Chapter 43.
The morning rush had tapered off into a steady, rhythmic hum, leaving the bakery smelling of yeast, scorched sugar, and the lingering warmth of the industrial ovens. For Briar Smith, the flour-dusted sanctuary of her kitchen was usually the one place where the world made sense. But today, the air felt thin, charged with an atmospheric pressure that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the ticking clock in her mind. Thirty-two days. She was trying to focus on the inventory for the Gala’s shortbread orders, but her hands were clumsy. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the phantom heat of a heavy palm against her thigh or heard a low, gravelly voice whispering about "occupying territory." "Briar? You in the back?" The chime of the front door was followed
- Writer
