Was that what his life had become, a collection of shiny luxuries that blinded him from his uncomfortable past? He had a beautiful Manhattan apartment, several lavish cars, box seats at any game he wanted to see. His life was a rotation of activities that suited his schedule and worked well with his business needs. But when the blinders came down, the truth was too much to bear. Some days he felt like a little kid still trying to outrun the ghosts of his past.
She pried the rock out of his hand and tossed it in the snow. Bringing his cold fingers to her lips, she pressed a kiss to his knuckles. She forced open his fist, pressing his touch along her jaw and smiled up at him.
“Our past is just a memory, Harrison. All the painful thoughts…They’re just thoughts. And we have to train ourselves to stop thinking them sometimes, so that we can enjoy the present.”
The ice encasing his heart cracked as warmth bloomed in his chest. The fleeting wish that he could take her with him when he left drifted through his mind, but something about Mariella belonged here, in Jasper Falls, and he didn’t want to disturb that. New York would change her, and she was perfect just as she was.
“I want to show you something.” Maintaining the hold of his hand, she led him across the street.
When they were kids, a small bread factory had occupied this part of town, but now, little boutiques and businesses lined the walk. They stopped under a green awning and she removed keys from her purse.
“What is this place?”
“You’ll see.”
With the lights off, the shop was mostly dark, but he made out the shadows of tables and chairs. The interior was warm. Fragrant coffee beans and a hint of baked goods scented the air. She hit a switch and the glass displays flickered to life. A café.
Did she work here? Own it?
“It’s my family’s,” she explained, as if reading his mind. “My mom, Aunt Rosemarie and Aunt Maureen do most of the baking, and my younger cousins usually work the counter.” She took off her coat and stashed it with her gloves and purse on a chair by the front. “Have a seat.”
Unsure where to sit, he preferred to stand.
She moved around the shop with practiced familiarity. Flipping switches, and illuminating various corners and countertops.
A glass plate with a rondure lid displayed bright green muffins. The handwritten sign said they were pistachio muffins. She plugged her phone into a port on the wall and turned a dial on a large stereo system.
The Lumineers played from the speakers, that catchy song about being together in a sweet home. He knew in an instant this song would always remind him of this moment, remind him of her.
Mariella opened the register, an old brass machine that was a century out of date, and removed a hair tie from the penny slot. In one quick move, she gathered her thick, dark hair and twisted it on top of her head in a knot. His stare traveled the long line of her neck, and he once again wondered how anyone so beautiful remained single for so long.
“Take off your coat.” She grabbed an apron off the hook and tied it around her waist, cinching it tight.
“Are you making something?”
She slid open an ice chest and removed a heavy block wrapped in wax paper. “I’m going to bake for you.”
Every motion was sweet temptation. He wondered if he was nuts, letting himself get close to her again. This time around would be a million times harder to leave.
She was everything alluring and addicting, but also dangerous. It was more than sex. They were trespassing on new territory, and it was a lot more complicated than it had been when they were just kids.
He removed his coat and draped it over a chair, slowly crossing the café to come stand beside her and watch her work. She smiled, as if silently saying he stood exactly where he belonged.
She unpacked a neatly wrapped square and set it on the marble countertop.
“What is that?”
“It’s croissant dough. I started it yesterday.” She smoothed out the parchment paper and set a large block of what looked like butter on the counter. “You can help.”
Flattening another sheet of parchment over the butter, she moved behind him and guided his hands over the brick. Her warm fingers slipped between his, pressing over the paper into the cool block.
“Let the warmth from your hands heat the butter to soften it.”
It was a novel experience for him, having a woman touch him this way, almost maternally, as she showed him how to do something he’d never attempted before. “Shouldn’t we use a stove?”
“No, that’s too much heat. Croissants take patience. Our body knows the exact temperature the dough needs to be.” Her hands massaged over his, almost sensually, guiding his touch in a soft, kneading pattern.