes still again, my body is thrumming for more of what he’s already delivered. The man can turn me on in his sleep—literally.

Not a thing. This is not a thing.We both agreed this was not a thing—at least four or five times—over the last six hours. But the way he’s been holding on to me all night, I’m not sure how committed either of us is to living by that rule.

I really need to get out of here. I’ve already stayed way too long.

Lucky is sleeping on top of the covers, so there’s no way to move them off me without waking both him and Logan. I decide to slide underneath the covers to exit at the foot of the bed. At least I don’t have to worry about untucking the sheets. They became a tangled mess the minute we hit them.

I decide inching straight toward the foot of the bed is the best way to escape my predicament without waking either of them. If Logan catches me, he’ll kiss his way back into my body. If Lucky catches me, he’ll rouse Logan.

Those bubbles of panic just doubled in size. I should have left hours ago. But, God, the way this man can make my body sing is incredible. I’m pretty damned sure I’m ruined, because I can’t think of one man who’s ever been as amazing in—or out of—bed.

I move excruciatingly slow. At this rate, I might be late for work. An inch at a time, I move toward the bottom of the bed. When I get my head under the covers, Lucky groans and rolls, stretching out to the space I’d been filling. I freeze, hoping he doesn’t wake Logan.

I’m completely covered by the blanket, looking at the fabric over my face, and the absurdity of this situation hits me. My panic turns to humor, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I’m such an idiot sometimes.

A little more, a little more, a little more. My butt is almost at the footboard. Another foot and I can get out from beneath the covers. It’s hard to breathe under here. I finally sit up, my legs over the footboard. I look over my shoulder and find both boys still sleeping, and sigh.

Then I’m trailing through the apartment, grabbing my clothes and pulling them on along the way. I finally open the door and slip out of the apartment, and when I close the door behind me, I pause and sigh. But I don’t feel relieved. I feel a strange sense of loss.

I shake it off, return to my room, and catch an hour of sleep before I shower and head to the bakery.

Still, I feel half-asleep when I arrive. But I find a second wind when Natalie says I can make cinnamon rolls. We stand at the counters facing each other, and while she whips out loaves, baguettes, and sandwich rolls, she instructs me every step of the way. They’re easier than I expected, but then she did have the dough already made when I arrived. All I really have to do is butter it up, add the cinnamon-sugar mix, roll, and cut. Still, it’s fun.

But I’m distracted by the fact that Aiden hasn’t returned my call. Not one text or voicemail in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe he’s over it and doesn’t want the gun back. Or maybe he found another woman to manipulate and forgot all about me, but something tells me I’m not that lucky. Whatever the reason, it’s making me uneasy after Logan’s “guns and control freaks don’t mix well.”

“Everything okay?” Natalie asks as I sprinkle cinnamon sugar with walnuts and raisins on the buttery dough. I didn’t think I’d like raisins in a cinnamon roll, but then I tasted Natalie’s, and, any way you slice them, they’re amazing.

When I look at her, I realize she’s talking about my interest in the phone.

“I was just expecting a call that hasn’t come yet.”

“For a job?”

“No, I haven’t heard back from anyone.”

“You will,” she says with a certainty I wish I possessed. “It will be so nice to have you on the West Coast.”

She’s right, it will be nice. Closer to Tucker and the people I’ve met here. Closer to Logan. But still too far away for a relationship. Yeah, I’m glad I left before he woke up.

I finish a log of cinnamon rolls, laying the cut pinwheels onto parchment paper covering a large tray, and grab another mound of dough to roll out and start the process again, this time with no raisins.

Tina gets off the phone and comes to Natalie with a piece of paper she tacks to a bulletin board. “Pumpkin spice and banana walnut muffins for Kayla’s Kafé.”

Then she picks up a pot of coffee and wanders around the dining room filling cups and chatting with locals.

Betsy is filling orders with loaves and pastries that Natalie finished before I arrived. When Natalie told me the bakery opens at 6:00 a.m., she meant that’s the time they open their doors to the public. Natalie gets here at about 4:00 a.m. to start baking. Betsy comes in at five to package orders put in by local restaurants, delis, cafés, and stores. Tina comes in at six to run the register and the small dining room, and Blake Tudor, a nice guy in his sixties, comes in at seven to start deliveries.

This place is a well-oiled machine, and a very popular hub of Hood River. One of the unique and fun elements of the café is the way Natalie designed the space, with no walls separating the customers from the baking. They can watch everything being prepared, baked, shelved, and packaged. Natalie says she likes the way it brings customers into the process and allows her to be available to chat with locals.

Can’t argue with the success of the place. There’s a line of people waiting when the doors open and usually a handful of people still hanging out when it closes at 2:00 p.m. Everything is baked fresh daily, and the shelves are mostly bare by the time the shop closes. Any leftovers are donated to various facilities in the area, from homeless shelters to convalescent homes.

When Natalie turns away to check the ovens, I check my phone. She turns back and catches me. We both laugh.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she says. “It’s not my business. But if you want to talk, I’m here.”

I sigh as I roll out the dough. In the background, people place orders with Tina, and I look around before I speak. “It’s an ex who’s being an ass. I really just want a fresh start, you know? But there’s a lot of bad blood between us. I’m trying to give something back to him, but he’s being a dick about it.”

“Mmm,” she says, shaping dough into loafs as she nods. “I know all too well how you have to put the past behind you before you can start fresh. Cole and I both had to deal with that before our relationship would work. He had to let go of the guilt he felt over Evan’s death and of loving me. I had to let go of caring about what others thought of me, even the guilt about going on and being happy when Evan would never get that chance.”

She drops the loaves into baking tins. “But the past definitely needs to be settled before you can move forward without problems. My suggestion: make the tough decisions, give the difficult apologies, clean up whatever mess you made in the past, learn from it all, and move on, a better person.”

I nod as I roll the dough into a buttery, sugary log of yum. “Yeah. Good advice.”

But judging by Aiden’s games, having me apologize takes all the fun out of his manipulation. I’ll keep that advice in mind for another situation, but I don’t see that happening with Aiden.