One of my favorite things about Pedro in particular is he’s one of these actors who snaps in and out of character … When you say “action,” he’s there, he’s in the world, he’s that guy. Then the minute you turn the camera off, he just kinda lets it go. And he would have our sound guy channel a lot of dance music into his headset, and I just remember that like between takes of these incredibly intense, emotional scenes, he and Sophie would be like, dancing in the middle of the rainforest.
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Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You and Joel enjoy one another.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Taking a breather next week so the next part will be posted on 12th June 🥰
Masterlist
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You drift.
The drumming warmth of his chest beneath your cheek and the heavy weight of his arm beneath your shoulders holds you in a hazy place between waking and sleeping. The amber light of the bedroom begins its slow shift toward rose, the long, gold seams of late afternoon sun creeping slowly over the floor.
A deep, tender ache throbs slow between your thighs in counter-rhythm to the drum of your heart against his chest.
He stirs first, the hand, which has been tracing slow, lazy circles against your bare upper arm, stilling. His beard, which has been pressed warm against the crown of your damp hair, lifts, and the drum of his heart beneath your cheek picks up a fresh, deeper rhythm. You feel the slow, patient gaze of his eyes settle possessively across the bare length of you draped warm against his chest.
You don’t open your eyes as you feel him bend his head.
His mouth presses a long, warm kiss against your head reverently and entirely without hurry, and the press of his lips draws a soft breath out of your throat against the warm hollow of his throat. He doesn’t speak as he kisses lower, lips moving over your temple then your eyelid and the corner of your closed eye where the long lashes lie damp.
You open your eyes slowly and see his, soft and dark and entirely undone. His mouth meets yours, the kiss warm and entirely wordless. He parts your mouth, drags his tongue against yours and you close your eyes again and kiss him back.
Drawing back, he looks at you again, one thumb reaching to slowly trace your cheek. Then he presses a further kiss against your chin, and another against your jaw, and another at the soft pulse of your throat.
The soft pulse answers him and he kisses lower, his mouth travelling downwards to your collarbone and into the warm hollow there, dragging slow and warm, a soft sound escaping your throat. You raise your hand and lay it against the back of his head, sliding into his hair as he continues to kiss you lower.
His mouth travels across the slope of your collarbone, pressing against every inch of the bone before pausing and moving back along the slope on the opposite side, and you watch his head bowed against your upper chest in the deepening rose light with a drowning tenderness that closes your throat.
He kisses down your arm where the skin lies against the rumpled sheets, drawing sensations you’ve not known your arm could feel from a kiss, then moves lower down your forearm to the inside of your wrist and across your palm. Then he pulls each of your fingers in turn into the warmth of his mouth before retracing his steps, back up your bare arm and across your chest. He pauses to gaze at the drawn peaks of your nipples before lowering his mouth and kissing the soft underswell of one breast, down to where it meets the slope of your ribs. Then he moves up the outer swell where it meets your collarbone, mapping the entirety of you.
You arch, your fingers tightening in his hair, and he pulls back, offers you a lazy smile then bends once more, lips closing around one tender bud.
You gasp as he suckles you slowly and deeply, the drag of his tongue sending sparks down through your stomach to the tender ache between your thighs. He draws your nipple into his mouth and holds it there, tongue working patiently, teeth grazing carefully, before letting it slip back into the air and moving to the other.
Rising, he kisses your mouth again, causing you to whimper as his tongue sweeps inside, before moving back down your body over your ribs, then your stomach, pausing at your naval to dip his tongue into the crevice before continuing. He moves to your hips, his hands settling there and sliding down your outer thighs as you part them instinctively, the swollen wet bloom of you exposed.
He presses a kiss against the inside of one knee, then the other, pausing briefly before dropping his mouth.
“Joel…”
You groan and arch towards him again, as he slowly circles your clitoris, the sparks spreading upwards now, back through your stomach to your breasts. Then he draws the small bundle of nerves into his mouth.
You wail this time. There’s no other word for the sound that tears out of your throat as your hand flies back into his hair and your hips buck helplessly against his mouth. His hands slide up beneath you, cupping the curve of your rear and lifting, giving himself better access.
When it comes, the wave breaks slowly, your body locking helplessly tight around nothing at all, clenching around the empty, stretched ache he left there earlier, and your thighs tremble against his shoulders. Unconcerned, he rides you through the wave, his tongue plunging inside you, drinking the wet of what he’s made of you.
You sob as the second wave rolls over you, his tongue burying deep as you peak and then descend, and he finally draws back to look at you, his beard glistening.
“Oh…Joel…”
He crawls slowly up the wrecked bloom of your body and kisses you again, letting you taste yourself, and you open your mouth and lick deep into his without a single moment of hesitation. Then he gathers you to him, chests flush with one another, limbs entangled and you lay your hand against the scruff of his jaw.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, turning his mouth into your palm and kissing it. “I love watchin’ you come apart for me, darlin’.”
“I love coming apart for you,” you sigh in return, closing your eyes.
You lie together that way for a while until you feel a dryness in your throat and ease yourself upwards. His arm tightens instantly and you lean down to press a gentle kiss against his lips.
“Water,” you whisper before slipping out from under him, rising from the bed and walking across the floor to where the pitcher and cup sit on the dresser.
You pour water into the cup and drink, the cool of it against your throat a blessing, then you set it back down and stretch your arms above your head, lengthening your ribs and your waist and your back, before gazing at yourself in the mirror above the dresser.
You don’t entirely recognise yourself. The woman looking back at you has loosened hair falling in heavy waves and breasts swelling in the light, nipples flushed and tender from her husband's mouth, and her skin glows in a way you’ve never seen on yourself before.
You look at her and she looks back.
Behind you in the glass, the light falls across the bed, and you see Joel rising up on one elbow to look at you. You meet his gaze in the mirror and, for some reason, choose not to lower your arms.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of you move. The breath stills in your throat as you watch his gaze travel slowly and possessively down your shoulders, your breasts, your waist, the curve of your hips, the soft flare of your thighs, and return to your face.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rises and crosses the room towards you, the heavy length of him already thickening visibly with every step. You hold his gaze in the glass as he comes up behind you and settles his hands gently on your hips.
Leaning down, he presses his jaw against your shoulder, and you lower your arms, your hands settling of their own accord against the top of the dresser. His hands slide round and over your stomach, fingers spreading warm, the pads of his thumbs brushing the underswell of your breasts, the hot length of him pressing against the small of your bare back, fully hard. You feel the wet head of him leaving a smear against your spine as he settles his hips against yours.
His hands move to cup your breasts, thumbs grazing over your nipples and rolling them, and you groan and press back, your hips meeting the hot weight of him riding the small of your back. He grunts softly, his thumb pinching the tender peak of one breast and rolling it slow and hard until your breath breaks and your hands tighten on the dresser.
Instinctively, you press back harder, and his hands slide back down to your hips, pushing you gently forwards until you’re bent over the dresser, your breasts resting against the top. The porcelain pitcher rattles against its saucer and the cup trembles as your hands flatten on either side of your reflection.
Behind you in the glass, you watch his hand leave your hip and stroke himself slowly through the smear he’s left on your spine whilst the other pushes between your shoulder blade, flattening you against the top of the dresser, your rear arching higher, your thighs spreading open, exposing you to the light.
You feel him drag the hot head of him through the slick of you from behind, coating himself in you, and you moan, his eyes meeting yours in the glass before he drives inside you.
It takes one stroke, hilt-deep, to fill the raw aching heat of you from an angle that strikes on the very first inch of seating, the deep place inside you. Your knees buckle and only his hand on the small of your back and the dresser beneath your hips hold you up as he begins to move.
The high, broken cry that tears out of your throat rings in the empty bedroom as he claims you, his hips slapping against the curve of you on the down stroke, dragging the slick of you up the polished length of him on the withdrawal.
The dresser rocks hard, the pitcher rattles and the mirror shakes faintly against the wall behind it, distorting your reflections. Your hair spills forward with every stroke, your breasts drag hot and damp against the wood and your mouth holds in a steady, broken keening of high, open moans you can’t stop, don’t want to stop and have no part of yourself left to stop.
His eyes hold yours in the glass as the hand at your back drags up your spine, catches the heavy fall of your loosened hair at the nape of your neck and winds it around his fist.
He pulls, not hard enough to hurt but enough to drag your face from the top of the dresser, your back curving beneath his fist. The new angle drives the hot length of him into the deep place inside you so flush on the next stroke that you sob openly, a long, wet, broken sound.
“Mine,” he says breathlessly. “Mine, darlin’…all mine…”
The image of yourself in the mirror is one that should scandalise you. Your face arched, mouth open, eyes wet and black with want, your hair drawn back taut in his fist, your breasts swinging heavy with the rhythm beneath you, nipples flushed dark and tight.
But it doesn’t.
And your husband behind you, broad and scarred and entirely undone, sweat running in beads down his chest, his eyes burning at your reflection, his hips driving into the curve of your rear in a wet relentless slap of skin on skin, only causes the sweet ache between your thighs to pulse harder.
You watch him in the glass, watch the muscle of his arm flex with every drive of his hips, the dark flush bloom up his neck and across the slick line of his collarbone, his eyes burning at you with a worship that has nothing careful left in it.
You hold his gaze and arch into the pull of his fist in your hair. He growls low, the sound guttural, wordless, the sound of something feral riding the bloom of his wife on her own dresser in her own bedroom. His fist in your hair tightens, his hand at your hip locks and the rhythm breaks open.
The dresser slams the wall on every stroke. The pitcher tips and rolls across the top, water spilling in a wide cool pool, and your hands scrabble wet against the wood for any purchase at all but find none.
The heat low in your belly draws tight and you slide your eyes to watch yourself in the glass as you shatter.
This time, it’s harder. Release tears through every inch of you with a devastating force that wrenches the strength out of every limb, and a scream rings through the house, as you clench helplessly tight around the hot fullness of him deep inside you and milk him in a hot rolling pulse of wet contractions.
The breath breaks ragged out of his chest as he bends over you but doesn’t stop. He drives you slow and hard through the rolling wave and holds you there, the hot length of him hammering the deep, raw place inside you on every stroke through the rolling shudders, and the wave that should have broken once breaks again. You clench around him in a long, shuddering aftershock that rolls up out of the first without pause and the deep place inside you, raw and overstimulated and wanting, draws the second wave bigger than the first.
You sob as his hand leaves your hip and snakes beneath you, slick with the sweat of you both, the heel of his palm pressing hard between your thighs, his middle finger finding your clitoris and circling it in counter-rhythm to the hammering claim of him deep inside you.
The third wave breaks before you’ve finished riding the second and you scream again as his teeth catch your shoulder, marking what he doesn’t have the words for. His hand leaves your hair, and both now settle at your waist, pulling you back hard against him – three, four, five slamming strokes that drive the dresser into the wall with such force that the mirror jumps on its hook.
He buries himself in you to the hilt and holds there and you feel the hot pulse of him inside you, thicker than before, harder and deeper though you almost can’t believe it’s possible. The hot flood of him spills into the very heart of you in slow, heavy pulses, his hips jerking helplessly forward into yours with every movement, the wet of him and the wet of you mixing slick around the base of him where his hips press flush against the curve of your rear.
“Yes darlin’…God…!” he exclaims, collapsing against you, his beard scraping warm against your shoulder, his mouth pressing a warm kiss where his teeth have been.
You can’t speak.
He draws slowly out of you, pulling one last broken whimper from your throat. You feel the hot wet of him slip down the inside of your bare thigh, and his hand comes around between your thighs and catches the slow trickle on his palm before it can reach your knee. Then he smears the wet of him against the curve of your hip, marking you with himself, and you watch in the glass, riveted with fascination.
After a moment, he rises behind you, drawing you up from the dresser, allowing you to flatten your hands against the damp wood for balance before turning you in his arms and laying his forehead gently against yours.
“Did I frighten you?” he asks softly.
“No,” you pant. “No, Joel, not for one moment…”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” you reply, closing your eyes and, for a long, suspended moment, you simply stand there, his breath hot against your mouth, his heart drumming against yours.
Then he moves and kisses you again, slow and soft, allowing you to wind your arms around his neck and for him to lift you and carry you back over to the bed. After he lays you down, he watches you for a moment with a soft smile, then crosses back to the dresser, returning with a cotton cloth. He cleans you slowly and when he’s finished, you rest your palm against his jaw again, stroking your thumb along his cheekbone.
“I don’t know what to say,” you manage after a moment.
He chuckles and kisses the end of your nose. “Which did you like best?”
“All of them.”
“Hmm…I’ll remember that.”
Sighing heavily, he closes his eyes and rubs his face slowly against your palm, occasionally turning to drag his lips across the skin.
You lie there just watching him – your husband – and you feel a pull in your chest that makes you want to bury yourself against him and not move for the rest of your life. You’ve never felt more secure, more safe or more loved – in a way that you never thought you would.
“Is this how you loved Tess?”
The words are out before you can think on the wisdom of them and you feel him still slightly under your hand. The contended smile slips fractionally from his lips, and his eyes open just a little, as though he’s not sure he’s heard you right.
“Sorry,” you say immediately. “I shouldn’t have asked, I…”
“No, it ain’t…” he shifts slightly and you drop your hand back to the bed. “It ain’t wrong to ask darlin’, it’s just…” he takes a breath. “It was different.”
“Different?”
“Wasn’t the same man when I married Tess as I am now. I loved her dearly, but back then, I had no idea what it would be like to love someone like that and then lose ‘em. Makin’ love with you like this…I do know and that…that just makes it different.”
“I understand,” you nod.
“No, you don’t, and I don’t expect you to,” he says kindly. “Just want you to know that…it’s different. And if you’re askin’ me if I was thinkin’ ‘bout her whilst I was inside you…”
“Oh, no,” you say hurriedly, feeling heat crawl into your face. “No, I wasn’t thinking about that. I would never…”
“It’s alright.” He cups your face with his hand. “The answer is no. I wasn’t thinkin’ ‘bout her or makin’ any comparison or anythin’ like that. I was just enjoyin’ you.”
You feel the flush spread and he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Look at my wife, all embarrassed at the thought that her husband might enjoy bein’ in bed with her.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not!” You turn your back mockingly on him and he laughs and immediately pulls you back against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “But I suppose if you’re going to continue to enjoy me, perhaps we should speak about what might happen.”
“Darlin’, I don’t wanna talk about the damn Reverend or the trial or ‘bout anythin’ like that right now,” he mumbles. “I gotta good feelin’ about that lawyer of yours. He seems to know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout and I also reckon you did a good job of puttin’ the fear of the Lord into Doc Cooper, so we don’t know yet…”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the…well, the consequences of a husband and wife, freely…” You feel your face burn again. “I have no idea if I’m…capable…and…”
“Capable of what?” he asks, nuzzling into you again. “Drivin’ your husband crazy?”
“No, capable of conceiving.”
He stills again, although this time you feel the difference in him. The stilling isn’t gentle or fleeting, rather it’s immediate and hard, and even though your bodies are still warm from one another, you feel a cold sensation travel between you.
“Conceivin’?”
The word comes out quietly and you turn over again to face him.
“Yes. I’m thirty-four, thirty-five this Fall, but that doesn’t mean…”
You break off as you take in the look on his face. It’s not confusion or concern or even anger – it’s pure horror.
“Joel?”
He opens his mouth and closes it again, then pulls hurriedly away from you, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting hunched forwards, his entire body seeming to sag under the weight of the words you’ve just spoken. Suddenly, you feel naked in more ways than one, and you take hold of the throw at the foot of the bed and pull it over yourself.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No. But that…it ain’t…” he lets out a long breath. “I can’t…can’t give you that – a child. I can’t.”
You frown. “But…you have Sarah and Tess was…” He rises suddenly, the action startling you, and starts reaching for his discarded clothes. “Joel?”
Once fully redressed, he turns back around to face you, his face drawn in a way that you haven’t seen in a long time.
“Darlin’, I…”
The sound of wagon wheels and the high whinny of an approaching horse interrupts whatever he was about to say, and he moves over to the window, pulls back the curtains and looks outside.
“It’s Doc Cooper.”
A mixture of panic and anticipation rushes through you. No-one on the Miller ranch is ill any longer, so there can be only one reason for such a visit.
“The town council must have decided what they’re going to do,” you say, scrambling off the bed and picking up your garments. “Joel, my dress…”
“Stay here,” he says, crossing the room to the door.
“No, wait…”
“I said, stay here. I can handle this darlin’. Whatever he’s got to say it’s gonna be about me, so I oughta be the one to hear it. You stay here, listen from the window.”
“But Joel, you can’t…”
“I ain’t gonna do anythin’ to him, darlin’, I promise. Ain’t nothin’ in this world gonna make me do anythin’ that could keep me away from you longer than I already have been.” He crosses back towards you and kisses you gently. “Please, just stay here.”
Then he moves to the bedroom door, opens it, and disappears down the hallway.
A collection of fun and fluffy one shots set in the same bakery. Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stories, twelve recipes.
Series Master List
Welcome back to the bakery!
The poll from last week was conclusive, a large majority of you wanted a certain relationship challenged man to visit the bakery. But Pedro has done so many wonderful new characters in the two and a half years it's been since I wrapped up this series, so I'm sure I'll return and bring some more visitors to, frankly, the luckiest baker girl in the world.
It was a lot of fun to re-visit this setting, the bakery was just where I left it (with Frankie, my love) and I really hope you'll enjoy this new chapter as much as I did.
Love you all!
It's funny, in the bakery, how you notice some customers more than others. It might be the busiest part of your Saturday afternoon rush, long line of customers, juggling questions from patrons about allergies, orders, requests and that really tasty treat their great aunt baked for them back in 1983 with cinnamon, could you make that please? For tomorrow?
But when the well dressed man stepped inside, you noticed, immediately.
He didn't make a scene, didn't even say anything, and his clothes were understated, muted colours and soft fabrics, but still; you noticed him, and how warm the colour of his eyes was as he smiled at you.
And ordinarily you wouldn't remember his order either, not from a customer who just came in once and bought two of your individual lemon meringue tarts. Just a guy buying a nice dessert for a date.
But when he came back a month later, you noticed him entering again, and you remembered exactly what he'd ordered.
"Hi, what can I get you?" you ask, smiling at him as he comes up to the counter, "The lemon meringue tarts, or something new this time?"
Those warm brown eyes widen in surprise first, and then he smiles back at you, "I'm impressed. Do you remember everyone's orders?"
"No, but I was extra proud of those tarts, and I remember thinking that I hoped you and your date enjoyed them," you reply, "Were they a success?"
He gives a small chuckle, shrugging, "Yeah, the tarts were great, but the date was a bust."
"I'm sorry," you say, wondering what woman would turn down a man with eyes like his. They're the same warm colour of the chocolate you melt into your ganache almost every day, a rich, dark brown that distracts you for a few moments as he smiles, "So, no second date, what can I get you instead?"
He looks almost embarrassed, and shrugs again, looking down at his hands before he glances over at the display case.
"I've actually got a new date tonight. She's making me dinner and told me to bring dessert, so; here I am."
"So you need my dessert to guarantee you a second date?" you joke, and he laughs.
"If you can guarantee that, I'll pay double."
"Might be a tough order to fill, but these passion fruit mousse cups are sure to help," you say, pointing to two delicate cups filled with a pale mousse, decorated with fresh raspberries and a dusting of powdered sugar, "The secret is the sweet caramel in the bottom."
"You have a deal," he nods, pulling out his phone, "I'll take both."
"Excellent choice, and come back and let me know how it went. I'll add it to my marketing if you got a second date."
He smiles again, tapping to pay while you pack up the dessert.
"Have a great date," you say, and he gives you a wave, still smiling as he leaves, the fine lines around his warm eyes crinkling as he does.
"Thanks, and thanks for the help."
He comes back again the very next Saturday, patiently waiting in line towards the end of the day. He's wearing a suit this time, a sharp cut model across his wide shoulders, and the curls around his ears are shorter this time, like he just had them cut. They still look silky soft to the touch, and you have to drag your eyes from them as he steps up to the counter.
"Hi," you greet him with a warm smile as you run your hands over your apron, dusting it off, "Welcome back, did you get a second date?"
He chuckles, and nods, "Yeah, actually. I've got a second date tonight, and this time I'm cooking."
"Was it the passion fruit dessert?" you ask, biting the back a twinge of disappointment, "I told you they were good."
"Might've been the dessert," he smiles, "It was stellar, really world class. I'm sure she was impressed by my impeccable dessert picking skills."
"So now you need to out do it?" you laugh, "How am I supposed to top myself?"
"I've only had two of your desserts, and both have been better than anything I've ever tasted," he says, smiling as you feel your cheeks heat up under his praise, "I'm in your hands, anything you recommend."
"Well, at least now you have a second date, less pressure on me," you joke, "It's all up to you now."
"Don't remind me," he grimaces, but he's smiling too, "First dates seem to be easy, it's all the ones afterwards where things get complicated."
"So we need a sure thing here?" you ask, looking at your selection, "How about we bring in the big guns? My absolute favourite?"
You point to the pudding cups on one of the shelves, "It requires a little bit of assembly from you, but I'm thinking that might impress her even further, what do you think?"
He tilts his head and crouches down to take a closer look, "Chocolate mousse?" he asks and you shake your head proudly.
"No, and that's part of the secret. It's chocolate pudding. So much richer, smoother and more indulgent than mousse. And they come with some candied almonds, preserved cherries and whipped amaretto cream. It's the most decadent dessert, and the perfect balance of textures and flavours."
"Sold," he says with a groan that makes your stomach flip, "It sounds incredible."
"Might even get you to fou-"
You bite your tongue before you finish the sentence, but you hear a chuckle from your handsome customer as you quickly bend down to retrieve the desserts. Covering up for the giant foot in your mouth, you spend extra time with your back to him, packing up the cups, the almonds, cherries and the double cream.
"There," you say, putting the take away bag on the counter without looking at him, hoping he can't feel the heat radiating from your cheeks, and tapping in the total in the machine. A mischievous smile is still making his lips curl up as he taps his phone to pay, you see it as you glance up, and it makes you grab a cloth and furiously begin wiping the counter as he continues to smile.
"Have a good night," he says, "Thanks again for the dessert advice."
"Bye," is the only reply you give, and when the door jingles shut, you bury your face in your hands. Never mind that he's the most handsome customer you've had in a long time, you had to go and put your foot in your mouth and suggest that he should have sex with his date.
Very professional.
Also not very professional to have a crush on your clearly not single customer.
He comes back the very next Saturday, a bit before the afternoon rush, and this time he's in a soft looking navy sweater that stretches across his shoulders even more than the previous week's suit. The sight makes you weak, slightly unsteady even, and you force air in through your nose.
Smiling when he reaches the counter, he taps the wood and grins.
"You're a genius, that was the best dessert I've ever had, and Camilla loved it too."
Camilla
Your least favourite name in the world from this moment on you realise, as an ugly feeling sinks to the pit of your stomach. You almost grimace, but school your face just in time as he gives you the look of a love sick puppy, all warm brown eyes and soft smile.
"She said it was delicious, really tasty."
"I'm so glad," you say, forcing a customer service smile to your face that doesn't reach your eyes, regretting your stupid decision to sell him that dessert. Should've sold him something bland, not that you have anything bland in your bakery.
"So what does Camilla want for dessert tonight?" you ask, the back of your jaw tight as you try to not fill the name with venom, but he frowns, just for a split second.
In all honesty, you don't even know his name, so why should you be jealous of this unknown woman? But the tone of your voice clearly said something else, and you bite back on the resentment that filled you at the thought of him with another woman.
"Well…" he replies, suddenly looking a bit shy, coy even, as he looks over your selection, "I said I'd get those chocolate mousse cups again, and-"
"Pudding," you cut him off, and he looks up at you.
"Pudding?"
"It's chocolate pudding, not mousse. That's part of why they're so good," you say, and it comes out harsher than you intend.
"Ok, chocolate pudding. I'll have two of those. And then four croissants, for tomorrow morning."
You've done it now, you see it. Your tone snapped, even though you tried to force down the green eyed monster.
And he's stiffer when he replies, the smile slipping from his face as he clearly catches on, just a regular customer now, and he doesn't say anything else when you pack up the pudding cups, the almonds, cherries, and cream. And the four croissants.
For tomorrow morning. After he and Camilla….
"46.98. Please," you say, cutting off your train of thought.
He taps to pay.
"Have a nice night."
And leaves.
He doesn't come back after that. Not for a couple of months. You guess he and Camilla are a thing now. The thought crosses your mind as you make another batch of the chocolate pudding. It's become a staple at the bakery, it turns out not only people trying to have successful dates like it. You don't enjoy it as much these days though, the uncomfortable memory of your handsome customer still sits attached to the flavour.
So it's with mixed feelings you look up when the door bell jingles late on a Saturday afternoon and spot him walking into the bakery again. Tampering down the warmth that spreads through your chest at the sight of him, you remind yourself that he's not single, and you have no business pining after a taken customer. Especially not one who clearly has money to spend on some of your most expensive desserts. Good business is good business after all.
But it's hard to not let your eyes linger over him as he waits in line, the way he stands with a simple confidence, a hand on one hip as he looks out through the big shop front window with a blank face. His hair is longer now. Not unkempt, just not recently trimmed like last time, and he's in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. He might even look a little bit tired, but he still smiles when he comes up to the counter, the lines around his eyes are deeper today.
"Hi, welcome back," you greet him, and you can't help the smile that you give him in return. He's still as handsome as before, and when his eyes soften and smile widens, you feel your resolve to be indifferent melt away.
"Hi," he says, "You still remember me?" His greeting is paired with a crooked smile as he makes an apologetic sound, clearing his throat, "It's been a while."
"I thought maybe the dessert was a flop," you reply, "Did I accidentally add salt instead of sugar?"
He chuckles a little at that, but shakes his head, "No, your dessert was perfect as always, I just…"
The pause is long as he shifts on his feet and looks down at the counter for a second, a slight hesitation in him before he continues.
"I just…haven't been buying desserts lately."
You wait for him to continue, as someone behind him clears their throat, impatient.
"Sorry, I'm holding up the line," he says, glancing over his shoulder as he straightens up, "What do you recommend today?"
"What are you in the mood for?" you ask, ignoring the rude customer stomping behind him.
"Something…simple," he replies, "Like something you'd serve your grandmother," the last thing he says with a breath of self-conscious laughter, "I just really loved the Victoria sponge cake she used to make."
You smile at him, "Victoria sponge is a classic for a reason, it's one of my favourites too."
His eyes are making you feel warm as the corners of them crinkle, and he puts his palms on the counter and leans forward, his body relaxing and coming a little bit closer to you.
"I knew you wouldn't judge me," he returns your smile, "I bet you make really good Victoria sponge too, everything of yours that I've tasted has been incredible."
You know you're a great baker, but his compliment still makes your cheeks heat up as you try to stop yourself from grinning too widely.
"Thanks, it's all about the ingredients, and finding a balance. Cakes like the Victoria seem simple, but if you don't get the balance right it will just be bland jam wedged between dry slices of cake."
"I love hearing you talk about your desserts," he replies, ignoring the shuffle of the waiting man behind him, "You're really passionate about it, I like that and-"
"Excuse me, can we skip the flirting, man? I'm on the clock here."
The man waiting seems to have run out of patience, and now he huffs, shuffling as he tries to push up to the counter.
You frown at him, opening your mouth to retort, but the handsome man shakes his head, ignoring the other one with barely a glance over his shoulder.
"Do you have any Victoria sponge?" he asks, and you have to shake your head, apologising.
"No, sorry, I don't have any today. But a coffee cake maybe? I have a really nice apple and cinnamon coffee cake with walnut crumble. It was my granny's favourite."
He nods slowly as he seems to think about the offer, and then pulls out his phone, "Sounds great, I'll have that."
Later, when you're cleaning up the kitchen, the thought of him comes back to you as you go through the tedious job of organizing all the clean dishes. The way he'd said that he hadn't been buying dessert lately; such an odd way of phrasing it. He hadn't been buying desserts from you, but why say he hadn't been buying desserts at all?
'Maybe Camilla is on a diet," you say out loud to the empty kitchen, snorting as you picture the woman who you dislike even though you've never met her. You give her a haughty look, the kind you sometimes get from bridezillas when you deliver their wedding cakes. Pinched, constricted and possibly constipated.
"Did you say something?"
The high schooler who's been cleaning the front of the bakery puts their head around the door frame, and you shake your head.
"Just thinking out loud."
The handsome dessert buying customer comes back a couple of weeks later, and you have to admit to yourself that seeing him makes your heart jump a little. Especially as this time he smiles at you as he steps inside. The shop is having a bit of a lull, and it gives you an unrestricted view of him as he closes the door. The dark brown curls are neater this week, trimmed around his ears and pushed back from his forehead.
"You got a haircut," you say as he comes up to the counter, and he grins, reaching up and carefully patting his hair.
"You sure pay attention to the details," he laughs, "Yeah, just this morning."
"It looks good, the curls suit you."
"Thanks," he smiles back, "I needed a clean up, I've got a date tonight."
Your stomach sinks, and you fight to keep the smile in place on your face, but you're sure he sees it slip for a second.
"Camilla, right?" you ask, just to have something to say as you try to not break the edge of the counter with how hard you're gripping it.
He looks surprised at first, then shakes his head, "No, no, that didn't work out. But I…uuh…got set up on a blind date, need to…get out there again. So I'm cooking for her tonight."
He shrugs, almost an embarrassed look on his face as he says it.
"Good for you," you reply, but you don't mean it, and you can hear the edge in your voice. He doesn't seem to notice it though. He's glancing over the display case, nodding at the chocolate pudding cups.
"Can I have two of the chocolate puddings? They were really great. And four croissants."
"Sure, coming right up," you say, and slide the glass door open. You want to say something, comment on his choice of dessert, but all you can think of is that he's buying four croissants too. Which means he's planning on letting his date spend the night. Croissants are for breakfast after all.
Neither of you fill the silence as you pack up his order and ring it up. It feels uncomfortable, and you want to say something, get back to that easy back and forth from his previous visit. But nothing comes to you, and he taps his phone to pay.
"Thanks, have a good night."
"Yeah, thanks, same to you, have a good date," you say finally, and he nods, just a small smile in return.
The high school kid jumps when you stomp into the kitchen as the front door closes.
"Please, can you handle the till for a while, I need some air."
They nod, and bee line to the front of the bakery as you make your way to the back door, sinking down on the small staircase.
You haven't even asked his name, he's a complete stranger, except that he's not. Or at least he doesn't feel like one. But except for his taste in desserts and expensive looking clothes, you know nothing about him. And yet the very idea of him having a date, a date that's not with you, where he'll serve your dessert, and feed her your croissants the next morning, fills you with nausea and jealousy.
Stomping your feet again, you march back into the kitchen and pull out ingredients for a brioche dough, slamming the ingredients together and forgoing the mixer for your own hands. When the high school kid looks into the kitchen again they've got a worried look on their face.
"You ok? You're kinda…grunting a lot."
Huffing, you slam the dough into the table again.
"Yeah, just seeing if this dough is better worked by hand," you lie and take a break, stepping back to glare at the dough. In reality, you're trying to not see his face as you punch your fists into it. The kid shrugs, and gives you another concerned look before the jingle of the bell pulls them back to the front of the bakery.
Stupid man, stupid desserts.
It takes you another fifteen minutes of kneading to work out whatever he ignites in your system, but eventually you give in and leave the dough to rest overnight. The only conclusion you've come to is that you won't be working front of house next Saturday.
Which is good, because he does come in the next Saturday, and he buys another dessert, and four croissants, from your high schooler while you hide in the back.
And then he comes again next Saturday, for more dessert and croissants. But this time he buys four pain au chocolate too, and through the bakery door you hear a woman tell him it's her favorite and she can't wait to try one 'when we get home'.
You can't help yourself. Slowly backing up, and holding on to the bowl you're mixing spices in, you glance through the door and catch a glimpse of them.
He's standing by the counter, getting ready to pay, as the woman he's with is looking at some of your more elaborate cakes on display. The dark green sweater on him looks both expensive and soft as feathers, but it stretches over his wide shoulders, tight around his biceps. His curls are a little bit longer now, and rumpled by the wind outside. With an absentminded smile at his date, he reaches up and pushes them back, and then he spots you.
Your face must be telling him something, because you lock eyes, and a grimace flashes over his face, or you think it's a grimace, he almost looks embarrassed for a split second, and you can't even move as he keeps looking at you. His eyes are the most beautiful shade of brown you've ever seen, and it's not like you haven't seen them before and noticed them, but now…the way the light catches them as he glances down at his hands, and then up at you again, the tiniest frown creasing his brow.
Why doesn't he look away?
"Excuse me, sir? That'll be $68.98."
"Harry, honey, you need to pay," the woman says, snaking her arm around his, and you jump back out of sight, almost dropping the bowl.
If he replies, you don't hear it over the pounding of your heart as you set the bowl down on the large kitchen counter. Your hands are trembling, and you take a deep breath. Heat is coursing through your limbs, your knees actually feel weak, like you're a damsel in a romance novel, and the image of the way his lips pulled up in a smile, just before she tucked her arm into his, burns your cheeks.
Closing your eyes, you take another deep breath and listen to the door close behind him. And the woman he was with.
Another date.
Someone he's been with long enough to bring here, to pick up things for 'when we get home'.
Whatever you imagined when he looked at you, it was just that; imagination.
Most Saturdays he doesn't come in after that. Just now and then, buying four pain au chocolate, but you make sure you never serve him. In fact, you hardly ever work front of house on Saturdays now. You just hear him come in, his voice so recognisable as he asks for the pastries. The tone of it makes you stop in your tracks every time, listening to hear if he's brought her with him again, or if he buys something different. But for weeks that's all he buys, pain au chocolate.
In your mind you see him and the woman tucked up in bed, feasting on them every Sunday morning, and you consider taking them off the menu. Make him buy her the damn pastries at another bakery.
But you don't. They stay on the menu. And so does Harry.
Weeks pass, and still even a glimpse of him makes you jump back into the kitchen. And you know he sees you, you just can't bring yourself to speak to him. How many words have you said to him in total? Barely a conversation to fill a napkin if you were to scribble it down. And yet, every glimpse of him reminds you of how his eyes soften when he smiles, the curls around his ears, the way every sweater seems to stretch across his shoulders, like he's buying them a size too small just to taunt you.
"Pain au chocolate guy wants to order an engagement cake."
The high school kid has stuck their head around the corner of the door, their eyebrows rising in surprise at the panicked look on your face.
"P-pain au chocolate guy?" you stutter, and they nod.
"Yeah, the rich guy who comes in and buys only pain au chocolate on Saturdays. He said he needs to talk to the baker about an engagement cake."
"Uuuhhh…" you stall, glancing around the kitchen as you beat back the panic in your chest, "Ok, send him in."
Fuck
You shake out your hands and quickly dry them on a towel before smoothing down your hair. The pulse of your heart beat must be showing on your neck, you can feel it beating as you hear Harry's shoes scuff over the floor of the bakery.
"Hi."
His voice is the same warm tone as always, and he's holding out his hand like you've never met, "I realised I never introduced myself properly all the other times I stopped by. I'm Harry Castillo."
"H-Hi Harry," you stutter out, "Engagement cake?"
You dive right in, small talk is the last thing you want with this man, especially not if he's going to gush about his…fuck…
Fiance.
Harry nods, and pulls out his phone, "Yeah, I've got some notes, but it's a surprise for Amanda so I couldn't ask her what she'd prefer."
There's another name you'll detest; Amanda.
"Yeah, ok," you reply, grabbing your notepad, "Tell me what you've got."
"So, I know she likes chocolate, and pain au chocolate. And…" he pauses and grimaces, "And that's it."
"I can work with just chocolate," you reply, keeping your eyes on the notepad, "Any colour preference? Decorations like flowers or patterns?"
"Ah…I'm…I'm not sure actually…" he hesitates, ending with a huffed sound that could be an embarrassed chuckle, and you glance up at him.
"I should know right?" he says, and his face is apologetic, like he's apologising to you for not knowing his soon-to-be-fiances cake preference.
"Why don't I just work with what you like? Like a version of a Victoria sponge cake maybe? I can do that with chocolate filling."
"You remembered that?" Harry smiles, his face softening, and you can't help but smile back.
"Yeah, I mean…of course? You said you liked something simple, like your grandmother's."
"I know, I just can't believe you'd remember that, with all the customers you have."
The way he's looking at you, that way his eyes are all warm and gentle, it makes your insides squirm, and you quickly look back down at the notepad.
"So, I can have the Victoria sponge as a base, and build a few layers on that, and maybe a chocolate ganache to cover it with? And I can keep the decorations clean and simple, to tie in with the classic style of the cake."
Harry doesn't reply for a few moments, and you look up at him again. He's frowning, rubbing a hand over his chin as he seems to think.
"If it was for me, I'd say yes. But Amanda, she's…she likes it a bit more decorated I think."
You nod, scrapping your notes about keeping it simple, and wait for him to continue.
"She…she's shown me the kind of engagement rings she likes, and they're all…very elaborate," Harry shrugs again, "Not really my style, but if it's what she wants."
"Why don't you bring her and you can decide on a cake that you both like," you suggest, biting back on the jealousy.
"She told me she wants the engagement to be a surprise,"
"But she knows you're proposing?"
It comes out with a surprised tone, and Harry makes a non-commital shrug.
"Yeah, we've discussed marriage, how we're going to set it up, merging our assets, the pre-nup obviously. But she told me to plan a surprise engagement party for her, and invite her friends."
"Sounds like a business deal," you reply before you can stop yourself, and you bite your tongue as you see the look on Harry's face. "I'm sorry, that was out of line, I didn't mean it like that, I just-"
"It's not a business deal," he cuts you off, "She's a good match for me. We're a good match."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…let me just look at the notes and I'll come up with some ideas for a more elaborate design, but keep your Victoria sponge as the base, with chocolate of course."
You're backtracking quickly, trying to smooth over your blunder as Harry frowns, looking past you, and then down at his hands.
He nods, looking up at you, and it stops your rambling.
"I'll leave my business card, e-mail me your thoughts and I'll get back to you," he says, and now it really does feel like a business deal.
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he leaves without another word.
The afternoon shifts into evening, but you can't stop berating yourself. Sketching ideas for the cake gets you nowhere, your usually so creative brain can't seem to merge the classic Victoria sponge with a more elaborate design. It all turns out gaudy and tasteless, and you can't see Harry in the cake at all. Scraping yet another failed design, you sigh and sink down on the low stepping stool, kicking your feet to make it go rolling across the kitchen floor. It comes to a slow stop against the heavy shelf of appliances, making it rattle slightly. Pushing yourself up with another deep sigh, you open the big walk in fridge and let your eyes drift across the space.
Your eyes land on a jar of raspberry jam from last summer. You'd gone with a friend to a farm that let you pick raspberries, and you'd returned sweaty, scratched and tired, but with two buckets of the sweet berries. The jar on the shelf is the last of it.
Maybe if you make a Victoria sponge to start with, just the classic, traditional one, some idea would come to you for Harry's engagement cake. But it's not like he's going to order the cake from you anyway. Not after you went and called his marriage a business deal. You'll never see him in this bakery again.
You begin picking up the ingredients anyway, if nothing else, you can sell it in slices tomorrow. And you suddenly feel like eating Victoria sponge cake, and not because it's Harry's favourite.
As usual the act of baking calms you, focusing you on the measurements and the manual steps, beating the eggs and sugar, folding in the dry, it all comes together as you try not to think of Harry. With steady hands you pour the batter into the cake tin and put it in the oven.
The door closes with a soft click as you set the timer.
A sharp knock on the bakery door makes you jump, the glass in the window pane rattling with the force of the rapping knuckles, and you drop the bowl you've been holding.
"What the fuck…" you hiss, looking at the dent in the metal as another knock rattles the door.
Putting the bowl on the counter you stride over through the door of the kitchen and into the long since closed bakery shop. It's raining outside, and the fat drops streak across the window, blurring the outlines of the man standing outside, and it stops you in your tracks.
Harry pauses his knocking, his hand hanging in the air in front of him, as he meets your eyes. The rain has plastered his hair to his skull, soaked through his sweater, and as you watch, he lowers his hand and wipes it across his face.
For a beat you wonder if you should tell him to go away, but before you've made your mind up, your feet move to the door, and your hands unlock it.
"Harry, what-"
"You had no right," he says, his voice tight as he looks at you through the falling rain, "I was happy. And you…" he stops, biting down on the sharp words, "You… It wasn't a business deal, we were a good match."
What he's saying sinks in as you feel the rain drops begin to collect on your own skin as the wind picks up.
"You…you broke up with Amanda?" you ask, and Harry winces, or shivers, and you grab his arm, pulling him through the door, and out of the rain.
"You're soaked," you say unnecessarily, looking around for a clean kitchen towel, but Harry doesn't seem to hear you. Suddenly he's crowding you, his hand firm on your cheek, his mouth a hair's breadth from yours, warm breath teasing your lips.
Time seems to freeze as your heart stops beating. He smells of rain, wet sidewalks and damp leaves, softened by the heat of his body.
He drops his hand and steps back, and for a split second you think he's going to rush out through the door again, back into the rain.
Instead he charges into the bakery, spinning on the spot as he shoves his hands through his wet hair and glares at you.
"Why did you have to be so…." he spits, "why did you say…all that, all that…that…"
He trails off, and he seems to shrink as your eyes meet across the kitchen floor. Air escapes him, a slow exhale as you wait for him to finish his outburst.
But nothing more comes, instead he slumps, burying his face in his hands with a deep sigh.
"I'm sorry."
The words are just a low mumble behind his palms.
"I'm sorry too," you say, slowly coming over to him, and holding out a clean towel, your hand trembling slightly, "I was out of line, I shouldn't have said anything."
Harry shakes his head, and takes the towel, "No, it's not on you, you just said what I already knew."
With another sigh that seems to come from his toes he straightens up, looking at the towel in his hand.
"I already knew, even before she started talking about engagement. You…you just put your finger on a sore spot."
Shrugging, he makes an effort at wiping his face, and then drops the towel on the edge of the sink.
"Thanks, I'll leave now. I'm sorry for barging in, and for…" he trails off again, and you don't miss the glance at your lips. They still carry the imprint of his breath, and you can feel his fingers on your chin.
"Stay," you blurt out, taking a step forward. "Stay, don't…go."
Harry's eyes are impossible to read as you look at each other across the kitchen, but you hope he can see how much you want him to stay.
"Please," you whisper, "I always…want you to stay when you come here."
This time he's less sudden, crossing the short space between you with a few long steps as you wait for him by the work bench. His hand is warm on your cheek, cupping your face gently as you tilt your head up to his, your lips parting. The shirt across his shoulders is damp under your hands, but already warming up from the heat that he seems to radiate as he crowds you again. When his nose brushes against yours, you exhale, his lips teasing yours before he lets himself properly kiss your open mouth. There's no rush, just a slow taste. Your mouth closes around his plump bottom lip, tasting the rain as his hands slowly move up your back, and he steps closer, making space for himself against your body.
You can't help the moan that escapes you, his body is warm and firm, even under his rain damp shirt, and the sound makes him groan in reply, a low rumble deep in his chest. He pries his lip from your mouth, and touches it with the tip of his tongue, gently tasting, making you open up for him. With a whine you slide your fingers into the curls at his neck, tugging him closer, and the effect is instant. Harry's large hands slide down your back, onto your thighs, and he lifts you up onto the bench, suddenly pressing up against your core as he yanks you closer to him. As if he's trying to eliminate every smidge of space between your bodies as he licks into your mouth, stealing your breath.
The metal bench is cool underneath you as he pushes you further back, your legs closing around his waist, and he nudges your head to the side, licking a wet trail beneath your ear. You can feel the beating of your heart in your finger tips as they wrap around his curls, Harry's scorching breath against your neck, teeth grazing across the thin skin.
"Harry," you moan into the empty kitchen, gasping for air when he moves his hands, his thumbs drawing sharp lines over your pebbled nipple, making your breath hitch.
"You taste so good," he mumbles, moving up to your lips again, "salt and sweet, chocolate and cream. Do you always taste this good?"
"You'll have to find out," you mumble against his mouth, and you can feel him smile into your lips.
"Happily," he replies, "Are you free tonight?"
The question makes you giggle, and Harry pulls back to look down at you, raising his eye brows.
"Look at where you've got me, Harry," you say, "And tell me you think I'm not free tonight?"
His face splits into a wide grin, and he drops his head down again, pressing a soft kiss on your lips, much more chaste this time.
"I got carried away," he smiles in reply, "You taste so good, and you smell more delicious than any of your desserts."
"You taste like rain," you tell him, and he laughs, shaking his head to make rain drops scatter across your face.
"I'm not sorry I barged in," he says when you've brushed back the curls from his forehead again, "I'm just sorry I didn't realise I should've been dating you all this time. Can I make you dinner tonight?"
"I'm not sure, what's for dessert?" you ask him, and the grin on your face makes him press his lips to your neck, smiling as you squeal under him when he nips at the delicious skin.
"You," he replies, "Only you."
Why would you trust anyone other than Mary Berry to make the perfect Victoria sponge cake? Light and fluffy and filled with jam, it's a Brit
I had to include Mary Berry's receipe because who else, right? And I hope you enjoyed this re-visit to the bakery, and wish Harry all the best for his future dating life. I'm sure baker girl will make him very happy...
Tagging some of you who I know read A Baker's Dozen back when I first posted it. You all gave it so much love and I hope you want to dip back into this cosy universe!
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You become Mrs Miller in every way possible.
A/N: The moment has finally arrived 🥰
Masterlist
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The brougham rolls to a smooth halt in the yard.
The driver, who’s been whistling tunelessly for the better part of two miles, falls abruptly and respectfully silent. You hear the soft creak of the box as he climbs down, the small jingle of harness as he moves to the heads of the matched bays, and the way he very deliberately busies himself, with the same flawless, professional discretion he’s shown throughout the ride, with the buckles of the lead bay's bridle, in a position that places his back entirely to the carriage door.
Joel doesn’t wait. He pushes the carriage door open and climbs down in a single fluid motion. Then he turns and reaches up for you, his hands closing around your waist, lifting you down out of the brougham with the careful, possessive thoroughness of a man who’s been counting the miles for half an hour and is no longer prepared to count any further.
He sets you down on your feet in the yard, his hands never leaving your waist, as Tomás appears from the barn, wiping the back of his neck with a flannel.
“Good to see you Patrón,” he says with a grin.
“And you,” Joel nods. “See to the driver, will you? He deserves some rest and a cold drink before he heads on back to town. Mrs Miller and I ain’t to be disturbed.”
“Consider it done,” Tomás replies, nodding at both of you in turn before moving over to the driver and extending his hand.
You don’t wait to witness the outcome of the exchange. Joel's hand moves from your waist to the small of your back as he gently guides you towards the porch steps. His palm presses warm and possessive through the fabric of your dress, the heavy boned stays and the thin torn linen of the chemise beneath, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers against your spine. Glancing at him, you understand that he’s holding himself on a tighter rein in the last twenty feet between the brougham and the front door than he’s held himself in the entire journey before.
Pushing open the door, he guides you across the threshold before closing and locking it behind you, the key turning smoothly. The decisive click of the bolt sliding home echoes in the quiet hallway, and the late afternoon sun falls through the side window in long warm bars across the floorboards. You stand in the dim, cool entry hall with your back to him and don’t turn around.
Behind you, you can feel the heavy heat of his body and the ragged drag of his breath at the back of your neck – the careful trembling restraint of a man who’s been holding himself on that rein and is now about to drop it entirely.
“We should go to bed,” he says calmly, his voice wavering slightly over the last word.
“Yes,” you reply breathlessly. “We should.”
But you don’t move, and neither does he, his breath hot at the back of your neck. The tremor in his fingers has spread into a visible trembling that you can feel through the warm pressure of his palm at the small of your back and the heat in your stomach, which has been simmering patiently, gives a patient, answering pulse.
You draw in a careful breath and finally turn around.
His eyes are inches from yours, and they’re not lazy or crooked or careful at all. The man looking down at you is a man exhausted by restraint. And yet, you can see he’s still trying – can see the clenching muscle at the hinge of his jaw beneath his beard, the ragged restraint of his breath, the visible trembling of the hand that’s left the small of your back and is now hovering, uncertain, between you, as though he doesn’t entirely trust himself to lay it back against you.
“Joel?” Reaching out, you place one hand gently on his chest and his entire body reverberates under it.
"Darlin’, please. If I touch you in this hallway, I ain’t gonna make it to our bed and I ain’t gonna take you for the first time on these damn floorboards. So, let me walk you to our room.”
You look up at him, well aware that the careful side of you, which was entirely absent from the brougham, would take her husband's offered arm and walk with him in careful, dignified silence down the hall to the bedroom.
The spinster, of thirty-four years, would expect it.
You ignore her and, reaching up with both hands, find the top brass button at the high collar of your dress that he so carefully fastened back into place in the brougham not ten minutes ago, and work it loose, followed closely by the second and the third.
Joel's eyes follow your fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Darlin’…”
You undo the fourth button, and the dress falls open by half an inch revealing the scarlet flush again on the bare line of your collarbone. You turn slowly, your back to him, and begin to walk down the hallway, your fingers continuing to work the buttons free as you go.
You feel him follow, his hand catching your elbow after a few paces, and he turns you, his mouth on yours before you can draw the next breath.
The kiss is not slow or careful, rather it’s the kiss of a man whose restraint has cracked clean down the middle and his mouth opens against yours with a low, rough sound in the back of his throat that’s almost a growl. His tongue slides against yours with a demanding heat that takes the breath out of your chest, and his hands leaves your elbow and your waist, gather up the entire length of your dress and hold you hard against him.
You let the small brass buttons go, your hands flying up of their own accord and fisting in his shirt at the muscle of his shoulders as you kiss him back with a hunger you haven’t known you possess, the heat in your stomach now drawing tight in a single drowning heartbeat.
He walks you into the wall, your back hitting it hard, but with too little force to cause any damage. His fingers pull the folds of your dress higher, and you feel the cool air settle against the bare skin of your stocking-clad ankles, then your calves, then your knees.
"Joel…you said…"
"I know what I said."
His hand reaches the soft tender crease at the top of your thigh again, the pads of his fingers tracing the slick heat of you beneath the gathered fabric, the slow, patient pressure of his thumb settling once more against your clitoris. You let out a high, helpless sound against the rough scratch of his beard as his lips dance over the skin of your throat.
He stops, pulls back and presses his forehead hard against yours, and you feel the long, ragged shudder that runs the entire length of his body as he lets out a low, rough broken sound against your mouth.
"Darlin’…I’m tryin’ to get us to bed. I’ll get us there, I swear I will…”
"I know,” you pant.
"Help me."
You exhale against his mouth and press your hand flat against the heavy thud of his heart beneath his chest feeling the ragged drag of his breath and the visible trembling of every line of his body beneath your palm.
You understand that he refused you in the brougham not out of any lack of want but out of the deepest possible declaration of intent, the declaration is costing him every shred of restraint he has left, and he’s asking you, now, to help him hold the last of it.
Drawing his hand carefully out from beneath the gathered layers of your dress, you lace your fingers through his. Then you turn, and start walking once more towards the bedroom, pulling him gently after you.
He follows closely with his hand tight in yours and his beard scraping warm and slow against curve of your shoulder where the dress has fallen open from the loosened buttons. His other hand fists in the fabric at the small of your back to keep you pulled against him and you make it another three steps before he stops, swings you round to face him and kisses you again.
You slide your hand from his and work the next brass buttons of your dress loose against his chest.
Then the next and the next.
The dress falls open from the small notch at the base of your throat all the way down to the high boned edge of the stays, and the scarlet flush is now blooming all the way down across the soft unstructured curve of your breast above the boned edge. The torn chemise has given up the fight of staying tucked beneath the stays and now hangs loose and disordered around the climbing heat of your skin.
He draws back from your mouth just far enough to look down at the bloom of you in the warm gold light. “Darlin’…”
"Yes?”
"Take off the dress.”
"Joel, the bedroom is…"
"You ain’t makin’ it to the bedroom in this dress, darlin’ ‘cause I won’t let you. So, take it off here, now.”
The scarlet flush blooms warmer across the soft swell of your bare collarbone as you raise your arms, allowing him to draw the dress up over your head with a patient, possessive thoroughness. He catches it in his hand, folds it once and lays it neatly on the floor at your feet, then he reaches up behind your head and gently draws the pins from your hair, teasing it with his fingers until it loosens from its knot.
A smile finally pulls at the corner of his mouth. "There, darlin’, that’s better."
You stand in your heavy boned stays and your loosened torn chemise and your layered cotton petticoat and your stocking-clad legs with your hair falling around the scarlet bloom of your bare shoulders and let your husband admire you.
His eyes travel slowly from your hair to your collarbone to the swell of your skin above the stays to the chemise to the petticoat to the line of your white stocking-clad ankles and he draws in a shaky breath.
“We need to keep movin’.”
You laugh and it comes out small, breathless and slightly hysterical, and he laughs too, low and rough and entirely undone. Catching your hand in his, he turns and starts to walk backwards, taking you with him, growing closer and closer to the bedroom door.
You make it there, then he turns you against the wall outside, his mouth dropping to your bare collarbone above the stays. His fingers find the heavy laces at the back, and you understand with a small, dizzy heartbeat that the stays aren’t going to make it to the bedroom either.
He works the knot at the small of your back, his fingers not entirely steady. The knot resists and you hear the low frustrated breath through his teeth. Reaching back over your shoulder, his hand closes around your wrist and together you work the knot loose. The first lace gives, then the second, then a third, and a fourth, the heavy boned structure loosens against your ribs, and you draw in your first deep breath of the afternoon.
He draws the stays away from your body and lays them, with the same careful, reverent precision he gave your dress, on the floor outside the door.
The torn chemise falls soft and loose against the bare skin of your ribs, your unbound breasts and your waist, and the small dark peaks that he drew so thoroughly tight in the brougham are entirely visible through fabric, his eyes finding and focusing on them with a heated intent that makes your knees tremble.
He doesn’t speak as he raises his hand, his thumb tracing one, very slowly, through the torn linen, the heat in your stomach draws tight again, and you sag back against the wall behind you with a whimper.
"Joel… the bedroom…please…"
He gathers you up, one arm going behind your knees, the other behind your shoulders, and lifts you off your feet against the heavy, hot length of his body. You wind your arms around his neck and press your face into the warm, slick hollow of his throat as he kicks the door open with his boot and carries you across the threshold.
The bedroom is cool and dim, the curtains still drawn from the morning, the room lying in a soft amber half-light, the late afternoon glow filtering through the gaps in narrow gold seams across the floorboards and the foot of the bed.
He lays you down on it, the sheets cool against the heat of your skin through the chemise. Your loosened hair spills across the pillow in a wave and he stands beside the bed for a long moment looking down at you, his hands at his sides, the ragged drag of his breath visible in the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt, the tremor in his hands at his sides now entirely visible.
"Darlin’ I…I need a moment.”
You raise yourself up onto your elbows, the chemise slipping down off the curve of one of your shoulders, one nipple becoming visible through the loose, disordered linen, and Joel's eyes squeeze briefly shut at the sight of it.
"Joel…you’ve seen me before, that night…”
“Not like this,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Not in this light. I haven’t…not like this.”
"Take your shirt off, my love," you encourage him, your voice lower and richer than you think you’ve ever heard it before.
His fingers go to the buttons at the front of the shirt and work them free. The trembling makes the work clumsy, the third button resists, and he makes a frustrated sound through his teeth and simply tears the rest of the row open with one hard, sharp pull. Buttons scatter across the floorboards, but he doesn’t look at them.
He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the floor in a heap behind him, the soft light of the dim bedroom falling across the plane of his bare chest, the rise and fall of his ribs, the dark scattered hair at his sternum and the pale scars from a life lived hard.
His hands go to the buckle of his belt, working it free, followed by the row of buttons at the front of his trousers. They fall to the floor around his boots, which he toes off, and he steps out of them, now naked before your eyes.
You draw in a small breath as the heat in your stomach draws tight, your eyes falling to the thick, heavy, hardness between his legs. You’ve never seen one before, other than in pictures in a medical book at the mercantile, and no drawing could have prepared you for this.
Sitting up slowly, you reach for him with both hands, and he comes to you, his weight pressing the mattress down beside you with a heavy creak, his hands settling at the loose, disordered chemise.
"Take this off, darlin’,” he instructs softly and you raise your arms again, allowing him to draw the torn linen up over your breasts, over your collarbone, over the loose waves of your hair, whereupon he tosses it carelessly on the floor.
The layered cotton petticoat follows. He finds the tape at the waist, works it loose with fingers that no longer tremble but move instead with a hot, inexorable focus, and draws the petticoat slowly down the bare length of your hips and your thighs and your stocking-clad knees and your calves and over your boots. Then he sets the petticoat aside on the floor and sits back on his heels at the foot of the bed.
You’re bare beneath him now save for the boots and the white silk stockings held in place by the ribbon garters tied above your knees. He doesn’t speak as he bends his head and works the laces of your boots, one at a time, his fingers moving with a possessive thoroughness. The boots come off one after the other and drop quietly to the floor beside the bed. Then he works the ribbon garters at your knees, rolls the white silk stockings slowly down the length of your calves and over your ankles before drawing them off your bare feet and setting them aside.
He looks at you now, his eyes traveling the length of you with a rolling, devastated reverence. “Look at you."
"Joel, please,” you beg. “I can’t wait.”
His eyes return to yours, a smile curving his lips again. "I know, darlin’. I’ve made you wait too long and I’m gonna fix that now.”
He comes up the length of the bed, his bare body settling along yours, his chest pressing against your breasts, nipples dragging against the dark scattered hair of his chest. The thick, hard length of him settles against the slick, bare heat between your thighs without yet pressing in, and you let out a long, broken, shaking sound.
His hand comes up, thumb tracing your cheekbone, eyes locked on yours. “Don’t be scared, darlin’. I’m gonna be careful with you, I promise.”
"Joel…"
"I gotta be careful, darlin’. It’s your first time."
"Please,” you whimper, your hips involuntarily sliding against his. “I don’t need you to be careful.”
“Yes darlin’, you do. I gotta be careful with you this first time and then, once you’re warmed up to me, we can do things differently.” He drops a soft kiss on the end of your nose. “Do you trust me?”
“I trust you,” you whisper.
He presses his forehead against yours, the visible trembling of his body returning in a long, ragged shudder along the muscle of his back where your hands have wound. The ragged drag of his breath comes hot and uneven against your mouth, and you feel the slow, careful press of him slide once along the slick bare heat of you without entering, the patient drag of him learning the shape of what he’s about to do.
“Feels like you’re ready for me.”
“I am, please, I am.”
"I love you, darlin’," he says gently.
"I love you too,” you reply, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
"I’m gonna love you and protect you for the rest of my life, darlin’. Now take a breath and hold on to me."
You inhale sharply and he presses in slowly, so slowly, to the slick, stretched heat of you, an inch at a time, filling you in the amber light of the bedroom while his hand cradles the side of your face and his thumb strokes slow against the curve of your cheekbone. There’s a small pain partway in, a bright thin sting that makes you whimper, and your fingers tighten on his shoulders, and he stills instantly.
"Darlin’, if I’m hurtin’ you…"
"You’re not, I promise. It’s only... only new. Please, my love, don’t stop."
He keeps going, slow and patient, the sting easing into a deep, full, astonishing stretch as he settles the last of the way into you, the hot length of him coming to rest fully inside you. His hips press flush against the inside of your bare thighs, and the heavy thud of his heart drums against yours through the bare press of his chest. He doesn’t move. He holds himself perfectly, trembling still, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your mouth, his eyes burning down into yours from inches away.
The bedroom is utterly silent.
You can hear the slow tick of the clock and the distant sound of cattle outside the curtained window, the ragged drag of his breath against your mouth and the ragged drag of yours against his.
You feel the heavy press of him at the very heart of you, fuller and deeper than you’ve imagined a man can reach inside a woman, and the realisation settles through every limb at once that the spinster in you is, in this single, suspended moment, being entirely and finally replaced by something else, by the woman who will lie in this bed for the rest of her life beside the man who loves her.
"You feel…so good…” he murmurs. “So good darlin’. So warm and wet…”
The heat in your stomach answers the heavy hot press of him with a slow, patient pulse, and you shift experimentally beneath him, making the smallest movement of your hips against his, and the hot rolling wave of sensation that subsequently travels the length of your spine causes you to let out a moan against his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut and his hand at the side of your face tighten.
"Don’t move, darlin’, not yet. Just…just give me a moment."
"I can’t, Joel. Please, I need to feel it all…”
The careful patient husband who’s been promising you all afternoon that he’ll be careful makes one last valiant attempt to hold the line and loses.
“You’ll feel it darlin’,” he promises shakily. “You’ll feel all of it – every damn inch.”
The first slow withdrawal and the slow, heavy press back in take your breath away entirely. You arch against the bed, your hands gripping his shoulders, and a broken sound escapes your throat which he answers with a low, rough sound of his own against the side of your neck.
He finds a rhythm, slow at first with a heavy careful roll of his hips into yours, the broad heat of him filling you and withdrawing and filling you again, slowly, carefully learning how your body answers his. He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, his chest moving slick and warm against your breasts, his beard scraping slow against the curve of your jaw with every slow, heavy roll.
The rhythm builds and the heat in your stomach draws tight at the heavy claim of him with a speed that startles you. The flush blooms warmer across your collarbone and your hands slide down his shoulders to the broad line of his back, your fingertips finding the shifting muscle beneath the slick skin, your heels pressing into the back of his thighs to pull him deeper.
You’ve never felt like this before.
"Joel…more, please…more…”
He makes a rough, undone sound against your mouth, and the careful roll of his hips deepens, becoming harder. The bed beneath you begins to creak softly with the rhythm, the headboard rocking, just perceptibly, against the wall behind it. His hand at the side of your face slides down along your throat and your collarbone and settles at the curve of your breast, his thumb finding the peak that his mouth so thoroughly suckled in the brougham, and the pressure of his thumb against it sends fresh hot sparks down to feed the slow, tightening boil low in your stomach.
"Joel…I’m... already, my love, I can feel..."
"I know, darlin’."
"How can I be... already... how…?"
"You’ve been waitin’, so long, darlin’, we both have.”
The slow, careful patient man is nowhere now. What moves above you is something hotter and more focused, the heavy claim of a husband who’s finally been given the run of his own house, and the heat in your stomach draws to a crescendo.
"Joel…"
"Come apart for me,” he pants, “come apart for me in our bed."
"Joel…"
"Look at me.”
You look, his eyes burning, as the heavy roll of his hips doesn’t falter. His hand slides back down your body, in between where you’re joined, and once more finds your quivering clitoris, circling against it in counter-rhythm to the heavy press of him deep inside you, and you realise you’re going to break as a rolling wave gathers itself in every limb.
"Joel…” you gasp. “Joel, I’m…”
“Yes, let go for me darlin’, let go. Scream my name.”
"Joel…”
“Yes…”
“Joel…!”
The wave breaks and you arch up against him with a high-pitched cry that fills the bedroom and doesn’t need to be muffled. Your fingers grip tightly to the slick skin and the muscle of his back, your heels dig into the back of his thighs, and your body clenches helplessly around the hot full length of him deep inside you. The wave rolls through you and keeps rolling, and the heat of him, deep inside you, turns every wave of it incandescent, and you hear him swear low and rough and absolutely undone against your throat.
"Oh…darlin’…mine…my girl, my sweet girl…! I love you…I’m gonna give you everythin’…!”
His rhythm shatters, the roll of his hips becoming something harder, faster and entirely unrestrained. The bed creaks harder beneath you, the headboard knocking harder against the wall, and his hand leaves your slickness and slides up to the curve of your hip, pulling you open wider and gripping you there with a force that will leave fingerprint bruises by morning that you’ll carry like a benediction.
He drives deep and hard, pressing so tightly against you that you can barely draw a breath. Then a long, ragged shudder runs through his entire body, and you feel the hot pulse of his seed deep inside you, deep, full and astonishingly intimate. The broken sound he makes against the curve of your throat is nothing you’ve ever heard out of any man and something that you’ll carry in your bones for the rest of your life.
For a long, suspended, trembling moment he holds there, his hand still locked at the curve of your hip, his chest heaving against your breasts, the heavy drum of his heart beating hard and ragged against your sternum. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat, his beard scraping wet and warm against the slick skin of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your collarbone.
The headboard stops knocking against the wall.
The bed stops creaking.
The light pools warm and unchanged across the floorboards and the foot of the bed, and the cattle continue to low outside, entirely unconcerned with what’s just unfolded.
Joel doesn’t move for a long time.
His weight presses you down into the warm tangled linen, his hand at your hip slowly relaxing, his breath gradually evening out and the heavy drum of his heart gradually slowing. Eventually he raises his head, eyes soft now, the heavy claim of a moment ago entirely drowned in the warm aftermath.
“That was…you were so good, darlin’, so goddamn good…”
You can’t, in that moment, form a word. Every breath has been torn from your body by the very act of loving and being loved.
His hand comes up to trace your cheekbone with a careful tenderness that makes your eyes sting again. Then he brushes a loosened strand of hair back from the slick skin at your temple, bends his head and presses a long, slow, reverent kiss against the corner of your mouth.
"My wife."
"Yes…"
"Mrs Miller."
"Mr Miller," you echo, your voice catching slightly over the word as you regain your breath.
"Did you enjoy that?" he asks, nuzzling the tip of your nose with his own.
You laugh, small and watery, feeling absolutely, profoundly, gloriously undone in his arms. “Yes…yes I enjoyed it very much.”
“I’m glad,” he murmurs, kissing you again, “’cause we got forty-eight hours before I need to go back to jail.” Slowly, he withdraws from you, the resulting coolness making you gasp. Then he rolls over onto his back, his arm sliding beneath your shoulders, and he gathers you against the warmth of his chest. “And once ain’t gonna be enough for me darlin’.
“Me neither,” you reply.
“You were too damn good. I’m gonna need to love you again before sundown and beyond. Lord…” he squeezes you gently. “Never thought I’d get to feel this way ever again.”
You gently kiss the top of his chest, your hand sliding over the sweat of his stomach, fingers gently stroking the skin there before slowly slipping lower into the hair under his naval.
“Easy darlin’,” he murmurs against your hair. “You gotta give a man a minute to recover from an encounter like that.”
“Tick tock,” you giggle, as his free hand moves to your jaw and pulls you slightly upwards so that his mouth can meet yours again.
The amber light of the bedroom holds the two of you in the bed, and you can honestly and truly say that the careful spinster of thirty-four years is finally, and entirely, gone.
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Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.
Hello!
This is my first original fic after The Pilot and his Girl and it will be a very different read (just in case you're totally traumatised by The Pilot...😬)
Twelve Pedro boys, twelve short stories, each set in the same bakery. The plan is to post one chapter every Sunday night so hold me to that schedule when my procrastination kicks in!
Warnings won't be very serious, just lots of fluff, lots of food, some mention of drugs because you know some of these Pedro boys are just like that.
Series Master List
@harriedandharassed tagging you in this because you said you wanted to read anything new ❤❤❤
The drawback of being a baker is that your working day starts when others are still tucked in bed with hours left to sleep. Or just coming home from a party. But you don’t mind all that much, there’s a certain tranquil peace to being awake and working in the bakery while the rest of the world sleeps.
In the warmer months you prop open the back door so that you can hear the birds starting to sing as the sky slowly grows lighter outside, today is just one of those mornings.
The early morning radio show is on low in the background as you prepare the day. Yesterday's loaves have proofed overnight in the cold storage and are ready for the oven, the pie doughs taken out and softening while you prepare the cookie doughs.
People don’t often knock on the bakery's back door before you open for the day, but it happens, so when you suddenly hear someone shuffle and knock, you’re not surprised. Wiping your hands on your apron you turn the corner into the small back room. A man is leaning on the door frame, but not the sexy, romance novel leaning. No, this man is leaning in a ‘lean-or-fall-over’ kinda way. His eyes are covered by large black sunglasses that he pulls down as you spot him, a tired but cheeky smirk on his face.
“Hey, baker girl,” he grins, his voice gravelly like he’s chain smoked all night, “got any sna- oh whoops!” he giggles madly as he loses his balance and tumbles sideways, catching the other door frame before he grabs onto your arms and almost manages to stand up straight.
“You might need coffee, not snacks,” you say, holding onto him to stop him from falling face forward into your apron.
“I’m fine,” he grins, pushing himself upright again but still holding on to the door frame, “I just came from this party, were you there?,” he asks, giving you another over the glasses look, this time clearly checking you out as his eyes drag up and down your form, lingering on your pink crocs.
“Actually, I would’ve remembered if you were there, love the crocs,” he chuckles.
“What’s wrong with my crocs?” you ask, slightly offended, “They’re great for people like me, you know, people who actually work on Thursdays.”
“No, no, I mean it, I love your crocs!” the man says, wide eyed and shoving his glasses up in his wild curls, “I have like ten crocs, one pair is pink too.”
He furrows his eyebrows, giving you a confused look, “Wait, it’s Thursday?”
“Yeah, five am, Thursday morning,” you say, wondering how to get rid of this disheveled man so that you can get back to the cookie dough.
“Fuck, oh fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck….” the man groans, bending double and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, “I’m so fucked…I thought it was Wednesday.”
He stands up again and you can’t help but feel sorry for him, he looks devastated.
“I was meant to fly out to San Antonio yesterday and take my nice to Six Flags for her birthday, and I fucking missed it!”
He slumps against the door frame and thumps the back of his head against it repeatedly, moaning, “I’m such a fuck up, I’m such a fuck up.”
“Hey, take it easy, I’m sure it’ll be fine, just apologize and take her another day,” you say, putting your hand on the man’s arm to stop him from giving himself a concussion in your bakery, “I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“You think?” he says, “I’m not the best at remembering birthdays, I may have missed a few in the past.”
“Well, then she’ll be mad at you, but all you can do is apologize right? And try to make it up to her as best you can.”
“Yeah…yeah…maybe you’re right, thanks baker girl.” He gives you a lopsided smile and you notice the smudges of dark eyeliner around his eyes, “How about those snacks? I’m fucking starving.”
You can’t help but laugh, the man’s a mess but somehow adorable at the same time with his wild hair and stained t-shirt.
“Sure, I’ll get you something, what do you like?”
“Do you have sausage rolls?” he asks, following you into the kitchen, “I fucking love sausage rolls.”
“What, like those things they made on the Great British Bake Off?” you reply, opening your walk in fridge to survey the snack options.
“Yeah, I did this movie once, in England, and there was a bakery next to my apartment and whenever I got back from a party, early morning, I’d knock on their back door and they’d sell me these fat sausage rolls, fresh from the oven, fucking amazing.”
“Sorry, no sausage rolls in this bakery,” you say, “but my cookies will be done soon, if you can wait.”
You turn back to the man and realize he’s wandering around the kitchen, sticking his nose in your bowls, sniffing loudly.
“Hey, don’t stick your finger in that,” you say, “Health and Safety are going to have my license if they catch you.”
“Sorry, I’ve just got the munchies, I’ve been high for like, two days,” he says, waving his arms around, “this place is torture for a high pers-OH! Do you know what I love?”
“No,” you sigh, exasperated, “I don’t know what you love.”
He completely misses your tone as he spins in a circle around the kitchen and you realize that he’s wearing what looks like very expensive pajama pants and no shoes, just socks.
“I love those…what do you call them, like…millionaire’s something?”
“Millionaire's shortbread?” you ask and he spins around to you with a big grin.
“Yes! Those! With like the chocolate and the peanut butter and they’re like the best Reese’s ever, only even more fucking amazing. Can you make those?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” you begin and the man actually falls to his knees, shuffling over the floor to you.
“Please, I’ll do anything, I’m dying here, beautiful baker girl, make me happy!”
“Are you asking me to bake for you or proposing?” you laugh, this man is too ridiculous as he grins up at you.
“If you make them for me, I won’t marry you, but there are many other things I can do,” he says, pulling down his dark sunglasses from his head and winking at you from over the edge, his cheeky grin making it impossible to scowl at him.
“Fine, I’ll make them for you, just get up from my floor, please,” you say, reaching for his hand. He takes yours with a bright smile, kissing the back of it, before he stumbles to his feet and follows you over to your big workbench.
“I’m Dieter, by the way. Can I sit here?” he asks, pointing to the stool that stands next to the bench.
“Nice to meet you Dieter,” you say, “sure, go ahead, it’s got wheels on it though so be careful.”
“Awesome,” Dieter says and sits down, immediately speeding across the floor with a kick of his socked feet. He stops himself from crashing into the fridge door by grabbing on to the handle before he shoots off again, rolling all the way over to the open back door.
“Don’t fall out through the door please,” you call after him and you hear him giggle, a second later he comes spinning into the kitchen again.
“This thing is awesome, I need to buy one for my house.”
“Happy you’re enjoying yourself,” you laugh and walk to where yesterday’s bakes are stacked on trays. You’d made a layer of shortbread yesterday, you were planning on making lemon bars but Millionaire’s shortbread will work too. As you bring it over to your work station Dieter rolls past you and stops by the bench.
“Can I help?” he asks, looking up at you, his sunglasses back in his messy hair. He’s kinda cute when you think about it, gorgeous brown eyes, and the smile he’s giving you is open and curious with an adorable dimple.
“Yeah, sure, you can be in charge of peanuts,” you say, walking over to the dry storage, “They need to be bashed into chunks with a rolling pin, something tells me that’s something you can probably handle.”
“That sounds fun, please, direct me,” he says, kicking himself over to the storage cupboard on the stool.
“Oops, sorry,” he giggles, grabbing hold of your hips to stop himself from crashing into the storage door, “I kicked too hard that time.”
“Go easy there, Dieter,” you laugh as he untangles himself from the stool and stands up. You get on your tiptoes to grab the peanuts and suddenly realize he’s still holding on to your hips, standing close behind you. You swear you feel his nose brush the side of your head, a quick inhale from him, and then he steps back, letting go.
“Peanuts?” he says, leaning past you and reaching up to grab the bag sitting just out of your reach. His arm brushes over yours and he’s suddenly very close again, his citrusy after shave, mingling with the heady sweet smoke of weed, fills your senses.
“Uhh…y-yeah,” you stutter, “thanks. And the dark chocolate if you can reach it.”
“Sure, this one?” he asks, grabbing the bag of Valrhona from the shelf. This time his chest is pressed against your back, you really should move out of his way, but he’s right behind you, almost pinning you in place, as he has to stretch to his full length to reach. And you find that you don’t mind at all, he’s warm and solid behind you, and this is more action than you’ve had in months.
“That’s the one, thanks,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral.
Dieter brings it down to your level and you take it from him, expecting him to step back and give you room to go back to the work bench. But instead he stays right behind you, and this time you really do feel him bend down and brush his nose over your cheek, down to where your neck meets your shoulder.
“You smell delicious, like a cookie,” he mumbles and your heart literally skips a beat.
“Th-thanks,” you splutter and when Dieter steps back, letting you move, you avoid his eyes, feeling your cheeks burn.
“S-so the…umm…rolling pin is on that shelf there,” you say, pointing down to your right, “and there’s a measuring cup too, just…umm…just get a cup of peanuts, and put them in a plastic bag and bash away. Just wash your hands first.”
“Ok, I can do that,” he says with a grin and he walks behind you to the sink in the corner while you measure out the peanut butter into a sauce pan.
Dieter gets to work on the peanuts with great enthusiasm until you tell him they’re broken up enough.
“Just leave them there, you can come here and stir the peanut butter while I get the caramel ready,” you instruct him and he ambles over in just his socks.
“What happened to your shoes? If you don’t mind me asking,” you point at his stripey, multicolored socks.
“I’m not sure,” Dieter glances down at his feet, “I had shoes when I left home, I’m sure of it, but after that it gets a bit hazy.”
“You’ve really been partying since Tuesday?” you ask and he nods.
“Yeah, it was a good party so we just kinda kept going,” he grins, “there was a huge pool and we all went in. Actually, maybe that’s where I lost my shoes?”
“Maybe, you could go back and look for them?”
“And miss out on baking with a pretty baker girl? Never!” he chuckles and you’re not totally sure he’s being serious or not, but the grin he gives you makes you hope he is.
“I think this is melted,” he says, draggin the spoon through the silky smooth peanut butter, showing you the bowl.
“Yeah, that looks done. Just pass me that tray of shortbread and I’ll pour the caramel on top.”
“Can I lick the bowl?” he asks, looking over your shoulder as you let the thick golden liquid pool on top of the shortbread.
“I’m pretty good at scraping, there’s usually nothing left to lick,” you say, dragging the spatula around the edge.
“Can’t you be a bit sloppy, just for me?” Dieter grins, standing entirely too close, “It smells so good, I wanna taste it.”
This time he’s definitely flirting, the salacious smile on his face while he winks at you, makes you both roll your eyes and squash down butterflies on the inside.
“Fine, I’ll leave some for you,” you smile, looking back at the shortbread again and scraping out caramel, leaving the last of it on the spatula. Putting the bowl to the side, you hold out the spatula for him. But instead of taking it, he grabs hold of your hand, and licks the caramel off the spatula with a long swipe of his tongue. His eyes don’t leave yours and the whole thing is so over the top you burst out laughing.
“Jesus fucking Christ, tone it down maybe?” you snort, as he abruptly stops licking, letting go of your hand.
“What?” he blushes, “I saw it in this movie, it looked sexy.”
“Yeah, in a porno maybe!” you say, handing him the spatula, and only the spatula.
He takes it with a sheepish look, “Sorry, that usually works.”
“Not in this bakery, I have to work with that spatula when you’re gone, I can’t have it being used as a porno prop, Dieter.” You grab a new spatula from the holder on the counter and start smoothing out the caramel.
“You do smell good though,” Dieter says, still looking sheepish, “that wasn’t just a line.”
“Thanks,” you shoot him a quick smile, working over the caramel, “you smell good too, underneath all that weed funk.”
At this he grabs the front of his t-shirt and sniffs it, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, it’s kinda obvious, huh.”
“Can’t believe you partied for forty-eight hours, I’d be dead on my feet,” you say, mixing the peanut butter into the caramel layer, sprinkling in some of the crushed peanuts, “Do you want coffee or something while we wait for this to set?”
“Fuck yes, coffee sounds amazing!” Dieter exclaims, dropping the spatula from his mouth, “And this stuff is amazing too, I’d eat a bowl of just this.”
“You’d die of a sugar rush if you did,” you laugh, sliding the tray into the large fridge and setting a timer on your phone, “C’mon, the coffee machine is out front.”
One of the advantages of being the sole owner of the bakery was that you got to decide what to skimp on, and what to splurge on. And the espresso machine was something you’d really splurged on. For a shop that mainly sold take out baked goods, it was way over the top, but it meant you always had great coffee on hand for your early mornings. The machine was already up and running, humming quietly as you started preparing two shots.
“How do you take it, Dieter?” you ask and he winks at you.
“Anyway you wanna give it to me, baker girl,” he grins and when you sigh loudly, he laughs and holds up his hands in defense. “C’mon! I had to! You set it up perfectly!”
“How do you take your coffee?” you emphasis and glare at him, but your smile is breaking through and he gives you a playful poke as he comes up and stands next to the machine.
“Extra everything, cream, sugar, any of those coffee syrups if you have ‘em.”
“Why am I not surprised?” you smirk, “A guy who loves Millionaire’s Shortbread, of course he wants extra everything. I bet you’re lining up outside your local Starbucks the morning they start selling Pumpkin Spice.”
“I would never drink Starbucks!” he protests, “Fucking vile coffee and the worst of corporate America. But you can’t beat a good pumpkin spice if you’ve got quality coffee.”
“I’ve only got great coffee here, but no syrup, you want a latte? Double shot espresso?”
“Please,” he says, leaning against the counter next to the espresso machine as he looks over the front of your little shop, crossing his arms. You can’t help the glance up at his arms, the t-shirt hanging on for dear life as it clings to his biceps and broad shoulders. The many rings on his fingers look tiny on his large hands as he grips the outside of his arms, and you’re temporarily distracted by them, and his close proximity.
The hiss of the machine pulls you back to reality, coffee sputtering out of the spouts into the cup. You glance back up at Dieter and find him watching you with a crooked smile, a dimple in his cheek.
“What?” you say, looking back at the machine and begin to steam the milk.
“You really are beautiful,” he says, almost matter of factly, “especially when you zone out.”
“It’s early, and I’ve been up since two am, but thanks, I guess,” you reply, handing him the latte and pointing to the sugar bowl on the counter next to the till.
“I wasn’t trying to make a move or anything,” he says, sounding slightly hurt, “I just wanted to tell you I think you’re gorgeous.”
“No, I’m sorry,” you say, immediately regretting your tone, “I’m just not used to compliments I guess, I didn’t mean to sound so rude. I should’ve just said thanks,” you look over at him and give him a smile, “Thanks Dieter.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, smiling back.
You knock out the used coffee grounds and fill it up again to make your own coffee. Dieter reaches over and grabs four sugar cubes and drops them in the latte, stirring while he watches you work. He’s watching you closely again and it makes your cheeks heat up. He’s got a strange energy of childish mayhem and intense magnetism, chaos that’s either going to make you laugh until your sides hurt or fuck you until you can’t walk straight for a week. And you’re not sure which one you want.
Your coffee done, you add a splash of milk and lean against the counter opposite Dieter, taking a careful sip. He’s wrapped both his large hands around the thick glass and is delicately licking the foam, drawing a pattern in it with his tongue. You watch him for a few seconds until he notices you and gives you a sheepish grin.
“What?” he asks, copying your tone from earlier.
“You really think I’m pretty?” you ask, the question slipping out before you have a chance to stop it, immediately regretting your filterless mouth.
But he gives you a disarming smile, “Gorgeous. Gorgeous baker girl that smells like cookies and caramel and chocolate.”
“You’re just high,” you can’t help but scoff at him, but he just shakes his head.
“No, not at all.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just looks at you, the silence stretching between you until you think something will have to snap and it’s probably going to be you.
The phone saves you, the timer going off just as you don’t think you can stand another second of his chocolate brown eyes looking at you like you’re the snack he’s been asking for.
“Thecaramelisset,” you rush out, breaking eye contact and hurrying back into the kitchen as if another second in the fridge would ruin the whole thing. Dieter comes in behind you at a slower pace, still drinking his coffee.
You pull out the tray and set it down on the workbench before turning on the burner under a saucepan of water, setting up a water bath.
“I’m just gonna melt this chocolate, and then I’ll spread it on top, it’ll set pretty quickly. And then it’s done.” You work quickly, too flustered to look at him and he hoovers just to your side, watching your movements.
The chocolate melts fast, you only need a thin layer, and then you pour it over the caramel. You scrape the bowl clean but leave a generous amount of chocolate on the spatula, giving it to Dieter.
“Don’t burn your mouth, it’s still warm”, you say when he takes it. He doesn’t grab your hand this time, but his fingertips brushes over yours as he nods, and it sends a sharp little jolt through you.
You turn back to the almost finished shortbread but can’t help glancing over at him. His pink tongue comes out and licks the chocolate, this time it’s not over the top, nothing provocative about it, he’s not even looking at you. But you swear you can feel every stroke of his tongue on your own skin, burning hot and wet.
You swallow and tear your eyes away, blindly reaching for the crushed peanuts, taking a handful and scattering it across the chocolate. The Millionaire’s Shortbread is done and you slide the tray back into the fridge, it only needs a few minutes. Dieter remains by the counter, finishing off the chocolate on the spatula as you start to clean up the kitchen and bring out the cookie dough that still needs to be taken care of. You see Dieters eyes widen as he sees the first scoop of dough land on the baking tray.
“Is that chocolate chip,” he almost whispers reverently, spatula forgotten, as he slowly comes over to stare down into the bowl.
“You want to try it? It’s double chocolate chip with browned butter.”
He makes a gurgling noise in the back of his throat, tilting his head back before he looks at you and nods, “Please, it smells so good.”
You grab a tasting spoon, giving him a generous scoop and watch with a smile as he puts it in his mouth. His eyes close of their own volition as he moans, far too enticingly, around the spoon.
“Oh my god…” he sighs, slowly chewing the dough, “This is like heaven, better than sex, better than fucking coke.”
“Knock yourself out,” you chuckle, “it’s not healthy but it’s sure as hell better for you than coke.”
“And sex?” he asks with a wink, still rolling the dough around his mouth.
“They’re probably on par, but this is tastier than cum.”
Dieter nearly chokes, coughing loudly as you giggle. Between repeated attempts at clearing his throat he points his finger at you accusingly, trying to grin between his coughing.
“You’re…” he coughs again, “You’re a dirty baker girl!” he finally manages, grinning widely as you go back to scooping dough, still giggling.
“I can’t believe I said that, but you did serve it up perfectly.”
“I did, but I never thought your mind was that filthy, I’m appalled” he laughs, placing a hand on his chest in a mock gesture of shock. “Better than cum huh? You have a lot of experience in that department?”
Now he’s winking again, poking to get more details out of you. So instead you take another tasting spoon, scoop up more dough and put it straight into his mouth to shut him up. It works, he grins around the spoon and smacks his lips at the taste.
“So fucking good, definitely better than cum,” he smirks, earning an eye roll from you. “Do you wanna taste it?”
“I’m good, I’ve already tasted the dough many times,” you reply, careful to specify that you’re talking about dough.
“Maybe not like this though,” Dieter says, suddenly bending down and pressing his lips against yours. It almost makes you jump, his soft lips against yours, his aftershave, it all envelops you in an instance. He’s not touching you anywhere else, just your lips, and you can’t taste him, his mouth is still closed. Maybe you should push him off, the thought flits through your mind for a split second. But you want to taste him, taste the cookie dough you know is delicious, mingled with him, so you part your lips, your tongue coming out.
Dieter lets a quiet groan slip out as he part his lips, letting you in, opening his mouth and tilting his head to come closer. You hear the spoon clatter to the floor as his hand comes up and cups your cheek, his big hand reaching behind your neck, another stifled groan from him. He tastes of sugar, coffee and chocolate, all flavors mingling into something enticing that pulls you closer.
There’s nothing delicate about this kiss now, you lick into his mouth, and he offers you all the space you want, holding you close and moaning softly as your tongues tangle.
“Touch my hair,” he mumbles, breathing into your mouth, “I want to feel your hands in my hair.”
“They’re all sticky, Dieter,” you protest but you feel him shake his head, his lips brushing over yours.
“I don’t care, touch me, hold me, I want to smell like you when I leave,” his tongue slips between your lips, and you run your hands through his hair. You can feel it sticking, tugging at his wild locks but he just groans, his hands holding you tighter and, encouraged, you let your own hands run across his body, eliciting another loud groan from him.
Tension is building between the two of you, he is growing hard against your belly, unmistakably turned on and doing nothing to hide it. You can feel heat radiating from your own core, so scorching he must feel it too through the thin fabric of his pajama pants. If this doesn’t stop soon he’ll have you bent over the workbench in a minute, and Health and Safety would definitely have something to say about that.
With a groan and tremendous effort, you put your hands on his chest and push him away. His lips chase yours for a few seconds, eyes closed, a protest coming from him, before he looks down at you with a sigh.
“You taste even better than you smell,” he says, not letting go of your cheek, his other hand still around your waist.
“The cookie dough goes really well with the coffee,” you reply, your mouth quirking up in a smile and he matches it, a dopey look on his face.
“Amazing,” he breathes, "you're amazing, baker girl.”
His adoration makes you tremble, you feel the heat in your cheeks, and he sees it, leaning into your lips. He stops and looks at you for a beat, to ask for your permission, and when you don’t pull away he presses a soft kiss to your warm mouth, so different from the hasty, heated kiss you just shared. This one lasts only for a few seconds, gentle, before he pulls back, his hand slowly trailing along your check.
“I should probably call for my ride,” he says softly, “it’ll take a while to get here.”
“Ok,” you nod, “the shortbread should be done too.”
“Ok,” he replies, but he doesn’t make a move to leave and you can’t seem to take your eyes off him.
“I really should…” he sighs, tracing his fingertips over your cheek again, “call that ride.”
“Go, do that, I’ll cut the shortbread, we can have some while we wait for your ride.” You lightly put your hand on his warm chest and push him away, smiling, but you really want to bunch your hand in the soft t-shirt and pull him closer.
“Ok,” he says, louder this time, as if making up his mind. He shoves his hand in his pocket, miraculously finding his phone intact as you bring the tray out of the fridge.
The whole thing has set into layers, so you take a sharp knife and start cutting rectangles, slipping them up and onto the tray that goes in your display case, some go into a take away box, two you put on a separate plate and then look around for Dieter, spotting his broad back out by the back door. Just as you come over to him he ends his call, turning around to you with a smile.
“My ride will be here in about twenty minutes,” he says, following you to the doorstep and sitting down. You sink down next to him, maybe a little bit closer than necessary, but he’s wide and takes up almost the whole door frame. Your cookie dough is still waiting for you, you’ll be playing catch up with your baking for the rest of the morning, but it’ll be worth it. This chaotic, disheveled man has made your morning a lot more exciting than usual and you’re a little bit sad to see him go.
“Here, what you came for,” you say, holding out the plate, and Dieter takes one of the Millionaire’s Shortbread.
“I can’t believe you made these just for me,” he grins and bites into it. You watch his face, this is your favorite part of baking, watching people when they taste the finished thing. And Dieter doesn’t disappoint, he groans, loudly, grabbing onto your arm and leaning his forehead against your shoulder, his whole body reacting to the flavors in his mouth as he chews.
“I Iive here now,” he moans, “I’m giving up my career, I’m going to live in your bakery and pay you to feed me for the rest of my life.” He lifts his head up and takes another big bite of the shortbread, groaning again as he looks at you, his eyebrows pulled together, big brown eyes pleading.
“How is this so good?” he moans, his tongue coming out to catch an errant peanut crumb, “you’ve got to taste this.”
He holds up the last bite of the shortbread to you, and you open your mouth, letting him place it between your lips. You feel his fingers brush over them as he pulls back, his thumb coming up to swipe over your bottom lip.
“It’s really good, I’m pretty happy with this,” you say, trying to not chew with your mouth open as Dieter looks at you, his eyes on your lips.
“Do you want another one?” you ask, holding up the plate and Dieter nods fervently and groans again as he takes a bite.
“I can’t decide, this or sex, which is better,” he chuckles, and you nod. You know the cake is good, but you can’t help but wonder if sex with Dieter might not be even better.
You sit side by side in the early morning sunshine, eating the cakes. Dieter soon finishes his second one and cracks the lid on the take away box you’ve given him, sneaking a third one with a childish grin that makes you happy to see.
“Seriously, I live here now, I’m moving in tomorrow,” he mumbles, moaning between bites, leaning on you, his head on your shoulder.
“You do that Dieter, I might even let you lick the bowl once in a while,” you say, patting his messy hair.
“Lick the bowl or lick your bowl, baker girl?” he giggles and you give him a light smack, shaking your head.
“Enough with the porn jokes,” you scold him, no menace to your words, he can hear the smile in your voice and giggles again.
“Can I put my head in your lap?” he asks, “Nothing weird, I promise, I’m just really tired suddenly.”
“Ok, sure, but your ride should be here soon.”
“Yeah, I just wanna relax my eyes for a while….” Dieter yawns and slips down the stairs to sit on the last step, hooking his arm around your hips and putting his head on your lap. The warm weight of him on your legs is actually comforting, his arm a steady hold behind you. Without thinking about it you start carding your fingers through his hair, adding to the sticky mess, making it stand on end, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It takes him minutes to fall asleep, a low rumbling snore coming from him.
You keep stroking his head for a few more minutes before you carefully lift his head up and slip out from under him, letting his arm be his pillow. You need to go back to baking, your first customers will be arriving soon and you haven’t even put the cookies in the oven, you want them fresh and warm when the early morning commuters arrive.
Back in the kitchen you quickly scoop the rest of the dough on the trays and get them in the oven and start stocking the display case out front with what’s already done. You’re just sliding the last croissants into the tray when the opening hour strikes and you flip the sign on the front door. You’ve been listening out back for a car to pull up but you haven’t heard anything and once the morning rush starts, you’re swamped and a couple of hours pass before you even realize. When it finally calms down you wipe down the counter and clean your hands before checking out by the back door. It’s still open, but Dieter is gone, as is the take away box, not a trace of your chaotic, magnetic early morning visitor.
Hours later, as you’re about to close up for the day, a delivery van pulls up in front of the shop. A man in a uniform jumps out and comes rushing in with a box and an extravagant bouquet of flowers with a vase.
“Delivery for you, miss,” he says, handing you a device to sign your name on, and then the flowers and the box.
“Thanks,” you say but the man is already halfway out the door.
The flowers fill the small shop with their scent, and you place them on the counter, next to the till, stopping to stick your nose into the white lilac and breathing deeply before getting the shop closed up.
You flip the sign and take the box into the kitchen, the back door is still open to let the warm spring air in. Sinking down on the stairs where you sat with Dieter just this morning, you open the box. It contains another box and inside that, a note. But there’s also a mouth watering, rich, smell of pastry and meat coming from the box. Intrigued, you open the lid, only to find a thermal container inside, like a small version of the ones used to keep delivery pizza warm. Inside are six fat, delicious looking sausages rolls. Your stomach gives a hungry grumble and you immediately grab one, laughing as you remember Dieter’s first request this morning; sausage rolls, like the ones he bought in England after party nights.
The sausage roll really is as delicious as it looks and you grab a second one before you pick up the note that came with them.
It's a double folded piece of paper, so thick it almost looks like part of a canvas. On the inside a note is scribbled in a looped, flowing handwriting.
“Next time I’m asking you on a date, baker girl /D”
Part Two
If you want to make Dieter's Millionaire's Shortbread, here's the recipe I used.
Peanut Butter Millionaire's Shortbread with melt in the mouth shortbread base, peanut butter caramel & chocolate topping - it's pure heaven!
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Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You start executing your plan.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Thank you for all the love 🥰
Masterlist
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You walk out of the Sheriff's office on legs made of pure, vibrating steel, the bright sunlight hitting you like a physical assault after the dim gloom of the cell block. For a single, dizzying moment, the dusty main street tilts violently beneath your feet. You grip the porch railing of the Sheriff's office, your knuckles going stark white, and force yourself to breathe through the wave of nausea.
Not yet. You can’t fall apart yet. Joel’s still behind those bars. Sarah’s still waiting for her father to come home, and Reverend Sawyer is still walking around Sawyer's Creek with his head held high.
You have work to do and you’re not about to let the lingering remnants of a fever stop you now.
Tomás is instantly at your elbow, his face dark with concern, his hand hovering just under your arm in case you sway. "Señora. You are pale. We should go home now."
"Not yet," you murmur, pushing off the railing and straightening your spine. You smooth the front of your dress with hands that you refuse to let tremble. "I have another call to make, but I’d be grateful for your arm. I need to go and see Doc Cooper. As the chair of the town council, he’s the first person I need to speak to.”
"Sí, Señora," Tomás nods, offering his arm. "But please eat something first. There is bread in the wagon."
"Bread can wait. I’d rather do this now. Please?"
He hesitates for a brief second before nodding and offering his arm. You walk down the wooden boardwalk together, your chin tipped high, ignoring the renewed stares of the townspeople, many of whom you’ve known all your life but are seeing you now in a new guise.
As you pass the Silver Dime, the scent of sweat and stale whisky wafts through the swing door making your stomach turn over. But you swallow hard and keep going until you reach Doc Cooper’s clinic.
“Thank you Tomás,” you say, sliding your arm free. “I can manage from here.”
“I’ll wait out here,” he replies and you nod before pushing open the door and stepping into the cool, shadowed interior.
The waiting room smells of carbolic soap and dried herbs and the first person you see is Mrs Cooper, sitting behind a small desk, knitting. She looks up, her face draining of colour the instant she recognises you.
"Mrs Miller!" she gasps, dropping her knitting needles into her lap. "Goodness, we weren't expecting... are you ill? Has the fever returned?"
"I’m perfectly well, Mrs. Cooper, thank you," you reply smoothly, though the suffocating heat of the cell block still clings to your skin like a film. "I’m here on a matter of urgent town business and I need to speak with the Doctor immediately. In private."
Her eyes dart nervously toward the closed door at the back of the room. "He’s... he’s with a patient at the moment, my dear. If you would care to wait…"
"I would not," you interrupt, your voice perfectly polite but cold. "Please inform him that I’ll be in his office as the matter can’t wait."
You don’t wait for her permission. You do the thing you would never have dreamt of doing in a million years whilst life consisted of you standing behind the counter at the mercantile. When you existed as mere furniture, rather than someone’s wife. You walk directly past the small desk, open the door to the doctor's private office, and step inside, closing it firmly behind you.
The office is small but meticulously organised. A heavy oak desk dominates the space, covered in medical journals and a brass microscope. Glass-fronted cabinets line the walls, displaying neat rows of brown apothecary bottles and gleaming silver instruments that as a child you would stare at in wonder. The air smells of pipe tobacco and ether.
You sit down in the chair facing the desk, fold your hands neatly in your lap, and wait.
As it turns out, you don’t have to wait long.
The door bursts open precisely ninety seconds later and Doc Cooper hurries in, wiping his hands on a clean white towel, his face already shining with a fresh sheen of sweat.
"Mrs Miller!" he exclaims. "My word, this is most irregular. Most irregular indeed. My wife informs me you would not wait…"
"I would not," you confirm calmly. "Please close the door, Doctor."
He hesitates, his eyes darting toward the open doorway as if his wife might rescue him from this encounter. Then he sighs heavily, shuts the door, and walks around to sink into his heavy desk chair. He sets the towel down, folds his hands on the desk, and tries to compose his face into a mask of professional concern.
“It is wonderful to see you looking so well again, my dear. I must confess, I feared for you when I visited the ranch. You were in a much worse condition than Mr Thorne.”
“Yes, but as you can see, I’m now quite recovered.”
“Yes, thank heavens. It is a curse indeed that one who helps heal another is inadvertently struck down by the same malaise.” He clears his throat. “So, may I ask, my dear, what appears to be the trouble? Is it residual weakness from the fever? Some lingering... feminine complaint, perhaps?"
You stare at him for a long, freezing moment, letting the silence stretch out until his nervous smile falters and dies on his lips. This is a man who has known you your entire life, treated every bump and scrape and childhood illness – and he knows exactly why you’re here.
You lean forward slightly in your chair. “Doctor, we have known one another for many years, so let us not insult each other's intelligence. I’m not here as your patient. I’m here representing the Miller ranch to inform the chairman of the Sawyer's Creek town council exactly what’s going to happen over the next few weeks."
Doc Cooper’s flushed face goes even redder. He fumbles to remove his spectacles, polishing them frantically with the corner of the white towel. "I’m sure I don't know what you…"
"You know precisely what I mean," you cut in, your voice never rising above a perfectly civil murmur, which somehow makes it ten times more terrifying than a shout. "My husband is currently sweltering in a brick cell, charged with attempted murder for the crime of defending his dying wife from a vicious man who came uninvited to our home to celebrate her impending death. You know this is the truth, Doctor. You saw the condition of my husband when you attended to me, and you know the kind of man he is."
He swallows hard, refusing to meet your eyes. "The legal proceedings, my dear, are entirely outside my purview. I am a man of medicine, not law."
"You are a man of medicine and the chairman of the town council," you correct sharply. "I’d like you to convene a meeting.”
“For what purpose, exactly?”
“So that I may explain what I’m sure you already know – that the town council has the authority to write a unanimous letter of character to the judge. A letter that would carry significant influence on the question of whether this case proceeds to trial at all."
"My dear, Reverend Sawyer…”
“I think addressing me as Mrs Miller would be more appropriate for the purposes of this conversation.”
Doc Cooper pauses, then inclines his head slightly. “Mrs Miller…Reverend Sawyer, as you know, is a beloved spiritual leader of this community. To publicly contradict his sworn testimony would be…"
"Profitable," you finish smoothly.
You let the single word hang in the air between you and watch the small, calculating mind behind the flushed face begin to whir.
"I beg your pardon?" he says carefully.
"Profitable," you repeat. "Let me speak plainly, Doctor, because we’re both adults and I’ve very little patience left for euphemism. Everyone in Sawyer’s Creek, and the surrounding towns, purchases from our ranch. They rely on our beef to survive, not just in feeding their own families, but for their own businesses as well. Our ranch also purchases our flour, our coffee, our cloth, our nails, our lumber, our medicines, and our liquor from Sawyer’s Creek merchants to the tune of approximately eleven thousand dollars per year."
Doc Cooper's mouth falls slightly open.
“Now, I am hardly going to cause hardship to my own father, but as of today, everyone who has a contract or agreement with our ranch will find that contract or agreement under review.”
You lean back in your chair, folding your hands neatly in your lap.
"If my husband walks out of that cell a free man, Doctor, every single contract or agreement will be reaffirmed and indeed expanded. The Miller ranch will continue to flourish and prosper, as will everyone in this town. If, however, he is bound over for trial, or, God forbid, hangs from a gallows on the basis of the vindictive words from a bitter preacher... I will personally see to it that the grass grows over the foundations of every business in this town within eighteen months."
The silence in the small office is absolute as Doc Cooper’s face slowly cycles through several shades of red, his eyes wide with a dawning, profound horror. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.
"Mrs Miller," he finally rasps, his voice cracking slightly. "What you’re proposing is... is coercion. It’s intimidation of a public official."
"It’s business, Doctor Cooper," you correct serenely. "Reverend Sawyer is attempting to use the machinery of the state to settle a personal grievance. I’m simply informing the elected leadership of this community of the financial consequences of allowing him to do so and I’d like the opportunity to address them on this point.”
“I don’t think…I mean, I am the chairman and I can…”
“Then you may make whatever decision your conscience dictates. I’m merely ensuring you make that decision with all the relevant information at hand."
You stand up slowly, smoothing the front of your dress with hands that you absolutely refuse to let him see tremble.
"You have one week," you state, looking down at him from your full, unyielding height. "One week to convene your council and draft a letter to the judge expressing the community's grave doubts about the credibility of Reverend Sawyer's testimony and the unblemished character of my husband. If such a letter hasn’t been drafted, signed, and dispatched by the morning seven days hence, I’ll instruct Tomás to begin the process of dismantling our local accounts and cancelling all contracts and agreements."
The doctor sits frozen in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles have gone white.
"Good afternoon," you murmur politely, then you turn, open the door, and walk out, moving through the small waiting room with perfect, glacial composure, offering a polite nod to Mrs Cooper before stepping back outside.
And there, standing not ten feet from you on the wooden boardwalk, is Reverend Sawyer, with Belle by his side.
Your heart stops as her gaze immediately locks onto yours, the narrowing of her eyes a sure indication of the ill-will she continues to bear towards you for stealing what she, and her father, believe is hers. You’ve never liked her. Hadn’t you said to your father when he told you of the Reverend’s plans that Belle was not Tess?
The two sisters could not have been more different in outlook, Tess’s pleasant, charming manner at severe odds with Belle’s dour, sullenness. But the younger Sawyer girl shares her sister’s dark hair and blue eyes and would most likely be married now were it not for her father’s obsession.
"Mrs Miller," the Reverend intones, his voice deep and rolling. He doesn’t tip his hat or nod, he simply stands there, blocking your path on the narrow boardwalk, his pale eyes raking over you with thinly veiled disgust. "I had heard the rumours that you had risen from your sickbed. I confess I was sceptical, but here you stand, in defiance of God's evident will."
The world goes very, very still.
The dusty sounds of the main street – the creak of wagon wheels, the distant laughter from the saloon, the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer – all fade into a deep, ringing silence. You can feel the blood pulsing in your temples and the muscles in your jaw locking so tight your teeth ache.
This man. This man whose chapel you have sat in, Sunday after Sunday, and listened to. This man who holds himself up as a true example of Godliness. This man whose beloved daughter had once been Joel’s wife – as dear to him as you now know you are.
This is the man who stood in your yard and spoke of your death. This is the man who wished for the fever to take you so that his pale, sour daughter could climb into Joel's bed. This is the man whose vicious scheming has put your husband in a brick cage in the suffocating heat.
"Father," Belle says, her gloved hand tightening on her father's elbow, the angry look on her face clearly at odds with her wish for a public conversation. "Father, perhaps we should…"
"Hush, Belle," the Reverend snaps, his eyes never leaving yours. "I will address this woman. The Lord has placed her in our path for a reason."
You take a single, deliberate step forward on the boardwalk.
Tomás, standing a few feet away, instantly straightens up, his eyes narrowing. He takes two steps toward you, his hand drifting toward the knife at his belt, but you stop him with the smallest, sharpest shake of your head.
This is your fight.
"You will address me, will you?" you say softly.
Your voice comes out perfectly level and so quiet that the Reverend has to actually lean slightly forward to hear you. But the words slice through the still afternoon air like a freshly stropped razor.
"I hadn’t realised, Reverend, that there was anything left for you to say to me. You spoke quite eloquently to me in my father’s store before my marriage and then you came to my home and told my husband that it was the Lord’s will that I die from the fever and that he might then seek comfort from… Belle.”
Your gaze slides to her and you don’t even bother trying to disguise your own contempt, beneath you though you know it is.
Belle snorts slightly. “Comfort? You make it sound as though all I craved was his bed.”
“If the shoe fits.”
Belle gasps, but the Reverend's pale, granite face doesn’t so much as flicker.
"I spoke God's truth," he says coldly. "Your marriage to that man was a violation of the natural order. You, a nondescript spinster, a mercantile owner’s daughter, presuming to take the place of a virtuous Christian woman in the bed of a respectable widower is an aberration of that order. A widower marries his wife’s sister, if she is fortunate enough to have one. The fever was a judgment. Your survival is an abomination."
"Tess wanted me to marry Joel,” Belle adds smugly. “She wished for it. She told me, that if anything ever happened to her…”
"Be silent," the Reverend says, without even turning his head, and Belle’s mouth clamps shut.
You smile, the cold, slow, lethal smile of a woman who has spent thirty-four quiet years cataloguing every cruel man who has ever underestimated her, and who has finally, finally found one she can ruin, made almost all the more sweet in the knowledge she has known him all her life.
"An abomination," you repeat softly, tasting the word. "How interesting. My understanding of listening to you from your pulpit week after week, year after year, is that the doctrine teaches us that all life is sacred. That every breath drawn upon this earth is a gift from the Almighty. And yet here you stand, in broad daylight on a public boardwalk, informing me that my continued breathing is an abomination. Tell me, Reverend, do you reserve this view exclusively for women who decline to deliver your daughter into a marriage?"
A small, sharp gasp comes from somewhere behind you, but you don’t turn to look. A small crowd has begun to gather on the opposite side of the street. Two women have stopped outside the milliner's shop, a pair of cowboys pause in the doorway of the feed store and out of the corner of your eye you can see Mrs Cooper peeking through the window, her face white.
Good, you think, let them all hear.
The Reverend’s pale face finally begins to colour, a thin, angry red creeping up from his black collar into his gaunt cheeks. "You will not address me in such a manner, woman! I am an ordained minister of the Gospel. I am a duly elected member of this community. I have served the spiritual needs of Sawyer's Creek for more years than I care to remember, and I will not be lectured by you – a child I baptised, a woman whose mother I buried, a spinster…!”
"You will be lectured by whomever I choose," you say quietly, taking another small, deliberate step forward, close enough to smell the sour, stale odour of his black wool coat and see the muscle twitch in his jaw.
Belle moves slightly behind her father as though she fears you mean to strike her.
"You came to my home, sir," you continue, your voice never rising above that soft, lethal murmur. "You came while I lay dying, and you tried to barter my husband's future over my unburied body. You provoked a grieving man to violence so that you might bring a charge against him, see him hang or take his child from him, all because he wouldn’t marry the woman you believe he should. You have shown no interest in your granddaughter since her mother passed and yet you now seek to inveigle your way into her life by destroying what little she has. You are a liar and you are a sinner and you have the unmitigated gall to call my survival an abomination."
"How dare you…" he snarls.
"I dare," you cut in coldly, "because there is nothing left in this world that you can take from me. You’ve already tried to take my life, and you’ve already tried to take my husband. You’ve failed at both and there is nothing left in your bag of tricks that frightens me."
“If you had just let him marry me, none of this would have happened!” Belle snaps.
“And did he make you an offer?” You turn your gaze to meet hers. “Did he come to your door, fall to his knees and beg for your hand? No, he did not. He came to my door and asked for my hand. If my husband harboured even the slightest inclination towards you, he would have asked you. Clearly, he favoured me over you. And as for Tess desiring you as her successor…” you look Belle up and down. “Knowing her as I did, I fail to see how that could be even remotely possible.”
Belle’s jaw drops. “You…! Everyone knows he hasn’t taken you to his bed! A marriage of convenience…huh…as if he could ever…”
Your chest burns, and you want to rebut her, you do, but instead, you summon every ounce of restraint you have, ignore her, and turn your full, freezing attention back to the Reverend who’s now vibrating with rage. His eyes bulge slightly in their sockets, and the thin red flush has climbed all the way up to the crown of his narrow skull.
"You will regret this day, woman," he hisses, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "I will see your husband hang, and if that proves unsuccessful, I will show him to be the unfit father that he is. I will demonstrate that Sarah, my granddaughter, is better placed in my care than in the care of a man who cannot control his temper and a woman who has no claim to her!”
You look at him for a long, slow, deliberate moment – this pathetic, bitter, small man who has spent his entire life mistaking the volume of his voice for the authority of God. As a child you feared him, as an adult you tolerated him. Now – you pity him.
“You are nothing to me, Reverend,” you smile. “You are a sour, bitter little man in a dirty black coat, and I will not waste another breath conversing here with you. Tess would be ashamed of both of you. Good afternoon, Reverend, Belle."
You step around him on the boardwalk and don’t look back. You walk at a perfectly measured, perfectly civil pace down the wooden planks, your skirts swishing gently around your ankles, your spine straight as a rifle barrel, your chin held high.
Behind you, you can hear the Reverend sputtering, his voice rising into an incoherent, choked rasp mingling with Belle’s higher pitched, righteous indignation. You can hear the absolute, deafening silence of the small crowd that’s gathered, every single person utterly transfixed by what they’ve just witnessed.
You walk, one foot in front of the other, the boardwalk stretching out before you, somehow seeming impossibly long. The wagon is just there, just twenty feet away, just across the dusty street in front of the Sheriff’s office and you can feel Tomás behind you close but not touching.
Don't fall. Don't fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
The edges of your vision begin to soften, the bright sunlight taking on a strange, hazy quality, the collars of the storefronts blurring and bleeding together like wet paint. The deafening silence of the boardwalk is slowly being replaced by a high, ringing tone in your ears.
You step down into the dirt of the street, the drop, no more than six inches, jolting painfully up through your spine. Your knees, which felt like steel only moments before, suddenly feel like wet paper.
Twenty more feet. Just twenty more feet.
You force one foot in front of the other. The wagon seems to be receding further away with every step, and you can feel Tomás’s heat at your back.
Ten more feet.
A fine, cold sweat starts to break out across your forehead and along the back of your neck, soaking into the high collar of your dress. Your heart is hammering so hard against your ribs that you can feel each individual beat shaking your entire body. The triumphant adrenaline that’s carried you through the encounter with the Reverend is draining out of you like water from a cracked cup, and underneath it, the deep, profound exhaustion of a body still recovering from a near-fatal fever comes rushing up to claim its due.
Five more feet.
"Señora," Tomás says from behind.
You make it, your hand catching the rough wooden side of the wagon. Your fingers grip it, hard, and for a single brief moment you think you might be able to climb up unassisted. Then the world simply tips sideways. The ringing in your ears swells into a roaring tide. The hazy sunlight contracts into a single, narrow tunnel of light, and the tunnel rapidly starts collapsing into pure black. Your knees give out completely, and you feel yourself slumping toward the dusty Texas dirt.
"Madre de Dios…" Tomás catches you before you hit the ground, his arms sweeping under your knees and around your shoulders, lifting you up against his chest. You’re dimly, distantly aware of the smell of him and the sound of his voice, murmuring close to your ear.
“Don’t…” you whisper, your eyes fluttering. "Don't... don't let them see..."
"Hush, Señora," he says fiercely, lifting you up over the side of the wagon and laying you down carefully on a bed of soft wool blankets. "They have seen nothing. They have seen only a great lady, finishing her business and going home. Now you rest."
He bunches a folded blanket beneath your head as a pillow then pulls another one up over your trembling shoulders, despite the heat. Then he pulled the canvas cover up over the wagon bed to shield you from the sun and the prying eyes of the town, the world above you becoming a soft, dim, filtered amber.
"You stay there, Señora," he commands gently, his face appearing in the gap at the front of the cover. "You do not move. You do not speak. I’m taking you home now."
You can’t answer him, can only close your eyes, sinking deeper into the soft wool blankets, the violent trembling in your limbs slowly, slowly beginning to subside as the wagon rocks into motion.
The horse surges forward, the heavy wooden wheels crunching over the dusty street. You can feel the rhythmic sway, the gentle jolt of the rutted road, and somewhere in the haze you register that Tomás is driving faster than he’s ever drove with you aboard.
You drift, the encounter with the Reverend and Belle replaying in fractured, dreamlike pieces behind your closed eyelids. You’ve done it. You’ve publicly humiliated a man who has spent years building a fortress of false respectability in this town. You’ve done it in front of witnesses. By tomorrow morning, every household in Sawyer's Creek will be repeating the words you’ve spoken on that boardwalk. By tomorrow afternoon, Doc Cooper will be convening the town council in a state of barely contained panic.
The dominoes are falling.
You’ve set them all up. You’ve walked into the lion's den with a perfectly civil smile, and quietly, methodically tipped the first one over.
Now you just have to survive long enough to see it through.
Hold on, Joel, you think, your hand drifting up to press against your fluttering heart. Hold on, my love. The storm is coming.
And then, finally, blessedly, the darkness rises up and claims you completely, and you know nothing at all until the ranch comes into view, and Tomás shouts for Maggie, and the great unbroken sky stretches out above you.
I don't have words to say really for how insane I feel right now. If you have been a Mando fan from from the first season, second even...and read the fics, written the fics. You guys, we had like 4 screenshots and then one magazine cover to go off of!
You just had to be there. SEVEN YEARS!
And now he's just out there looking the hottest he's ever possibly looked, wearing the suit FOR FUN!
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Hello! It's almost been a full year since I first posted chapter 1 of this story. I'm slowing chipping away at the story, but don't worry, I have a full story, and I know how it ends. I just need to find the time to write it all! But here is a new chapter, and this one is the one you've been fearing...
Set in the 11th century, the plot centers around Pero Tovar as he's caputured and sold as a thrall to a Norse family. Bad fate finds him, and he struggles to free himself and escape. But he also meets new people who in time become friends and allies, and bad fate, can turn into good fortune for both him, and the most unlikely Norse woman.
Series Master List
Warnings for the whole series: graphic violence, slavery, abuse, sexual and otherwise, references to non-con sex, arranged marriages, time period typical stereotypes of both men and women and anyone "foreign".
No use of Y/N and the reader is kept as blank as possible, but, she's the daughter a Norse lord in 11th century Norway and will have features that correlate to that.
The winter dragged on for another few weeks for both thralls and free people after the return journey back to Ulvehi. Then the light began to return, slowly brightening the days and making the white snow shine almost painfully sharp on the mountains whenever you stepped outdoors.
But the days in the long house were slow, and you tried to fill your time preparing for what seemed like the inevitable journey across to England. You'd decided it should be easier to get Pero to come as your bodyguard if you seemed resigned to the idea of marrying again. If you protested too much, your father might send a greater number of men to escort you, and then escape would be much more difficult. So like a dutiful wife-to-be, you spent your time mending your clothes and making new ones for a wedding you had no intention of attending. But you also made preparations that would serve you on the journey; a new cloak with hidden pockets for a few valuable coins, skirts made for riding. There was also a new dagger and small axe that you'd taken from the smithy, and a sturdy belt to keep them hidden and secure under your cloak. You would not travel unarmed, not on this journey.
But you were also sewing something else, piecing together the blue of Ulvehi that you loved, and the dark, muted, red of Pero's old cloak. He'd told you it had been left behind in his house in England, and how he missed that thick cloak during the cold winters. The colour of your dress had reminded him of it, the rusty red from his homeland, and now you were patching together the blue and the red into a blanket. To someone watching, it might look like you were just using up valuable scraps of cloth to make a shawl, but to you it was much more important. A piece of you, and a piece of him, side by side, overlapping and making something new, a warm blanket to wrap someone precious in. Because if your counting was right, you would have a new family by the end of the year. You’d been cautious with Pero, but you'd never missed a single bleeding with Grim, and you thought it couldn't happen for you. So perhaps, on some occasions, you’d begged him to spill inside you, just to keep him as close as possible. But now, at one of your brief meetings with Pero, something must have changed inside you, and his seed had taken.
It was still such early days, barely even a month, but something, maybe a deep female instinct, told you it would hold. Maybe there was nothing wrong with your body after all, no one knew for certain how it worked. You only knew that somehow, Pero's seed had taken root, and now your bleeding was late. You hadn't said anything to Pero yet though. You wanted to be really sure first, and to find the right time to tell him. But the shawl that you were making would hold a part of you, and a part of him, Ulvehi's blue, and Tovar's red.
Thorsten watched you work on the shawl, as he often did lately. His eyes followed you around the long house, lingering as you tried to avoid his eyes, giving him no reason to approach. His gaze was annoying, but your relationship with him had been cold as ice since he tried to force himself on you in the stable. You hadn't even told Pero about it, just tucked it away, and snapped at Thorsten whenever he got too close. Pero only knew that Thorsten was hoping to marry you, but that you had turned that idea down, and injured his pride in the process. It was best if Pero knew to be extra careful around Thorsten, but not enough to want to bash his head in. Although, the way the two men glared at each other, you didn’t think either one needed any other reason to pick a fight. You were certain Pero would love to face Thorsten on the battlefield, and show him what he could do when he wasn’t in chains. The whipping Thorsten had given Pero after his first attempt at escaping still stung, and you knew he hated Thorsten as much as he hated your father.
And if the man still harboured thoughts about you marrying him, he'd soon find out that he was the last one you'd ever consider. And it gave you a small pleasure to know that Thorsten would probably find out eventually who you’d chosen over him. But now, in the long house, his presence was irksome, and you turned your back towards him, hiding your face from his staring.
If Thorsten noticed your annoyance, he said nothing, he just sat back against the wall on one of the benches as usual, his legs stretched out in front. His hands were busy honing the blade of an axe that he'd had made recently. But his eyes often came back to you as you sat with your head bent over the trim of your new shawl. He knew you'd work for an hour or so in the morning while the light outside was still dim. Then you'd stand up and stretch your back and pack away your sewing. Then, without fail, you'd make your way to the stable, Ravn following close behind, the large black dog like your shadow now. Thorsten knew you'd spend at least two hours in the stable before returning for the midday meal, and sometimes he'd make an errand down to the stable too, enter quietly and find you in Aska's stall. But what he'd also find was the scar faced thrall, never far away from you in the stable. Never too close, but always nearby, in the stall next to Aska's, or working on some piece of equipment. He would raise his head as Thorsten came in and give him just a quick glance, just a brief moment, but always defiant. Thorsten could see the hatred that simmered beneath the surface in that one.
Thorsten detested him. Despite whipping his worthless hide within an inch of his life, the thrall had somehow survived, and Thorsten knew you'd been involved in it. You wouldn't let Thorsten, one of the Jarl's most trusted men, get close to you. But this stinking thrall you'd care for like he was a brave fallen warrior? And that was even before he'd supposedly saved your life from the wolf. Now the hawk nosed thrall seemed to always be in your presence whenever you left the long house, always hovering nearby in the stable or the kitchen gardens. Even being allowed to be your protector when you left Ulvehi. Thorsten seethed when he thought about it as he watched you pack up your sewing.
This early spring morning had passed quietly in the long house, many of the men outside with the ships, doing the final work needed before the summer season began. There had been a shift in the weather and even indoors, the dripping of melting snow could be heard. Give it another week and the ice would break up on the fjord, the shift in colour could already be seen, dirty yellow patches appearing in the porous sheets of ice, water starting to break through.
You had stood up and left for the stable, Ravn as your shadow as always, and Thorsten was just about to follow when his Jarl called for him.
"Thorsten," Asgeir said, waving him over, "We need you, come."
He followed Asgeir back to the Jarl's private room where he stood leaning over a large sheet of parchment. Thorsten recognised it as one of Ulvehi's most priced possessions, always safely stored behind lock and key; a map over the northern routes from Norway across to England, Scotland and beyond.
"Look at this, Thorsten," the Jarl said to him, pointing to the small island known as Iceland on the map, "men are coming back from Iceland saying there is rich land to the west of there. The journey is long and dangerous, few have dared it since Leif Eriksson, but the rewards could be tenfold to the risk if reports are to be trusted."
"The map is empty to the west of Greenland," Asgeir said, "But we spoke to Håkon and one of his men at Steinvikr. The man, that short redhead, Sten, he's been to Greenland, and the men there said that Eriksson came back from his journey west with tales of endless forests and lakes, filled with game and timber."
"I want to send ships and men to the west, and I want you to lead them, Thorsten," the Jarl said, looking up at the hirdman who nodded in agreement, "Take three of my strongest ships, resupply in Greenland, gather as much information as you can, and then sail west to this new land."
"Sten said the Greenlanders call it Vinland," Asgeir put in, "If it's as fertile as rumoured, it would be a good place to found a settlement for trade."
"And with our new connection to England, we'll have plenty of ports to trade in," the Jarl smiled, clearly happy with his plans, "You'll be rich too, Thorsten."
"I'm honoured, Jarl," Thorsten replied, looking at the map and large tracts of water that lay between Ulvehi and Greenland, "To go west from there would be a great adventure."
"It'll be an adventure for the sagas even," the Jarl said and Thorsten could only agree. This would give him not only wealth, but reputation. Enough to found his own family, even a clan, supported by the Ulvehi Jarl.
"I'll consider who to take with me, some of the young men without families, and a few of the strongest fighters. If we leave when the ice clears, we should be able to reach Greenland at the beginning of summer. And then, depending on what we find, we stay the winter in this Vinland, or come back to Greenland."
"Good, it's a solid plan," the Jarl said and looked up as there was a knock on the door and Amina stepped inside.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking at Asgeir and Thorsten, "I can come back later, but I wished to speak with you, Jarl."
He nodded in response and signalled for Asgeir and Thorsten to leave.
"Please, come in. What makes you look so concerned, child?"
The Jarl rolled up the precious map as Asgeir and Thorsten left, and gestured for Amina to come further in. She'd grown up at Ulvehi, the daughter of a beautiful thrall woman who'd Agnar could still remember capturing in one of the raids of his youth. She'd been irresistible, and if Agnar hadn't already been married, he would've considered taking her as his wife. Instead he took his right as Jarl and bedded her many times, before she married another one of the thralls. She'd been pregnant before long, and he still suspected Amina was his own daughter. And he suspected most of Ulvehi had also guessed this, but it did not stop him from being soft on her, treating her more like a daughter than a thrall.
"I…I don't know if it's my place to say anything…" Amina began, and the Jarl furrowed his brow, gently putting his hand on her arm and guiding her to sit down.
"Come, tell me. You know I will listen to any complaint you have. Is one of the men giving you trouble?"
"No, no, it's just…it involves your daughter I think, and that thrall, Hauknefr," Amina glanced over her shoulder towards the door as if to make sure no one else was in the room as she lowered her voice.
"What of him?" the Jarl asked, his look darkening, "He swore to protect her, is he trying to escape again?"
"I-I don't know for certain, but it's the way he looks at her, and...I think maybe he…he's attached to her, wants her, I mean," Amina wound her fingers together as she watched the Jarl's face shift into something more dangerous, "The other thralls whisper about them…"
"And her? What does my daughter think of this thrall throwing looks at her?"
"I think…I think maybe she does not mind, Jarl."
"Asgeir!" the Jarl roared, making Amina jump, "Thorsten!"
The two men thumped through the door, their faces looking as if they were expecting an attack with how loudly their lord had shouted for them.
"Amina has just told me that hawk nosed thrall who calls himself Tovar is lusting after my daughter," the Jarl growled, his fists clenched, "I want him brought to the docks and whipped, and this time he will bleed out."
Thorsten grinned, nodding his head, "I'll go at once, Jarl, I'm sure I'll find him at the stable with her as always."
"Jarl…" Asgeir said, holding up his hand to stop Thorsten who had already turned to the door, "A word of caution…If you flay him publicly without proof, rumours will begin about your daughter. They are sure to reach the English, and they will not want the alliance after she has been tainted. The Christians are much more…sensitive, about a woman's honour. They place an extraordinary importance on their virtue."
The Jarl growled, "What will you have me do then? Let him leer at my daughter? Let her have him? They've already started rumours."
"Take her to England as soon as possible, as soon as the fjord opens," Asgeir replied, "Then you can deal with the thrall as you see fit. And in the meantime, keep her occupied in the long house, have her involved in the women's tasks. Don't give him the opportunity to be near her."
The Jarl did not look happy, but he nodded, "Your counsel is always wise, Asgeir, old friend, although it will need to bite my horn to keep from flaying that dog's back to the bone."
Thorsten growled, still held back by Asgeir's hand, "I will make sure he does not come close to her again, Jarl."
"Amina, what does she still need to do before she leaves for England, something that will keep her in her room?" the Jarl asked, and Amina took a moment to think.
"She has not yet made a cloak with her new husband's sigil, that will take many hours to make."
"Good, I will instruct her to begin work on it at once, and you will oversee it. Be her helper, and I want you to let me know if she says anything of Hauknefr."
Amina nodded, and made to leave, but the Jarl held up his hand to stop her, "Thank you for bringing this to me, Amina. Your loyalty to me and the family will not go unnoticed, I promise."
Pero had learnt to see the early signs of the northern spring during his two years at Ulvehi, and this year he was watching for them even more closely than last. Stepping out this morning from the thrall house, he could hear birds singing for the first time in many months. They were always quiet during the winter, as intent on surviving as the humans, and the only sound he ever heard were the sorrowful cries of lonely ravens or crows. But now he could hear the bright trilling of small birds in the nearby bushes, a clear sign of spring. He knew that as soon as the ice broke up on the fjord, preparations would begin for you to leave for England, and he intended to be ready, and to make sure the Jarl remembered that he would go with you as your bodyguard.
The months had been slow though, the cold kept everyone indoors, and even when you came to the stable to see Aska, it was too risky. Pero had only been able to steal one moment alone with you in weeks, there always seemed to be someone else around, not least Thorsten who had become your shadow as much as Ravn in recent days. Pero hated him, not just for the whipping he'd given him, but for the way the blonde man hung around the stable, always finding some work to do and glancing over at you. Pero longed to have you to himself, not just to satiate his very basic lust, but to be in your presence, to talk to you freely without having to guard his words. And he wanted you to touch him, to be able to feel your soft hands on his skin or in his hair without worrying about someone seeing the way he turned to putty whenever your fingertips carefully traced across his scar. Thoughts of your hands kept him up at night, and invaded his dreams when he did fall asleep. But now he couldn't even find a moment to steal a kiss in the stable.
Not since sleeping next to his wife had a woman had such an effect on his mind, it made him feel incomplete when you weren't around, and it was a new sensation after all these years. But with the hold you had over him came a new worry. He hadn't been able to save his wife, but he had to save you this time, if only he could protect you from this Englishman you were meant to marry. He'd been granted the blessing of finding someone like you, in the most unlikely place, and he was determined to keep you safe. But staying away from you, not having you in his bed, or next to him at all times, it made him nervous and anxious. Every day felt like a potential risk of discovery, and he tried to keep his head down, keep his eyes off you, and not be tempted again to take risks.
The nights in his bed were long and cold, and only his dreams of you had kept him warm as the long Norse winter dragged on.
"I cannot believe how long this winter was, Pero," you mumbled, keeping your voice low behind the overgrown raspberry bushes. He was holding them up as you attempted to gather them with twine to support them. Grim's family in Sigtuna had cultivated the wild raspberries that grew around their town, and it had given you the idea to do the same at Ulvehi. Raspberries grew in abundance in the forest, and you'd had a few bushes dug up and replanted back when you thought you'd be staying at Ulvehi. You'd be leaving them behind soon though, the ice was drifting down the fjord and the ships were already in the water.
"I've missed you so much, even on the days I've seen you. I cannot wait to be away from here and in England with you."
"Lift it a bit higher on this side, my lady," Pero replied, looking over at the thralls digging up some of last year's turnips from the wet soil in another part of the field, "I've missed you too, amor," he whispered in reply, risking a glance down at you where you knelt by the raspberry roots, "Soon, and then we just have to keep apart on the journey over, and then we run."
"Being on the ship with you will be hard," you said, keeping your voice low too, looking up at him as you adjusted the branches higher up, "There won't be much room, and we can't raise any suspicions."
"I know, but it's just for a few days. With good winds it shouldn't take long. Soon, amor, soon."
You sighed and tied a strong knot in the string, someone else would have to harvest these bushes in summer. With the help of the gods you'd be far away and safe with Pero in England when these berries were ripe.
"Where in England should we settle?" you asked, moving over to the next bush and starting the process again as Pero followed. He gathered the wayward long branches into his gloved hands as you helped keep them out of his face, smiling as he winked at you, his back to the other thralls.
"I've thought about it," Pero replied, "and I have some ideas. Your people trade almost all across England these days, but the north east has very strong ties to both Norway and Denmark, so we can't stay there. The lord's people, and maybe your family, will be looking for us, and the risk is too high that someone recognises you. So we should go further south as soon as we can, and I think we need to leave the areas of England where your kinsmen have a lot of influence. Wessex, in the southwest, should be safe."
"Wessex, that's where king Alfred had his seat?" you asked, the name coming to you from an old story about one of the English kings before Cnut of Denmark became king of England too.
Pero nodded, "Wessex is still Anglo Saxon, there were no Norse people there when I was last through. And there is a big town, Exeter, where we can easily hide. Or if we go to one of the smaller towns further south in Somerset or Devon, we can hide away in some small village."
"I'll be happy wherever we're safe, Pero, but Wessex sounds like a good option," you said, tying another knot and sitting back on your heels, "There, the bushes are all done, maybe they'll have fruit in a few months, but we won't be here to see it."
Pero pulled off his gloves and straightened up, stretching out his back, giving you a glimpse of his flat belly. He'd shrunk since he came to Ulvehi, hard work and less food had made him lithe, but the tantalizing trail of soft hair that disappeared into his breeches was still there, and it took effort to pull your eyes from it as you stood up too and turned away from him, towards the other end of the field.
"Come, help me with the manure, I'll show you what I need you to spread on the roots of the raspberry bushes."
"My lady," he replied as you walked past the other thralls, "I can fetch the hand cart and fill that with manure."
You hated the way his tone changed when he spoke to you in front of other people, suddenly sullen, subservient, in both his voice and posture. He did it only to protect you both, of course, but to hear his beautiful warm voice change into something so sour, it hurt your heart.
You pushed down the urge to touch him, caress his cheek, chase away the scowl on his face, and just nodded.
"Fetch the hand cart and a shovel, and meet me by the dung heap."
He gave you a curt nod, and changed direction while you made your way to the back of the stables. But by the long house the door opened, and Thorsten stepped out, watching you disappear behind the stable, and Pero walking towards the hand cart. His mouth tightened as he watched you both, and clenched his fists.
It was back breaking work for the thralls working in the stable to muck out the stalls each day. You knew Pero filled the hand cart at least three times every day, more often in the winter, with what all of Ulvehi's horses left behind. Horses you'd have to leave behind soon, you realised, even your own Aska. She would not be able to come on the week long sea journey across to England. Ravn would come though, he'd fare better on the ship than your horse.
Pero pushed the hand cart around the corner and left it next to the large dung heap, sticking the shovel into the muck.
"You really are making me work today, princesa," he smiled, the scowl gone from his face now that it was just the two of you again.
"Pero, come here," you said, "let that wait, I need to tell you something."
Your counting was right, you were sure of it now, it had been too long since your last bleeding, and now you took his hand and rested it against your belly. It didn't show anything yet, it was far too early, but still, you wanted him to feel it. Pero's brow furrowed in confusion as his hand rested on your dress and you smiled at him, waiting for him to catch on.
"I've counted the days, Pero," you said, and the confusion deepened in his eyes as he looked down at his hand. You counted one moment, and another, and then realisation hit him, his eyes widening and you couldn't help laughing at his stunned face.
"A child?" he asked in a hushed whisper, taking a step closer so that he could wrap his other hand around your back, "Are you certain?"
"I think so, it's been another week since the moon shifted and there are some signs, but it's very early yet. But I wanted to tell you, I couldn't keep it a secret."
"A little one…" Pero breathed in a low voice, still stunned as he looked up at you. His mind was working as his face shifted from confusion to surprise and then suddenly into worry, "I should've been more careful, it's not safe for you to be with child now, not while we are still here."
"We'll be leaving within a week or two, by the time I'm showing, we'll be far away," you told him, cupping his cheeks to bring his eyes back to yours, "I'm happy, Pero. I didn't think the gods would let me have a child, I was never blessed with Grim. To have one with you, it's all I could've asked for."
Pero's face softened, leaning his forehead against yours, "Of course, amor, it makes me happy too. I just wish I had more to offer you and the child, it will be a hard life before we are safe and settled again."
"It will be fine, my love," you told him, "We'll be together at least, and I can get through the hard times as long as you're with me. And we have such a good life waiting for us when we reach Wessex."
"It'll still be hard," Pero said, cupping his hand around your cheek as you closed your eyes, breathing in his warm breath, feeling it against your skin, "But I promise, I'll keep you and our child safe. I'll always be with you, and keep you both safe."
His arm was tight around your middle, pressing you against him as his mouth found yours, forgetting where he was, lost in the thought of a new life growing inside you, a child he felt had already settled deep in his heart. His child, his and yours, and it brought a new purpose to his life.
"When we get to England, I'll marry you," he mumbled against your lips, "in front of your gods or mine, it doesn't matter. I want you to be my wife."
"Pero," you smiled, wrapping your fingers around long curls at his neck, "I'm already your wife."
"And I'm your husband, amor. But I want to do it properly, even though I have no ring to give to you. But I have a small gift I've been working on, I'll bring it tomorrow to the garden."
"Pero, you-"
But he cut you off, pressing his lips to yours again, imagining he could already feel a second heartbeat in you.
Behind them, the dry grass of last year crunched under Thorsten's foot as he glared at the scene in front of him. The knuckles of his hand went white, grabbing the corner of the stable wall, the wood creaking under his tight grip. There, standing by the dung heap, you and the thrall, just as he'd suspected when he saw Hauknefr push the hand cart around the corner, and it filled him with rage.
The sound of his fist hitting the wall made you both jump apart as he roared for the Jarl.
