Fake It Till You Bake It(24)

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A loud screeching sound rang through the cupcakery. Beep, beep, beeeeep!

Jada froze. What was that? It sounded like the …

“Fire alarm!” Ella’s eyes widened. She hurried around the counter. Jada followed close at her heels. Donovan’s office door flew open and he and August joined them in their mad dash to the kitchen. Jada started coughing before Donovan pushed the door open.

When he did, she gasped. Wisps of gray smoke filled the air. Tendrils of dread, much like the smoke irritating her eyes, began to curl in her stomach and sting her from the inside out. Even worse, the room’s other occupants began to cough. Embarrassment scalded her, hurting ten times more than the smoke.

Jada’s gaze cut to the oven, where the plumes of smoke were originating. “Oh, no,” she whispered. She ran to the oven and yanked the door open. Thick whirls of smoke blew directly into her face. “Oh, no.” Her incantation was a little louder now.

She stared at the black, hard lumps that could masquerade as the coal Santa put in the stockings of naughty children. What had she done? That was her handiwork. “I’m so sorry.”

She felt like a misbehaving child who’d disappointed her parents. Nothing new there. They needed to go in the trash. Now. She grabbed the red towel on the counter, reached into the oven, and yanked out one of the pans with too much force. She stumbled back and the pan slipped, hitting her forearm.

“Ouch!” She dropped the pan on the counter with a clatter as a shooting pain sliced up her arm. Tears sprang to her eyes. At the moment, she didn’t know if the pain firing through her owed more to the physical or emotional pain double-teaming her. She bit her lip to keep a whimper from escaping, but she wasn’t entirely successful.

“Are you all right?” Donovan barked the question at her. “What are you doing?”

She couldn’t get her lips to work to answer him. He grabbed her forearm and turned it over. The press of his thick fingers against her flesh enthralled her. His lips were downturned. He drew—well, more like yanked—her over to the sink. He turned on the water and thrust her arm under the spray. The sting of cold liquid caused her to yelp and try to pull away. He didn’t let her, holding her arm under the stream.

“Ella, get the first aid kit,” he barked, never taking his eyes off her reddening skin. His eyes were dark and focused. Ella handed him the red-and-white box a few seconds later.

“I can do it,” Jada said, trying to tug her arm away. She didn’t like him touching her. It made her feel unsettled. Warm.

“I got it,” he said simply. “I can get a better angle than you.”

So orderly. Logical. Of course. No real worry for her. Which was fine. Not that he had to. They barely knew each other. “I’m fine,” she muttered. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“You were hurt in my business, so yeah, it is my concern.” His voice remained flat. He ripped open a packet of burn cream with his teeth.

Right. Of course. She gave one more experimental tug on her arm. He tightened his grip and fixed his principal glare on her. He was officially tired of her nonsense. His look said “One more move, and I’m sending you to detention, young lady.”

She sighed and dropped her gaze. For such a large man, he had a light touch when he wanted to, his blunt fingers barely caressing her skin as he squeezed the cream on her arm and massaged it into her skin slowly and methodically, covering the entire wound. The cool, clear liquid calmed her stinging flesh immediately. He looked up, and at her nod, he inspected several sizes of bandages before selecting one that apparently met his approval. He unwrapped it, then covered the mark on her arm. He’d selected correctly because every inch of the mark was covered.

His nearness affected her. He smelled good even through the acrid air of charred cupcakes. That same scent from earlier. A light touch of vanilla underlined by soap and something woodsy. None of which were important.

She refocused on what he was doing. He turned her forearm back and forth a few times, examining his handiwork. “Good?” he asked. His gaze, dark and intense, clashed with hers.

“Yes,” she said, her mouth now dry thanks to something other than the smoke.

He released her and scrubbed a hand across his scalp. “Then what the hell happened? What the hell were you doing?” he barked, his glare getting darker and darker. “Did you not start the timer?”

“I did.” She looked closer at the digital display. Oh, no. “I must have accidentally set it for two hours instead of twenty minutes.”

A muscle ticked in his hard jaw. “Look at all this smoke. You’ve only been here three hours and you almost burned down the kitchen. This isn’t going to work.”

The statement, full of barely leashed anger and annoyed certainty, tore through her like a rip in the fabric of her favorite silk shirt. She was a failure. Again. And she’d barely started. Not that it mattered. This is the way things were always destined to go for her.

“I’m sorry.” Averting her gaze, she hurried out of the room. She ignored Ella’s call to wait. Bursting into tears in front of an audience wasn’t part of today’s plan.





Chapter Seven


Donovan threw back his head and let out his aggravation with himself in a long, gusty groan. Fuck. What was that?