Rowan reached up to grasp my chin so I was looking at him instead of the ocean. It always hit me how handsome he was, how expressive those icy blue eyes were.

“Because he was the reason you had a mark on your skin,” he answered, voice tight with fury even though the mark was long gone.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, but you’re a scary dude. You could’ve just threatened to waterboard him or pull out his fingernails and he would’ve stayed away. That man was obsessive about his nails and manicures.”

Not that there was anything wrong with a man getting a manicure. But I had found out I liked a man not afraid to get his hands dirty.

Rowan brushed my bottom lip with his thumb. “He tasted you,” he told me, voice husky. “Tasted that sweet pussy of yours.” He ground the words out as fury shimmered around him. “Even a coward like that wouldn’t leave you alone if he had to know you were within driving distance. I couldn’t have that, Nora.”

I blinked at the response. “But…” I cleared my throat. “You couldn’t have known how sweet my … pussy was when you run him out of town.”

Rowan’s eyes flared and my aforementioned pussy pulsed with need.

“Oh yes I fuckin’ could’ve, cupcake,” he growled, standing and taking me with him.

I let out a little squeal of surprise.

“So fuckin’ sweet I’m gonna have to eat you right here right now to get that bitter taste of that asshole off my tongue,” he said, walking inside and laying me on the counter.

And there it was. One of the many ways Rowan distracted me from the pain. Showed me sweet. And being in expert in sweet, I knew that there was no pastry on earth that could come close to this.

* * *

Christmas came quickly. As it tended to do.

I threw myself into work. Baking for the season… themed cakes, cupcakes and cookies. The bakery smelled of cinnamon, spices, peppermint and hot chocolate. I didn’t think too much about the upcoming holiday except when I had a small breakdown in the kitchen of the bakery just before opening.

Luckily, Rowan had gone to work, but Fiona was there.

I just started crying while frosting cupcakes. For no reason. Sobbing.

Fiona didn’t say anything, just pulled me into a hug.

“I’m a mess,” I sobbed.

“You’re not a fucking mess,” she hissed, holding me at arm’s length. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

“You’re telling me I’m strong,” I scoffed. “Come on. You’re the strongest, most badass bitch I know. Much stronger and more capable at waking, waltzing through life, than I am. I stumble through.” I was keeping it light, joking, not quite self-deprecating—I was really trying to work on that—but pointing out the obvious.

But Fiona, for once, did not match my light, teasing mood. Her gaze was narrow, features tight. “Babe. When I first moved to this country, I had to take the driving test. I was almost a thirty-year-old woman then. Had been driving for almost fifteen years. I’m a great fucking driver. But I failed twice. Twice.” She rolled her eyes before narrowing them on me again. “How many times did it take to pass your test as a teenager?”