recliner in the living room, and sat there, staring at the fuckin’ wall.
How did things go south so fast tonight? He replayed the entire day, the night, the whole week on an endless loop, trying to figure out why he kept fucking things up. He’d had Kate in his arms tonight, right there in the big bakery kitchen, warm and soft and ready, and he let her slip away because he couldn’t handle his shit.
Just like before. Repeating the same bullshit mistakes.
It was a fluke that they’d even crossed paths again. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. But it did, and he’d gone right ahead and screwed it up again. Added more stress to her life. More pain.
Even now, he should’ve been back at Sweet Bliss, working on that renovation to get it done in time for her. But he couldn’t face it—not tonight. He’d bolted out of there right after she did, barely remembering to lock up behind him.
Useless. Worthless. Good-for-nothing.
The words taunted him. No matter how hard he’d worked to stay out of trouble in prison, to learn his trade, to find work, he still felt like a sack of shit. Totally impotent, cursed to disappoint everyone who ever gave a shit about him.
They should’ve just locked my ass up for life, left me there to die alone.
----
H ours later , a soft knock jolted Jagger out of his morbid thoughts. He’d dozed off in the chair, and now his muscles were stiff and uncomfortable, his head in a damn fog. Beautiful .
Not bothering with a shirt, he got up and stretched, then squinted out through the peephole in the door at the front of the apartment, ready to tell the solicitor to take a hike.
But it wasn’t a solicitor at all.
Kit-Kat…
He yanked the door open, trying unsuccessfully to hide his surprise. Seeing her standing in the hallway of his uncle’s apartment building… it was surreal. His mind shot eight years into the past, then snapped back again. The whole thing was giving him whiplash.
“Kate?” he asked, still not trusting his eyes. For all Jagger knew, he was dreaming.
She was biting her bottom lip, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. Aside from the flour streaked across her forehead, she wasn’t wearing any makeup.
She looked about as lost as he felt.
“Kate?” he said again.
“I know,” she said, finally turning those blue eyes his way. “It’s weird with us. I don’t want it to be weird.” Shoving a white box into his hands, she said, “I sort of… made these for you.”
Ooooh-kay…
He invited her inside and peeked out into the hallway, sure he’d see a camera crew from the latest prank show. But it was empty and gray as always, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, nothing to see but black doors shut tight on all sides. Across the hall, he heard the Wilsons battling again—nothing new there.
Jagger kicked the door shut and turned to face his visitor. She was standing in the middle of the living room, taking it all in, her mouth open, probably just as tripped out as Jagger. Kate hadn’t been here since Jagger had lived here the first time, more than ten years ago now, and the place had been severely dated even then. Nothing had changed since. It was like a museum to Uncle Max’s glory days of 1980s bachelorhood—black leather couch and chair, cheap and faded. Glass-topped coffee table and end table with brassy gold legs. Framed poster of a red Ferrari Testarossa taking up the entire wall over the sofa. Every time Jagger walked into the place, he heard the Miami Vice soundtrack in his head.
In his hands, the bakery box felt heavy and warm, and smelled like absolute heaven. He knew at once she’d made the chai cookies—he could smell the strong spices—but he didn’t want to open the box, too afraid that it meant something, her baking these.
But more afraid that it didn’t.
He set the box on the kitchen table carefully, then turned back to face her, keeping his face neutral. She was equally unreadable.
It was a long, awkward moment before either
How did things go south so fast tonight? He replayed the entire day, the night, the whole week on an endless loop, trying to figure out why he kept fucking things up. He’d had Kate in his arms tonight, right there in the big bakery kitchen, warm and soft and ready, and he let her slip away because he couldn’t handle his shit.
Just like before. Repeating the same bullshit mistakes.
It was a fluke that they’d even crossed paths again. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. But it did, and he’d gone right ahead and screwed it up again. Added more stress to her life. More pain.
Even now, he should’ve been back at Sweet Bliss, working on that renovation to get it done in time for her. But he couldn’t face it—not tonight. He’d bolted out of there right after she did, barely remembering to lock up behind him.
Useless. Worthless. Good-for-nothing.
The words taunted him. No matter how hard he’d worked to stay out of trouble in prison, to learn his trade, to find work, he still felt like a sack of shit. Totally impotent, cursed to disappoint everyone who ever gave a shit about him.
They should’ve just locked my ass up for life, left me there to die alone.
----
H ours later , a soft knock jolted Jagger out of his morbid thoughts. He’d dozed off in the chair, and now his muscles were stiff and uncomfortable, his head in a damn fog. Beautiful .
Not bothering with a shirt, he got up and stretched, then squinted out through the peephole in the door at the front of the apartment, ready to tell the solicitor to take a hike.
But it wasn’t a solicitor at all.
Kit-Kat…
He yanked the door open, trying unsuccessfully to hide his surprise. Seeing her standing in the hallway of his uncle’s apartment building… it was surreal. His mind shot eight years into the past, then snapped back again. The whole thing was giving him whiplash.
“Kate?” he asked, still not trusting his eyes. For all Jagger knew, he was dreaming.
She was biting her bottom lip, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. Aside from the flour streaked across her forehead, she wasn’t wearing any makeup.
She looked about as lost as he felt.
“Kate?” he said again.
“I know,” she said, finally turning those blue eyes his way. “It’s weird with us. I don’t want it to be weird.” Shoving a white box into his hands, she said, “I sort of… made these for you.”
Ooooh-kay…
He invited her inside and peeked out into the hallway, sure he’d see a camera crew from the latest prank show. But it was empty and gray as always, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, nothing to see but black doors shut tight on all sides. Across the hall, he heard the Wilsons battling again—nothing new there.
Jagger kicked the door shut and turned to face his visitor. She was standing in the middle of the living room, taking it all in, her mouth open, probably just as tripped out as Jagger. Kate hadn’t been here since Jagger had lived here the first time, more than ten years ago now, and the place had been severely dated even then. Nothing had changed since. It was like a museum to Uncle Max’s glory days of 1980s bachelorhood—black leather couch and chair, cheap and faded. Glass-topped coffee table and end table with brassy gold legs. Framed poster of a red Ferrari Testarossa taking up the entire wall over the sofa. Every time Jagger walked into the place, he heard the Miami Vice soundtrack in his head.
In his hands, the bakery box felt heavy and warm, and smelled like absolute heaven. He knew at once she’d made the chai cookies—he could smell the strong spices—but he didn’t want to open the box, too afraid that it meant something, her baking these.
But more afraid that it didn’t.
He set the box on the kitchen table carefully, then turned back to face her, keeping his face neutral. She was equally unreadable.
It was a long, awkward moment before either
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