Chapter 6: Two Rooms

At two in the morning I was in my husband's kitchen with the oven on.

I do that when I'm angry, or scared, or married.

The bedroom with the lake view was enormous and cold, and the sheets smelled of nobody.

Declan's door had closed down the hall at eleven with a quiet click, and I had lain awake listening for another one.

None came.

So I had found the flour in his cupboard, which was the only thing in the pantry he'd bought on purpose, and I had started making dough.

Lemon tart.

My hands knew it, and it was the only thing that night that made sense.

The press was still on the street forty floors down.

I could see the flashes if I leaned over the sink.

I pulled the first tray out too fast.

The metal edge caught my left wrist and the burn flared white.

"Damn it," I said.

"Don't touch it."

He was in the doorway.

Barefoot, in his black suit trousers and a white shirt with the collar open and the cuffs undone.

His tie was gone.

His hair was a little messy.

He crossed the kitchen in three steps, took my wrist, and turned on the cold water.

"Under here," he said.

I put my arm under the faucet.

His hand closed around my forearm to hold it there.

Cold water ran over the burn.

His fingers were warm.

His thumb lay across the inside of my wrist, right on the pulse, and I knew he could feel it going.

"It's fine," I said. "It's a baker's burn. I get three a week."

"Hold still."

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