He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
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A Friday in July, 6:59 AM
I force my shoulders down, my hair pinned out of my face with two butterfly clips, and I enter Middlebridge Mart's Bakery from the back dock.
Keiko, hauling bags of sugar, notices me right away, her dark brows furrowing.
"Hey," she breathes out as she dumps another bag on the counter, dust poofing slightly. "Heard about the fundraiser... and Greyson. Everything cool?"
"Yeah, he'll be home soon, I think. He'll be fine." I focus on draping my bag over the hook with my name on it and take my yellow apron, tying it over my jeans, smoothing my white shirt over my stomach.
Mrs. Jones chooses that exact second to swoop in like a hawk spotting a field mouse. "Less yapping, more kneading. This isn't your living room."
I snap to attention, the good old customer service smile plastered on my face. "Right on it, Mrs. Jones."
She huffs away, and I'm left fumbling with dough, trying to ignore how it sticks to my fingers like my thoughts stick to last night.
White loaves and rolls today. When Keiko tells little jokes, I offer smiles. I push it all down, and I bake.
Sometime later when my hands are starting to ache, Mrs. Jones comes out to inspect a batch of bread I've just pulled from the oven.
"These are overdone."
Oh. They are maybe a fraction darker than usual—an oven error if anything.
I slip the mitts off my palms, responding with a small nod. "I'll take a minute off the next batch."
"Make it two," she says, huffing away.
"Jeez," I say to Keiko, but she swallows roughly, then tears her gaze away from me. As I align the trays of raw dough for the next batch, I shuffle over. "Keiko, what's going on?"
I catch her dark eyes lined with bright blues and yellows today, and the discomfort there twists my stomach. She hesitates, biting her lip.
"Please," I say.
"Ember, people have been talking."
I've figured as much, hence my avoidance of the living world this morning.
Keiko looks around, as if to make sure we are truly alone, before leaning in closer. "A few guys...they've been saying things about you. It spread." Her eyes are full of sympathy as they meet mine. "I'm so sorry."
My heart does a frantic skip. "What things?"
Her dark eyes slip away as she shifts the trays on the table a few inches. "People are calling you a slut. And...worse. Please don't make me say it."
I hold my forehead, pressing the heels of my palms against my temples as if I could physically push the thoughts out of my mind. But it's no use; the whispers, the judgment, the reputation—it's all spreading like wildfire. I'm standing in the middle of a burning forest.
