ng

her hand touched the doorknob. Sh

aracteristically hesitant. "Why a bakery? You could

ho valued efficiency and prest

just a foot away. The playfulness wa

ove it," she

e skin at the base of her fingers and the webbing of her thumbs was rough. Thin, w

hands of an heiress. These were the hands of a worker, marked with scars and calluses that told a story of hardship he couldn't

t their worst in Paris, the smell of butter and sugar was the only thing that got me out of bed. Flour,

n't a hobby, Dalton. This is my life. This

er eyes was undeniable. It was the fire of a survivor. The

s thumb brushed gently over the rough callus on her palm. The to

. The roughness in his tone was gone, replaced by a

was electric. She looked down at his hand holding her wrist

lightly across the sens

e went straight, his eyes widening. The sensat

mile playing on her lips. "So, Dr. Bar

on. It was a deman

posure. He looked into her eyes, seeing the cha

. A promise from a man w

ed and slipped inside the cottage, lea

t the palm. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, warm and teasin

le trouble. And the worst part was