She’d just send another quick text to get her to check in.

  Dahlia, you ok? Let me know asap, all right??

  -Not delivered-

  Damn it. She tried two more times but got the same response. Then she tried calling her but got a busy signal. She would give it another minute or so, then try again. She dropped her phone back into her pocket. “Looks like something is wrong with the cell towers; my phone isn’t working either. Well, I guess it could be worse.”

  He nodded and gestured to the bakery’s windows. “At least these windows didn’t shatter, unlike poor Julio from the flower shop.”

  Daisy looked across the street at what used to be Julio’s windows, and then back at the heavy sign blocking the bakery door. Her eyes widened, and she dropped into a folding chair sitting next to the table that had shielded them so well.

  “That, and also if that earthquake had been a few seconds earlier, or if I’d hesitated at the door a few seconds longer, I would have been outside underneath that sign when it fell down. It really could be worse.”

  He smiled at her again. Why did he keep doing that?

  “I’m even more glad you were here in the bakery with me.” Before she could find any way to respond to that, he went on. “Emergencies are no good on an empty stomach; let me get you some pastries.”

  The earthquake really must have addled his brain.

  “You sold out, remember?” she said, as gently as she could. “There’s nothing in the bakery cases.”

  He didn’t quite look at her. “Oh. Well, um, I put a few things aside early in the day. I’ll get them now.”

  He turned to walk toward the bakery case, and that’s when she saw the blood. She stood up with a gasp. “You did get hit in the head! You’re bleeding.”

  “I did not,” he said, with a return of his normal grumpiness. That was more natural. At least she knew he wasn’t thoroughly messed up. He gingerly touched the back of his head, then looked at his fingers. “Oh.”

  “Sit down.” She pushed him into the chair she’d been sitting in, and then looked around the bakery. “Hold on.” She ran over to the sink in the back, grabbed a clean dish towel, and dampened it with water. At least the water was still on, even though the electricity wasn’t.

  She half expected him to have gotten up from where she’d left him, but he was still sitting there when she came back.

  “I’m just going to get you cleaned up and make sure you’re okay. Look down.” He obediently looked down at the table while she gently wiped the blood from the back of his head, and from his close-cropped dark curls. “Oh, I see. It’s just a little cut, but head wounds bleed a lot. I think you’re going to be okay, but you’re right that you should probably eat something. And drink some water too.”

  His eyes were half-closed, and he didn’t seem to be paying her any attention.

  “You’re very good at that, you know,” he said. Then he straightened up and smiled at her. “But I get the feeling you’re very good at lots of things.”

  She smiled back at him, for just a half second, before she caught herself. And then she just stared at him. “Are you flirting with me? Here? Now?” Was she imagining this? If not, he had to be concussed or something.

  He shook his head, and then winced a little. “No, of course not. That would be ridiculous, to try to flirt with you when we were trapped inside my bakery after an earthquake while I was bleeding from a head wound. I would never do something like that.” And then a glimmer of a smile appeared in his eyes. “But if I was, is it working?”

  She wasn’t imagining it.

  “No,” she said, and tried to keep the frown on her face. She was very afraid she hadn’t been successful. She turned away from him and walked back to the bakery cases. “Where did you say those secret pastries were? We both need something to eat; you’re right.”

  He stood up. “It’s okay, I can—” She glared at him, and he stopped talking and sat back down. “Fine, you can get them. They’re in that cardboard box, at the back of the bottom shelf.”

  She slid open the door of the bakery case and grabbed the box.

  “So what are these pastries, anyway?” She set the box on the table and unfolded another chair.

  “Oh, just some of my favorites from today,” he said, not looking at her.

  Did he not want her to eat his precious pastries? Too bad, she was stuck in his bakery with him after a once-in-a-generation earthquake; she was going to eat them whether he liked it or not.

  He flipped open the top of the box, and she closed her eyes to breathe in the incredible scents that came out of it. Butter and cheese and chocolate and something fruity, all mingled together. And then she had to open her eyes again so she could stare at those beautiful, perfect, flaky pieces of joy, all nestled in the box together.

  “Um, there’s one each of the savory croissants of the day, the country ham and brie croissant, and the Swiss chard, artichoke heart, and feta croissant. Then one of the raspberry-chocolate Danishes, and one of the lemon curd–filled doughnuts. Oh, and two of the hand pies.”

  Despite his mouthwatering descriptions of the pastries, his flat, hostile tone of voice was back. Okay, good, at least she wouldn’t have to worry that he was actually injured or anything. Back to normal. Whatever. She was stuck here with him, so she was going to eat these pastries and enjoy the hell out of them since this was absolutely the last time she would ever come to this bakery. Hadn’t the universe just given her an unmistakable sign to never come back?

  “What flavor are the hand pies?” She only asked because she had to decide which pastry to eat first, obviously.

  “Blackberry and yuzu.” He stood up. “I’m going to get us some napkins. And plates, maybe.”

  Harris walked away, and Daisy sat there, her mouth wide open.

  Blackberry? He’d made blackberry hand pies, when he knew they were her favorite? Maybe he hadn’t heard her say that? But no, he had; she was sure of it. Maybe he’d planned on making blackberry hand pies that week anyway, and so when she’d mentioned it, he was mad he’d already planned to make her favorite.

  Well, if she had to be trapped inside the bakery with him after a frankly terrifying earthquake, at least she’d get to eat one of his blackberry and yuzu hand pies.

  Speaking of the earthquake . . . She pulled her phone out of her pocket. Still no texts, which meant something was definitely very wrong with either her phone or the network. She tried to text her sister again, with no luck. She wanted to keep trying, over and over again, but she forced herself to put her phone back into her pocket to conserve the battery.

  Harris came back and dropped two plates and a stack of napkins on the table, and then sat down across from her, that familiar scowl on his face.

  She smiled at him. “Ah, that’s better,” she said.

  “What’s better?” he snapped.

  Excellent, back to normal. She wouldn’t miss that wide, friendly, even kind of sweet, smile of his one bit.

  “That look,” she said, waving her hand at his face. “You usually make that look when I come in the bakery, like you’d rather burn the place down than have me step foot in here. You’ve been looking so weird and smiley ever since the earthquake that I was worried it did something to the space-time continuum, or something.”

  He just glared at her again.

  She laughed out loud, probably too loud and long—she was maybe slightly hysterical—but could you blame her? She was trapped inside a bakery with a man who hated her, there had just been a six point eight earthquake, the power was out everywhere, she had no idea if any of her loved ones were okay, and the man who hated her had just presented her with a box of the most beautiful pastries she’d ever seen in her entire life. That was objectively funny.

  “You got any coffee to go along with these pastries?” she asked, and immediately let out another peal of laughter. She cracked herself up sometimes. The stony look on Harris’s face made it clear that he did not share her sense of humor, which just made her laugh harder.

  This was definitely better than crying, which she’d come very close to doing for a moment when they were under the table. And also when she thought about her sister, who still hadn’t texted.

  She finally got ahold of herself and reached for one of the hand pies. She usually liked to save her favorites until last, but hell, at this point, she should probably get any joy in as soon as possible.

  She took a bite and had to close her eyes so she could savor it. The pastry was crisp on the outside, with just a sprinkle of sugar on top; it shattered when she bit into it, with layer after layer of flaky crust encasing a blackberry filling full of plump, sweet-tart, juicy blackberries, with that floral, citrus note of yuzu. Good lord, this man might be an asshole, but he could bake. She smiled down at the pastry and took another bite.

  “You like it?” he asked her, clearly sarcastically, given the moans of ecstasy she was letting out. But hell, she’d answer him anyway, because she was a kind, generous human being.

  “Not only do I like it,” she said, “but right now, for the first time, I’m happy that I came to the bakery today.”

  He frowned at that. Obviously he did; the man could not take a compliment. Or maybe he was just grumpy that she liked his pastries and was worried that she’d keep coming back to the bakery. That, he didn’t have to worry about.

  “What do you mean, you’re happy for the first time that you came here today? Didn’t you just say that if you hadn’t walked inside, you would have been under that sign outside when it fell?”

  She waved a hand at him as she finished her third bite. “Yes, yes, of course I’m glad I walked inside instead of hesitating outside for a few more seconds, but I’d sworn to myself that I was never coming to this bakery ever again, so obviously the earthquake was my punishment for breaking my vow.”

  Now he looked even more angry. She would have thought he’d be happy that she wouldn’t come around his bakery anymore.

  “Why did you swear to yourself you were never coming here again?” He scowled. Again. “You’re not trying to lose weight, are you?”

  See? This is why she shouldn’t have come, life-altering pastries or not. “That’s an incredibly rude thing to say, even for you. And no, for your information, I’m not. I like myself just as I am.”

  He nodded. “Thank God for that. Then why did you swear to yourself you were never coming here again?”

  He couldn’t just shut the fuck up and let her enjoy the pastries, could he?

  “Because you hate me, that’s why!” she said. “You know it and I know it. Every time I come here, you make it clear you wish I was anywhere else, and I was going to finally grant your wish! Now, can you please just let me enjoy the last of your pastries I’ll ever eat and then help me figure out how to get the hell out of here so I can go home and see if my apartment is still standing?” And call her parents, and try her sister again, and maybe drive over to the bookstore if her sister didn’t answer, and . . .

  She shook those panicky thoughts off. They didn’t help. Better to distract herself with antagonizing Harris and eating all of his pastries. She glanced back up at him. He stared at her with no expression on his face and said nothing. Fine, then, she’d just finish the wildly delicious hand pie that he’d saved for himself, and she’d even lick her fingers afterward. Why the fuck shouldn’t she lick her fingers if she wanted to? It’s not like she wanted to impress him. This guy didn’t matter.

  It wasn’t until she’d finished the hand pie and reached for the ham and brie croissant that he finally said something. “You think I hate you?”

  She looked up at him. She didn’t quite understand the look on his face.

  “Well,” she said. “The first day I came in, which was on your opening day, you made a nasty face when you heard me say something to a friend in line and then laugh. I don’t even remember what it was I said, but I definitely remember the nasty face, and the way you glared at me as you made it. You have since been impossibly rude to me every time I’ve walked in the door—including today, might I add, right before I saved your life—and you almost yelled at me that time I tried to repay you for the pastry you gave me by mistake. So, yes, I’m not dim; I get it.”

  He smiled that long, slow smile again. “I didn’t give you that pastry by mistake.”

  He must not remember what she was talking about. “I mean that time you gave me three pastries, and I only paid for two, and I came back, and—”

  “I remember. I didn’t give you that pastry by mistake. Daisy Murray—is Daisy your real name, by the way?”

  So many people asked her this. They either asked her this or they told her they had a dog named Daisy.

  “Yes, of course Daisy is my real name. It’s on my credit card and everything, remember? Anyway, you were saying?”

  He laughed softly. “Oh, right, I forgot. And yes, I was saying, Daisy Murray, did it never occur to you to wonder why you always left this bakery with more pastries than you paid for?”

  She shrugged. “I just figured you were really great at baking but bad at counting. Frankly, I was worried that your business wouldn’t succeed if you kept giving everyone so much free stuff.”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t giving everyone free stuff. I was giving you free stuff. Because I fell for you that first moment I heard you laugh that day.”

  He had to be joking.

  “Oh, come on, you don’t need to—”

  “And I remember what you said that day. I’ve thought about it an embarrassing number of times every day ever since then,” he said. “First you said, ‘I’ve been looking forward to the opening of this bakery like it was the Super Bowl or something.’ That’s when you laughed. And that’s when I looked at you and saw that glow on your face and that sparkle in your eyes. And then you said, ‘Oh my God, look at that row of pastries; this is like porn for me,’ and you laughed again. And that’s when I had to look away from you, because you saying that made me imagine so many things that I should not be imagining on opening day for my brand-new business. I guess I gave you a dirty look when I did. I didn’t mean to—my face just does that sometimes.”

  Now she knew he’d been hit in the head. “You fell for me? Because I mentioned porn in the context of pastries? First of all, people do that all the time; I am absolutely not the first to do so. Haven’t you seen all of those shirtless bakers on Instagram, rolling pastry dough and moaning like someone is going to throw cash at them?”

  She stopped and looked at him. God, those arms of his. So big and strong and solid. Maybe it was something about the rolling pin. “You should do that. I bet you’d get a ton of followers; you would sell out even faster every day. But secondly, even if I bought what you’re saying, which I do not, you don’t fall for someone after glancing at them in line and hearing them say two things. You just mean that you had the hots for me, which is surprising and flattering . . . though I was showing a lot of cleavage that day, but—”

  He interrupted her again. “I have no idea why you’re either surprised or flattered by that, because you’re gorgeous, but also no, I do not mean that I ‘had the hots’ for you, nor was it just about your cleavage, which yes, was and is very impressive.”

  He’d said she was gorgeous. Had he meant that? He’d said it in that furious voice of his; it hadn’t sounded like a compliment at all.

  So maybe he did mean it?

  Maybe she had gotten hit in the head during the earthquake? Was he really saying all of this?

  He kept going. “I meant what I said: I fell for you, right then. I have good judgment about people, okay? But I’ve had so much going on, with opening the bakery and trying to keep it afloat and getting press and whatever, and I knew I couldn’t even try to date anyone. And definitely not a customer, because I didn’t want to make you feel weird about coming in here. So I did nothing. But you kept coming in, and you were just so fucking nice every time. You learned everyone’s name who works here, you tipped well, you always said thank you. One time, you ran outside the bakery and left your pastries when you saw those people forget to put their stroller in their car and drive away, and you caught up to their car at the light. Hell, you even came back and tried to pay for a free pastry I gave you, which, I promise you, is not normal behavior.”

  He’d really noticed her, every time she’d come in. Just like she’d noticed him but had tried not to. Had pretended to herself that she hadn’t.

  “I didn’t want you to lose money,” she said. “I really like your pastries; I wanted the bakery to succeed.”

  “See?” he said in that angry voice again. “I can’t believe you. You’re ridiculous! That’s a compliment, by the way!”

  She laughed at him. “You might need to work on your way of giving people compliments, if you have to tell them that it’s a compliment after the fact, you know.”

  A warm, fluttery feeling bubbled up in her chest at the look on his face. At the way he looked at her: angry and puzzled and interested and . . . attracted? Yes.

  “Good point,” he said. “I guess I also need to work on my face. Since you clearly got the wrong message from the hundreds of dollars of free pastries I’ve given you in the past few months.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, and then she smiled. “I like your face. I like it a lot, actually. Especially now that I know that when you look furious it’s just like a normal person smiling.” She pursed her lips. “Hmm. But what I don’t understand is what it means when you actually smile.”

  His face still looked stern, but she could tell he was making an effort not to smile at that. She could tell by the tiny crinkles around his eyes, by the way his face softened, just a little, and by that little dimple in his upper lip.

  “I think it means it’s like a normal person smiling very big,” he said. “But also, that’s the thing: speaking of smiles, you smile far more than anyone I’ve ever known. I could tell the smiles weren’t fake, nothing about you seemed fake, but I also didn’t know what your smiles meant.”

 

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