She was most comfortable in the kitchen. Rita and her brothers and sister had grown up working in their parents’ Italian bakery in Ogden. From the time she was a little girl, barely tall enough to reach the mixing table, Rita had been helping the bakers. Even if it was just sprinkling flour on the cool white marble so dough could be rolled out. She loved the scent of baking cookies, cakes, pastries. She loved the feel of getting her hands into a huge bowl of dough to knead it. She’d worked off a lot of temper by working bread dough into shape.
“But there’s not enough dough in the world to help me through this,” she whispered, laying out paper doilies on a stainless steel tray. Then she moved to the end of the counter and carefully set fresh cannoli, some draped in shiny chocolate, on each doily. To her, presentation was as important as taste so before it went out to the shop, it would be perfect.
Once she was satisfied that all of her cannoli were lined up like soldiers, Rita checked on two more bowls of rising dough, punched them down, then covered them again, so they could do a second rise.
She’d be making bread before the bakery closed because her customers liked picking up a fresh loaf on the way home from work. Then she checked the meticulously aligned steel racks against one wall and made a note to have Casey get someone back there to box up the maple-nut biscotti.
“And I’m stalling,” she said aloud to the empty room.
“Question is, why?”
Her eyes closed on a sigh as Jack’s deep voice echoed all around her. Of course he wouldn’t be ignored. He was the kind of man who got exactly what he wanted when he wanted it. A trait that was both sexy and annoying.
“You shouldn’t be back here, Jack.”
“Your friend Casey said you weren’t feeling well.”
She rolled her eyes and told herself to have a little chat with Casey. Wouldn’t do any good, of course. If a gorgeous man asked Casey to stand on her head, the girl would. And they just didn’t come more gorgeous than Jack, so Casey really had been putty in his hands.
Rita surrendered to the inevitable and turned around to face him. “I don’t have time for you right now, Jack. I’m working.”
She walked to the tray of fresh cannoli, but before she could pick it up, Jack swooped in and snatched it from her. “You shouldn’t be carrying this. It’s heavy.”
A thread of pleasure whipped through her at his instinctive urge to protect, even as it irritated her that he clearly thought she was either helpless or a delicate blossom.
“I carry heavy things all the time. I’m pregnant, not an invalid.” He opened his mouth to argue the point, but she rushed on before he could. “I’m careful, too. I don’t take chances with my baby—”
“Our baby.”
“The baby,” she corrected meaningfully. “Now, give me the tray.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he said and turned for the door into the front of the shop.
“I’m stupid now?” she said to his retreating back.
“I said don’t be stupid. There’s a difference.”
When the door swung open, snatches of conversation rushed toward her, along with Casey’s prolonged sigh of “Thank you so much.”
Rolling her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t simply pop out of her skull and skitter across the floor, Rita pulled down the decorative biscotti boxes. She’d pack them herself and that would give her yet another reason to stay back here and keep her distance from Jack. Of course she should have known that wouldn’t work.
He came back through the swinging door, holding an empty tray and shook his head at her. “Do you have to do everything around here personally?”
“My business, my responsibility.” She lifted a tray of biscotti off the rack and turned for the counter, dodging Jack when he would have taken it from her. “So yes, I do. I want things done a certain way and I can’t expect everyone else to do all the work.”
She expertly folded the box into shape, slid a dozen biscotti inside then closed the box and slapped a gold Italia sticker in place. Automatically, she started on the next one while Jack came closer. Rita didn’t even look up from her task when she asked, “Why are you here again, Jack?”
He picked up a biscotti and took a bite, shrugging when she gave him a hard look. “I’m here because you are. Because my baby is. And I’m not leaving until we work this out between us.”
“Fine.” She continued boxing the biscotti in the bright red Italia containers, keeping her eyes on the job, rather than him. If she looked at Jack again she’d feel that torn sensation—yearning and betrayal.
He’d allowed her to mourn. Let her believe he was dead. How did you forgive someone for that when they wouldn’t even explain why they’d done it? And how did you get past those old feelings that continually slipped in despite the pain that should have smothered them?
“You want to talk, let’s talk,” she said. “I’ll start. I want to know why you disappeared.”
“That’s not on the table.”
Now she did risk a quick glance at him and his features were tight, closed, his eyes cold and icy.
“So we talk, but only about what you’re willing to discuss?” Shaking her head, she sealed another box and set it aside, automatically reaching for the next.
“I’m not looking to recapture anything here, Rita.”
A sharp stab of pain stole her breath at the blunt honesty. She looked into his eyes. “Wow.”
He flinched slightly, but otherwise remained stoic. “I’m not saying that to hurt you.”
“And yet...”
He looked down at the biscotti in his hand and then lifted his gaze to hers again. “This isn’t about us, Rita. It’s about the baby.”
A sinking sensation opened up in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth went dry and her hands shook, so she set the box she was holding down onto the counter so he couldn’t see it. How had they come to this, she wondered. Where had it all gone so terribly wrong?
What had made him shut her out when he left her to go back to his duties? What had turned him away from what they’d found, what they’d been to each other for one amazing week?
And how had he become so cold that he could stand just inches from her and look at her as if she wasn’t really there?
“What is it you want, Jack?”
He set the biscotti down, planted both palms on the counter and said, “I want you to marry me.”
Rita actually felt shock slam into her like a physical blow. Whatever she’d been expecting hadn’t been this. She knew she was staring. Knew she should say something, but for the first time in her life she was absolutely speechless. He was serious, that much she could see. But surely he didn’t expect her to agree.
He laughed shortly, but it was merely a harsh scrape of sound against his throat. There was no humor in his eyes and no easing of the tightness of his mouth. “Not the usual reaction when a man proposes.”
Finally she found her own voice. “It’s not the usual situation, is it?”
“No,” he admitted solemnly, “it’s not.”
“Jack, you don’t want to be married to me.” God, how it hurt to say that, because six months ago, at the end of their