Elian

I still hate the smell of rain on hot asphalt. It smells like broken promises. It smells like the night I stood at the Greyhound bus stop at eighteen, clutching a duffel bag, waiting for a boy who had already left. Elian had promised we’d take a bite out of the Big Apple together, that we’d build an empire away from the gossiping whispers of Oakhaven. But when the bus pulled away, I was looking at his silhouette in the back window, and he didn't even look back. I spent the next eight years rebuilding my heart from the flour and sugar of my grandfather’s bakery. I built a fortress. But I forgot that he was the one who always knew how to dismantle my walls, brick by brick. The bell above the bakery door is broken, the espresso machine is acting up, and my delivery supplier left the heaviest boxes of flour right on the sidewalk instead of bringing them to the back. I'm already exhausted, my apron dusted with icing sugar.I grit my teeth, wrapping my arms around a massive, fifty-pound box of wholesale vanilla extract and specialty flour. I heave it off the pavement, my boots slipping slightly on the autumn leaves. I kick the front door of the bakery open with my heel, walking backward, praying I don't drop the entire box and ruin a week's worth of inventory. I spin around to carry it to the counter when I slam hard into a solid, unmoving chest. The cardboard slips from my tired grip. I brace for the crash, but two large, strong hands shoot out, catching the box before it hits the floor. The scent hits me before I even see his face—cedarwood, cold autumn air, and that distinct hint of black coffee. My heart performs a violent, painful stutter in my chest. I look up, ready to apologize, but the words die in my throat. Elian. He looks older, broader. The boyish charm has been replaced by the sharp, rugged edges of a man. His hazel eyes lock onto mine, freezing me entirely in place.