sexy breakfast, hmm?” she said. “I have a chocolate chip babka Mr. Wittenberg might enjoy.” She pointed to a tall, dome-shaped breakfast bread filled to bursting with chopped chocolate and cinnamon sugar.
Mrs. Wittenberg eyed the coffee cake. “It looks good.” Her penciled brows knit together. “I don’t know if it’s sexy enough, though.” Turning, she enlisted the aid of Thunder Ridge’s finest. “Sheriff Neel, do you think a chocolate chip babka is sexy?”
Appearing to give the elderly woman’s question his serious consideration, he drawled, “I don’t watch too many cooking shows, Mrs. W, but I like to think I’m a fair judge of desirable. If the Food Network thinks you need an aphrodisiac, they’re underestimating your charms.” Because he towered above her by more than a foot, he had to bend down quite a bit to whisper loudly in her ear, “You’re already irresistible. Just think of the coffee cake as an appetizer.”
Turning back to Willa with a smile that seemed bigger than her face, Mrs. Wittenberg crowed, “I’ll take the babka! Can you put a bow on the box?”
“Of course.” Willa’s glance lighted on Sheriff Neel. He winked. Once again, heat filled her face. Like I’m a teenager, she thought disgustedly, giving herself a mental shake as she went about the business of wrapping the coffee cake.
Apparently Sheriff Neel was perfectly relaxed and comfortable continuing to have casual encounters with her after their episode of very heavy petting. It was, after all, the twenty-first century. Plus, there was no shortage of women in town who spoke frankly about their interest in bringing Thunder Ridge’s sheriff home for a night—or forever. What happened between him and Willa at the end of summer had probably happened to him a bunch of times.
Well, all except the part where Willa had pushed him away, exclaiming, “I can’t do this!” and then ran away as if the devil were on her heels. That had probably been a new experience for him.
“Here you are.” Handing Mrs. Wittenberg a white box with red lettering and a glittery gold bow, she said, “I added a couple of molasses snaps. For later.”
“Oh, thank you so much, dear. I’ll let you know how it goes!” Showing her deep dimples, Mrs. Wittenberg hugged the box to her as she exited the store.
Which left Willa alone with her next customer.
It was too quiet, too still in the bakery. Willa made a mental note to ask her boss if she could play some music during the day. Even the large fan that pulled heat out of the kitchen sounded like nothing more than a faint hum.
Derek didn’t seem bothered by the stillness. He was pretty still himself, watching her, waiting patiently. He had sought her out the day after their near miss, looking concerned rather than angry. He’d asked her why she’d run away, of course, and hadn’t been satisfied with her insistence that she’d simply been having a bad night, had thought a little socializing might do her some good, but hadn’t meant to let things go that far.
He’d frowned, staring at her, waiting for a fuller explanation, and she’d felt so guilty, because he was a good guy. When she’d waitressed at The Pickle Jar, she’d seen him nearly every day. Her employer, Izzy Thayer, was his best friend, and he’d come in regularly to have a cup of coffee, do some minor repairs or keep a very wary eye on the progress of Izzy’s relationship with Nate Thayer before Nate and Izzy married. Derek just seemed like a natural protector, and that was nice. Very nice. But Willa had learned there were some things from which no human power could protect you.
So she’d stuck to her guns, claiming that what had happened between them was a mistake and wouldn’t happen again. “I’m very, very sorry for the...” She’d stumbled, not knowing what to say. “For leading you to believe I was...” Ugh. “I mean, if I led you on in any way.” She was so not cut out for dating.
With the sexy, easy smile that was his trademark, he’d stood on the front porch of her rented cottage and shrugged away her apology. “No harm done. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Me? I am.” She’d nodded vigorously, as if being emphatic would turn her lie into the truth. She hadn’t been “okay” in two years. But that had nothing to do with him.
Now, this morning, he transferred his gaze from her to the pastry case. “Got anything to tempt me?”
The words didn’t sound utterly innocent, but his tone did, so she took them at face value. Reaching into the case, she withdrew a large flaky golden rectangle.
“Our signature cheese Danish,” she said.
He squinted at the glazed pastry. “Where’s the cheese?”
“Inside. It’s filled with a blend of ricotta, cream cheese and honey. And a touch of orange zest and cinnamon.”
“A Danish with hidden charms.” He nodded. “Okay, I’ll try it. And a large black coffee.” Withdrawing his wallet, he pulled out a few bills. “I’m going to need the caffeine to stay extra alert now that I know Mrs. W’s plans.” He looked at Willa with a straight face, but roguish eyes so darkly brown they appeared black. “Mr. Wittenberg is ten years older than his wife, you know. If that babka really is an aphrodisiac, he may not survive the morning. I hope I don’t have to bring you in for aiding and abetting an aggravated manslaughter.”
The comment made Willa smile, and she remembered that he’d made her smile quite a lot, actually, that night in the tavern. “It isn’t my recipe,” she countered, “so I don’t think I should be held responsible.” She shrugged. “On the other hand, forewarned is forearmed, so thanks. I’ll go home at lunch and pack a duffle bag in case I have to run from the law.” She turned, the curve of his lips an enjoyable image to hold on to as she got him a large coffee to go and slid the Danish into a bag.
Derek paid her, the expression in his eyes that mesmerizing combo of sincere and humorous. “I hope you won’t run from the law. I’m here to help.” He gave her a quick nod. “Morning.”
She watched him go, sharing a few words with an older gentleman who walked in as he walked out.
“Good morning, Mr. Stroud,” Willa greeted the new arrival as he approached the counter. “Toasted bialy and cream cheese?” She named the savory round roll he had every morning. Soon, Jerry Ellison, who owned First Strike Realty up the block, arrived and sat with Charlie Stroud at one of the six small tables in the bakery. Business picked up the closer they got to 7:00 a.m., and Willa stayed busy throughout the morning.
“I’m here to help.”
A couple of hours after Derek left, his parting words continued to play through her mind. She’d heard those words, or a variation of them, before.
“Don’t try to do this on your own.”
“You’ve been through so much. Let us help.”
Didn’t people know that their help was sometimes the cruelest of gifts? What they really wanted was to help her “move on,” to “let go,” to be happy again the way she used to be. To forget. And she couldn’t let that happen.
“I don’t want help. I don’t need help,” she muttered to herself as she slid a fresh tray of oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies into the oven. Kim Appel, a mother of young children who worked from nine to three or seven at the bakery, depending on whether her husband was available to pick the kids up from school, was now behind the counter
