Cinders by Asha King Page A

held her tongue. “Let’s assume I manage to pick up and walk ten miles to a town near Midsummer. I apply for a job with, once again, nowhere to live so I can’t offer a permanent address on my application, which I can’t afford without a job.”
    “Vicious cycle,” he filled in.
    “Exactly. I have no references other than Maureen.”
    “And my family after you cater their party.”
    He really was persistent, she had to give him that. “Fine, and them. And do I live under a bridge while I’m applying for jobs? With no phone number?”
    Brennen set a white dish with four big pancakes stacked in the middle in front of her, along with flatware and local maple syrup, then moved toward the refrigerator with a glass. “You use my address and phone number.”
    “Brennen, you don’t know me. ”
    He set orange juice in front of her and brought his own plate around the breakfast bar to sit next to her. “I am trying very hard to rectify that.”
    She busied herself with her fork, running its side through the stack of fluffy warm pancakes, the smell of blueberries drifting up to her. A decade with Maureen echoed in her head, and even as an adult, even knowing the woman was abusive and wrong, rewriting years of being told she was worthless and useless was difficult to do.
    Brennen pushed a hunk of pancake through the syrup on his plate and frowned. “I think the blueberries kind of exploded. Sorry.”
    “Freeze them overnight before adding them to the batter,” she said. “Trade secret.”
    “When you feel better, I think it’s definitely your turn to make me breakfast.”
    “I think I’ll have a hard time getting here early enough.”
    “Not if you stay overnight.”
    His devilish grin was infectious; she looked away and returned her attention to her food.
     
    ****
     
    Brennen wouldn’t even let her help load the dishwasher after breakfast; he scooped up their dishes and did so himself, telling her to take a seat. But she didn’t know how to relax, how to have someone feed her and wait on her like that. Anxiety rushed through her and she couldn’t sit still, pacing in the tiny kitchen while he puttered about languidly. Her eyes were continually drawn to the clock—even though Maureen knew full well she wouldn’t be back later, she couldn’t shake the habit of looking. Micro-calculations constantly went on in her head, figuring out how much time she had for certain tasks and when she had to be certain places. Even Sundays, when the bakery was closed, she had housework to do that took her all day, and then there were meals to prepare, and—
    “If you don’t sit down, I will force you off your feet,” he warned as he closed the dishwasher door and turned to her.
    Her feet halted but hand fidgeted in front of her. “Maybe you should call your mom about the—”
    Brennen stepped forward, cutting off whatever she was about to say by cupping her face in his big hands and tilting her head back to better meet gazes. Her back was pinned against the breakfast bar, her front practically pinned by him, and her heart beat extra hard. Like the walk home the other night, this close made it clear precisely how tall he was, and the warm protection of his strong arms beckoned to her.
    “How’s your headache?” His eyes darted between hers, brows pulled with concern. “It seems odd they didn’t take you to a hospital.”
    She swallowed, her throat and mouth suddenly parched, and reached up to fold a hand over his. She’d meant to pry his fingers from her jaw but instead found her hand lingering there, drawn to his. “I don’t have a concussion and I feel a lot better having eaten. And I’d feel even more better if you let me get started with some initial prep for the catering job.”
    His lips quirked into a grin. “Working relaxes you?”
    “When it’s just me in the back of the shop baking? Yeah.” Everything else, well... She didn’t mind the prep and the planning, but the pressure Maureen had her under