Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 38

Before I know it, the day has flown by. The clock on the wall says it's time to close up. Jenna, another employee, starts sweeping the floor while I wipe down the counters. Carol is in the back, tallying up the day's earnings.

"Great work today, Emersyn," Jenna says, leaning on her broom.

"Thanks, Jenna. You too," I reply, tossing the used cloth into the sink.

After a final check to make sure everything's clean and in its place, Carol comes out from the back room. "Good job today, ladies. Emersyn, can you lock up?"

"Of course, Carol," I say, grabbing the keys from the hook by the door.

As I lock up the bakery, I can't shake the feeling of uncertainty. My job here was supposed to be temporary, just until Carol's wrist healed. But now, it's more than that—at least, it is for me. I've grown to love this place, the smells, the sounds, even the early mornings.

"Do I still have a place here?" I wonder as I turn the key in the lock. The question hangs in the air, unanswered.

I slip the keys back onto their hook before heading to the back and stepping out into the evening air. It's cold, a sure sign fall is in full swing. Another season, another change. Maybe that's all life is—a series of changes, some good, some not so good.

As I walk to my car, my thoughts are a mix of hope and worry, certainty and doubt. I don't have all the answers, but maybe that's okay. Maybe it's okay to be unsure, to be in-between.

**

I pull out my keys as I step onto my front porch, and that's when I notice it—the air is much colder than I had thought. I see puffs of my breath as I exhale, and a chill runs through me. "I really need to get some good winter clothes," I think. Most of mine are worn down and probably need to be replaced.

So deep in thought, I barely realize that I've bumped into someone. And not just anyone—it's Marx. As our bodies collide, a tingling sensation spreads across my skin, right where it touched his. My heart races as I stutter out, "Oh, I—I'm sorry, Marx. I didn't see you there."

He smiles, his eyes meeting mine. "It's okay, Emersyn. No harm done." The warmth in his voice makes my heart skip a beat.

"Are any of the guys home?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"Haven't seen anyone. Looks like it's just us for now," he replies.

I nod and start to move past him toward my room. But then he speaks up again. "Hey, do you want to have dinner with me? It's my night to cook, and it doesn't look like the other guys will be home anytime soon."

I'm surprised. Marx doesn't usually invite me to hang out like this. I can't help but wonder what's changed.

"Sure," I say, my voice tinged with excitement. "But let me change first."

"Take your time," he says, his eyes lingering on me a moment longer than usual before he heads back to the kitchen.

I open my door and step into my room, my thoughts racing. Dinner alone with Marx? This is new, and it thrills me. The thought of his hands running down my body, the way they did that night in the kitchen, sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

I open my dresser and pull out a pair of comfy pajamas. As I start to change, a daring thought crosses my mind. I decide to forgo my panties and bra—a little tease, something only I'll know about but that somehow makes the evening ahead seem full of possibilities.

Dressed in my PJs, I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror. "What are you doing, Emersyn?" I ask my reflection. Am I reading too much into this? Am I setting myself up for disappointment?

I mean, he obviously feels something for me, even if it's just lust. He has to, or he wouldn't have reacted the way he had in the kitchen that night. Maybe one good night with him is all I need to get over my infatuation. Or maybe it will end up like last time, with me alone and confused.

I shake my head, dismissing the doubts. "No," I tell myself. "Tonight is different. I can feel it."

Taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart, I head back to the kitchen where Marx is busy chopping vegetables. The sight of him, so focused and so—there's no other word for it—hot, makes my heart do funny things.

"Smells good," I say, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

He looks up and smiles. "I hope it tastes as good as it smells."

We chat as he cooks, talking about our day, our jobs, the cold weather—everything but the electric current running between us. I can't help but wonder if he feels it too.

It's nice seeing him this way. Domestic and talkative. It's a sharp contrast the the reserved and reclusive man that he normally is.

Finally, dinner is ready. Marx sets the table, and we sit down to eat. The food is delicious, but I can barely focus on it. All I can think about is the man sitting across from me and the invisible line connecting us.

The conversation flows easily, but there's an undercurrent of something more, something neither of us is brave enough to bring up. I keep sneaking glances at him, and a couple of times, I catch him looking at me too. Each time our eyes meet, I feel that tingle again, that pull.

I catch him staring at my chest a few times and I can't help but wonder if he can tell I'm not wearing a bra. It's like I put out bait, waiting for him to take a bite.

We finish eating and Marx gets up to clear the table. "Let me help," I offer, gathering the empty plates.

"Together then," he says, and we carry the dishes to the sink.

As we wash and dry, our hands occasionally touch, sending jolts of electricity through me. I wonder if he feels it too. I hope he does.

Once the kitchen is clean, Marx turns to me. "Thanks for keeping me company tonight," he says, his voice soft, his eyes intense.

"Thank you for dinner," I reply, equally soft. "It was delicious."

For a moment, we just stand there, looking at each other, the air between us charged with unspoken words and unacted desires.

Finally, I break the silence. "I should probably head to bed," I say, though it's the last thing I want to do.

"Sure," he says, though he doesn't move, and neither do I.

Finally, with a sigh, I turn and head toward my room. But as I reach the door, I look back. Marx is still standing there, watching me.

"Goodnight, Marx," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Goodnight, Emersyn," he replies, his voice tinged with something I can't quite identify—regret, maybe? Longing?

I step into my room and close the door behind me, my back pressed against it, my heart pounding in my chest. I feel both thrilled and frustrated, hopeful and uncertain.

As I get ready for bed, I can't help but replay the evening in my mind, each look, each touch, each unspoken word. And as I climb into bed, still tingling from the nearness of him, I wonder what could have been, what might still be.