Kip, to his credit, instantly got my vibe and did not try to argue with me or question me until we got in the truck.

Though there was a low thundering in my ears and a fire burning through my body, I’d managed to lock down the worst of my fury.

“Where we goin’?” he asked.

I looked to my best friend. “We’re going to fuck up the piece of shit who laid hands on my woman.”

Chapter Five

Recipe: Chocolate Chip Cookies

From ‘Dessert Person’

NORA

I was pretty much useless at the bakery for the rest of the day. Luckily, there wasn’t much of the day left, and both Tina and Fiona could run the place in their sleep. They were more than happy for me to putter away in the kitchen, making chocolate chip cookies to calm my nerves.

I had a recipe for every situation, every ill, every season. But my browned butter, sea salt, chocolate chip cookies—made with three kinds of chocolate: dark, semi-sweet and milk—were my default. Though even the cookies—the three batches—didn’t work their usual magic.

The tequila shot that Fiona forced me to pound once Rowan had left helped a little but wore off by the time we’d closed the bakery.

Rowan was not back. I didn’t know if he was even going to come back. I had no idea what he was doing. No idea why he was doing it. My mind kept running over everything he’d said, the fury, the way he’d looked at me. And most importantly, his parting phrase.

“This is the beginning of us.”

The words bounced around in my head over and over, making me feel warm, jittery and absolutely freaked out all at once.

The thought of going home—to my lovely, clean, quiet house—was not enticing in the slightest… I’d be alone with my thoughts, and then I’d probably try to take down the ceiling fan in order to clean it or something equally crazy.

Luckily, I didn’t have to face that because I had a best friend named Fiona. A best friend who had, without asking, followed me home, linked her arm with mine and walked into my house with me, chattering about anything and everything under the sun, not giving me a moment of silence.

She went to my speaker system and hooked up her phone to it, the sounds of Fleetwood Mac filtering through my house. Fiona had a knack for knowing which band, which song, was required for any situation. Kind of like me with baked goods. And I never could have known that Stevie Nicks singing “Landslide” was the exact thing I needed to calm my nerves, but Fiona did.

“You get the wine, I’ll get the glasses.” She nodded at my wine fridge.

The dining table was made of reclaimed wood, rustic and perfect with an antique chandelier hanging over it and pink backed, vintage, French chairs surrounding it. The faded pink rug underneath it covered dark hardwood floors—the original hardwood floors, of course.