what? Forever hold my peace?”
She smiled before she could stop herself. “Something like that.” The warmth that slid into his eyes somehow worked its way inside her as well, and she remembered how he’d made her feel when they were flirting.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t need anything. Other than . . . I just wanted to see how you were doing. And to check on your daughter.”
“Oh. She’s not my daughter.” Not that it was any of his business.
“What? What in the world are you talking about?” His voice went as shrill as hers had seconds earlier.
They both laughed at his parroting of her words. But he looked confused. “That wasn’t your little girl this morning?”
“Portia is my brother’s child,” Shayla offered.
“Porsche! I knew it!”
“What?” She propped her hands on her hips. “Somebody better start talking some sense here pretty quick.”
He grinned. “That’s your daughter’s—I mean, your niece’s name? Porsche. Like the car?”
“It’s Portia.” She spelled it for him. “And what do you mean ‘I knew it’?” She mimicked his crowing.
“In my dream—my nightmare—you were yelling that. Porsche. Over and over.”
Now he was dreaming about her?
“I guess you were yelling that in real life too. Portia. Her name, I mean—it sounds like the car. You know—Porsche?”
“I know what a Porsche is.”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember much, but I remember you yelling her name. The whole thing is kind of a blur.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. But yes, I’m sure I yelled her name. Scared the potatoes out of me.”
He laughed. “Yeah, me too. I just keep thinking about what could have happened. It could have been so much worse—”
“No.” She waved a hand at him. “I don’t even want to go there. I’m just trying to forget it happened.”
“So what did your brother say when he heard about it?”
Oh boy. Here it came. She swallowed and averted her gaze. “My brother?”
“You didn’t tell him yet?”
“Oh.” She looked at the floor. “He doesn’t know. He’s . . . out of town.”
“Well, I’ll vouch for you, if you need me to. There wasn’t anything anybody could have done. It was just . . . one of those things. So, you were babysitting?”
She stared at him. He was awfully nosy. Good looking as all get out. But nosy. “Something like that,” she said.
He gave her a look that asked for more.
She checked the clock above the cash register. “I really need to close up shop.”
He followed her gaze. “Oh, right. Sorry. And I need to get to work. Can I give you a lift home?”
“Not unless you want to carry me up those stairs?” She nodded toward the open staircase that hugged the back wall of the store.
“Seriously? You live here?”
“Last time I checked.” She probably shouldn’t have told him that. Daddy had left for Bowling Green—to see Jerry—at noon and wouldn’t be home till late. Portia was upstairs watching TV. They were essentially alone. Not that she was scared of Link Whitman. She’d had enough dealings with the Whitman family to know they were good people. The grandmother used to live here in Langhorne before they’d put her in a home, and one of the sisters still lived here. The one with the adorable twins.
“There’s an apartment upstairs, huh? I never knew that. So you guys own the bakery?”
“Us and the bank.” He didn’t need to know that the apartment was essentially a warren of bedrooms. They’d never had a kitchen upstairs, but had always used the bakery’s kitchen to prepare their meals, which they ate in the dining room or in the little alcove at the bottom of the back kitchen stairs. And when they’d taken Portia in two years ago, they converted the sitting room upstairs to a third bedroom and playroom. Shayla had a small sofa in her room, but she actually preferred the sunny seating area at the back of the bakery with its comfy leather couches and the collection of green plants she babied. Customers gravitated to the cozy nook during the day, but when the bakery closed at three each afternoon, it was all hers.
“Yeah, I get that,” Link said. “Kind of like my truck . . . me and the bank.” He glanced out the front window to where his pickup was parked.
She smiled and went on packing up the day-old pastries.
“My mom really likes your stuff—your baked goods, I mean. Says if she ever got tired of baking for her guests, she’d just let you do it.”
She felt herself flush. “It’s mostly my dad who does the baking. I’m learning a little, but he does most of it. I just man the counter. And wash dishes. And sweep floors.”
“And box up stuff for the homeless shelter.” He looked pointedly at the tower of boxes she’d formed atop the empty display case. “That’s really nice of you to do that.”
She shrugged. “Better than putting it in the Dumpster. Or eating it.” She patted her belly and was rewarded with his laughter. It was his laugh that had attracted her to him the first time they’d met at the shelter in Cape that day. She’d loved talking to him there. Just shooting the breeze, but he always made her laugh. She’d been disappointed when the shelter director told her the IT work was finished.
Link slipped his cell phone from his jeans pocket and checked the time. “I’d better get going or I’ll be late. I just wanted to make sure everybody was okay.” He started toward the front door.
But watching his broad shoulders, she felt an urgency rising inside her, as if she might not get another chance to say what she needed to say. “Hey.” She peeled off the plastic gloves and tossed them into the trash, coming around to the other side of the counter where he’d been standing. “Link!” It came out too loud.
But he wheeled around, curiosity written in his expression. “Yeah?”
“I feel bad about what I said this morning. I know it wasn’t really your fault.”
A hint of mischief came to his eyes. “Do you feel bad about beating the snot out of me?”
She made a show of covering her face with her hands. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that part.” She peeked at him from between her fingers.
“Oh, I remember all right.” He winced. “Got the bruises to prove it. On top of the bruises your niece gave me.”
“You’re not serious . . .” She knew her eyes must be as round as the doughnuts she’d just boxed up. “I’m so sorry. I was a little out of my head. Seriously, I feel awful. I didn’t know I hit you that hard. You don’t really have bruises?” She was pretty sure he was exaggerating.
But what if he wasn’t? What if he filed assault and battery charges against her? Had anyone witnessed what happened? But surely, someone from a family like the Whitmans wouldn’t do such a thing. Still, people could be pretty sue-happy these days.
She didn’t remember anyone else being in the store at the time or on the street, but surely someone had heard his brakes squeal and come by to see what was going on. She’d wondered if they should have called the police to report what happened. But she could already imagine her father shaking his head adamantly at the idea. No police. It had been that way for men like him—black men—forever, but after what happened with Jerry, Daddy’s disdain—fear even—of the police had risen to a new level. And the whole