Myra
I didn't just walk back into the bakery; I stormed into it. I stomped the snow and slush off my boots and slammed the back door with more force than necessary. I changed my shoes, but I didn't stop to take off my blazer. I didn't stop to breathe. I went straight for the heavy industrial mixer, my heels clicking like gunfire across the floorboards.
I needed to move. I needed to work until my brain stopped projecting images of blue tarps and rusted porch railings onto the back of my eyelids.
Tony was at the far end of the prep table, his sleeves rolled up, methodically folding a massive sheet of dough. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he took in my disheveled state—the wind-blown hair, the flushed face, the way my hands were shaking as I reached for a five-pound bag of flour.
"My
