“Okay, okay,” Kip held his hands up in surrender. “I’m done.”

“Good,” I grunted.

“But I would get in quick,” he added before I could pull the truck out. “She’s single now. A lot of men are gonna try and get in there.”

“They can try,” I clipped out, my blood burning at the thought of some other piece of shit touching her.

Touching what was mine.

NORA

“That was bad,” I whispered, staring at the door that Tina was locking.

After Rowan left, I’d hightailed it straight to the kitchen and didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day. I retreated into my safe space and baked three different batches of almond cookies and a peanut butter cake with double chocolate frosting.

Fiona stared at me and then the cake I’d just arranged on a cake stand on the counter for tomorrow. The cake itself would be gone before ten in the morning. It was kind of famous. And only made on certain occasions—when I was deep in some kind of anxiety spiral or personal drama.

“It must’ve been bad since you made the Crisis Cake,” she observed.

“It’s a peanut butter cake with double chocolate frosting,” I countered, chewing my lip.

Fiona rolled her eyes. “That is the Crisis Cake.” She pointed at the cake stand.

I continued to gnaw on my lip, unable to argue with her. It was the Crisis Cake. Everyone in the bakery knew that. It was famous. Delicious. Decadent. It cured things only peanut butter and chocolate could cure. I only made it when I felt like my life was spiraling. I’d made it far too often when I was with Nathan. Since breaking up with him, I hadn’t made it once. Until now.

“You weren’t there,” I told her.

“Yes, I was,” she chirped happily, dipping her spoon into the bowl of leftover frosting she’d snatched from me before I could clean it. “I was watching from your perch in the kitchen, usually reserved for your spying whenever Rowan comes in.”

I glared at her. “I do not spy.”

“You totally do.”

I gritted my teeth. “Okay, I bake crisis cakes, I spy on hot guys, and then I make a complete ass of myself in front of hot guys!” I huffed, hiding behind my hands.

Fiona grinned. “You didn’t make a complete ass of yourself.”

I ignored that and snatched up the bucket and brush I had prepared earlier in order to get down on the floor and scrub our pink tiles.

“What are you doing?” Fiona demanded from above me.

I reveled in the satisfaction I got from the brush reaching the dips in the grout, far more effective than our mop was.

“I’m cleaning,” I answered, pointing out the obvious.

“I understand that you’re cleaning,” she huffed. “I just don’t understand why you’re cleaning since we mop every day and scrub that floor once a week. Which we did yesterday. Beyond that, when you’re not baking, you’re running around cleaning like a toddler on cocaine.”