Broken Hero

“Hello! Hi! I’m so sorry, let me just unlock the door…” I twist the sign from closed to open. “Welcome!”Contentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDrâ/ma.O(r)g!

A dignified older lady steps in. I recognize her immediately-anyone who’s spent five minutes in Claremont would.

“Mrs. Masters, it’s great to see you again.”

She blinks at me. “Little Lucy Rhodes.”

“Not so little anymore,” I say with a smile. “I’ve grown up. What can I get you?”

“Phil told me you were coming back to stay for a while.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’ve missed it here.”

She pats her perfectly coiffed hair and looks me over from head to toe. I’m sure I’ve already committed at least five wrongs in her book. “We’re so happy to have you back, dear.”

“Thank you. Do you have a standing order?”

“No. I came in to buy a loaf of banana bread, the ones Claire makes so well. Do you have any today?”

“Yes, we do. Let me get that for you right away.”

She watches my every movement as I package the bread, the silence thick. Mrs. Masters is the staunch matriarch of this town, a gossipy old lady with very strict ideas of right and wrong. Aunt Claire is both in awe of her and absolutely terrified-an emotion I share.

“What do you do now, Lucy Rhodes?”

“I’m packaging your banana bread.”

She doesn’t appreciate my lame attempt at deflection. “Back in Dallas.”

I square my shoulders. “I’m a massage therapist.”

Her eyes widen. “A masseuse?”

“Yes. I’m licensed to rehabilitate injuries, relieve muscle pain, sports massage and deep tissue… the works.”

Mrs. Masters’ silence is more telling than any words. “I see,” she says finally. “That’s great.”

“I think so, yes. I enjoy it. Here’s the bread.”

She hands me exact change-down to the cent-and gives me a tight-lipped smile. “I’d be happy to see you at church this weekend, if you’re still here then.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Masters. I’ll see if I can swing by.”

She stops by the door. “You do that.”

The door swings shut behind her, the small bell attached jingling gayly. I release the breath I’ve been holding. It’s the reaction I was expecting, the same reaction I got in my own hometown when I first started. No matter how much I explain and justify, people’s reactions around these parts tend to be… negative. To be a massage therapist is not a proper profession-and it’s certainly not a respectable one.

I’ve tried to explain the positive health benefits of self-care and of not having knotted muscles. Of working through sports injuries or hurt muscles. Health is a holistic endeavor. I actively chose this profession.

But no. They hear masseuse and they hear happy ending.

And if anyone in Claremont were to find out why I was let go at my last job and why I had to flee here… it’s too terrible to think of. So, I decide I won’t tell them, at least not right now. I turn up the volume on the radio and set to work on the frosting for my cake. The town is small and I can’t imagine there’ll be another customer for a good long while.

I’m halfway through a not-so-successful attempt at creating a carrot out of frosting when the little bell by the door rings again.

“Just one moment!” I wipe at the flour and frosting covering my apron. Instead of making me look presentable, I’m now entirely covered. I look like I’ve just taken a tumble in a mix of batter. Well then. I’ll just have to look incompetent-at least it’ll be an honest representation.

I turn the corner and put on a big, serviceable smile. “Hi, there!”

The customer has his back to me, looking at a display of elaborately decorated cupcakes. A rugged jacket is pulled snug across wide shoulders, thick golden hair tousled on his head. He’s big. That’s my first impression-he’s tall and wide and takes up a lot of space in this small bakery.

“Did you make these, Claire?”

His voice is deep, too. Calm and commanding. “Claire did make those, yes. But I’m not her.”

He turns. Cheekbones. Five o’clock shadow. A pair of dark blue eyes look me over. His expression is mildly disapproving, a frown turning down the corners of a wide mouth. “No, you’re clearly not.”

“I’m her niece, Lucy. I’m helping out here for a bit. I’m actually from-”

“I know who you are.”

Well then. I shoot him an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Are you from around here?”

“Yes.”

The man was impossible. “What’s your name?”

His eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. “Oliver Morris.”

“Mr. Morris of the Morris special!” I extend a hand covered in flour across the counter. “Sorry about the mess. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

“I’m sure you have.” He sounds displeased at the notion and regards my outstretched hand for a moment before he shakes it. His hand nearly engulfs mine, fingers rough and warm against my skin.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“I’m not sure. Can you?”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s looking pointedly at the mixture of cake batter and frosting splattered across my apron. It’s such an ungentlemanly thing to point out that I just blink at him.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Um, I think so, but it depends on what you need. If you’re here to order a three-tier wedding cake ready on the double, then no. But I’m great at packaging cookies.” I put on my usually winning smile and meet his gaze head-on. Oliver Morris might be the most ruggedly attractive man I’ve seen in years, but I won’t be intimidated by power tactics. I’ve faced worse.

He seems unfazed by my smile. “I’m here to pick up a standing order for the Ranch. It should be in your logs.”

“What is it exactly?”

“The Ranch orders daily bread rolls and loaves. I send the orders a week in advance to Phil.”