There was nothing like taking my aggression out on a lump of innocent dough.

With my hands covered in flour, I kneaded the thick blob against the stainless-steel counter. Punching it softly, my broad knuckles disappeared into the elastic substance. Between the hot oven and my assault on the dough, I'd worked up a sweat.

It was troubling how much space Jessica occupied in my mind since seeing her earlier on the beach.

She hadn't been happy to see me. But why should she have been? After we found out she wasn't pregnant, I'd let Dad to talk me into joining the military. Then I'd disappeared from Jessica's life.

I hadn't fought for her, and I should have. There was no way she could have known I'd intended to come back for her. I figured it would be a couple years, tops. Those plans had gone to shit.

The heels of my hands pushed the dough into the counter as if it had offended me.

The first year I was in the Marines, I'd blamed my dad for persuading me to enlist. Well, I'd blamed Jessica too, on the really bad days, figuring if she hadn't had the pregnancy scare, things between me and the old man wouldn't have blown up like they had.

But when I was in my second year, I'd actually become grateful to both of them for leading me to my true calling. Joining the Marines had made me a man. I'd been proud of what I was doing over there in Afghanistan, of fighting the good fight for democracy. I'd believed in all that.

Then Steve died, and I was wounded.

I glanced at the clock over the bakery door. I'd been kneading for ten minutes. It was time to put the dough in the proof box. It was seven at night, and I was trying out new recipes for the menu, trying to keep my hands and mind busy.

Sleep wasn't an option tonight. Sleep was something to be feared. Sure, I still had the bottle of Ambien, but I wasn't going to take it while here in Palmira. Imagine if I ended up at Jessica's in some zombie-like state? Or worse. Jesus.

But not taking the Ambien meant there would be nightmares. I'd have to white-knuckle through them. Or there was plenty of shit to do besides sleep. Paperwork and orders and managing the contractors...

Details raced through my mind. In its first months, I needed to shepherd the bakery toward success to prove something to my father—if I even had that long. I shuddered thinking of the shitty possibilities if I was caught for what had happened back home. How had I even done it? Screw the war, and screw this PTSD.

I picked up another loaf of already proofed dough and nestled it into a greased pan. Shifting toward the hot oven, I opened it and slid the uncooked bread inside.

Stepping back, I wiped sweat from my brow. It wasn't like it was necessary for me to go through this charade of doing everything himself. Dad could have easily brought bakers from New Orleans and hired someone to oversee the building's renovations. But the old man said he wanted his son to build this with his own two hands, start this bakery from scratch like he had so many years ago after leaving the Marine Corps.

Well, that was fine. And, as I'd already realized, the timing was good, given what had happened back in New Orleans. Eventually, Dad's company would send a manager to handle the day-to-day operations, but for now, I had to admit it was satisfying to work toward a tangible goal, to lose myself in doing a job and doing it well.

I fucking hated when Dad was right.

It never ceased to amaze me how macho the old guy was—when the family business was croissants and shit.

And now, I was the same way: a tattooed, muscled ex-Marine who was also a baker. I chuckled whenever I thought of Steve's face the first time I revealed I could bake a perfect beignet.

"What the fuck is that?" Steve had hooted.

He'd also laughed when I'd told him I'd only slept with one woman.

"V, you gotta get out more, dude. Next time you get leave, hook up with the first girl you see and try to forget about Jessica," he'd implored one night as we talked under the vast Afghanistan sky. "Or, if you can't do that, write to her. Apologize before it's too late. Christ, propose to her. It's like you haven't moved on."

It was true. I hadn't. And now it was probably too late to salvage what we had.

There came a knock at the back door, tearing me from the memories. Wiping my hands on the apron, I ambled over and unlocked it.

I wasn't sure what surprised me more: that Jessica was standing there, or that she looked even more beautiful than earlier.

She wore a light blue skirt that ended just above her knees, a white polo shirt, and gold sandals with little straps that snaked up her ankles. Her sun-kissed hair was loose and tousled, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves as if she had taken a swim in the ocean and let it air dry. Jesus, I wanted to gather her hair in my hands and kiss her until she couldn't breathe—because I sure as hell couldn't in her presence.

"Well. This is a surprise," I said gruffly, trying not to stare at her bare legs, which were sleek and shiny like she'd just rubbed oil on them. Trying to ignore the desire she ignited, I opened the door wider, but a waft of coconut-vanilla scent hit my nose and all hope of overlooking her sexiness was lost.

She flashed a small smile at me, her lips all shiny with gloss. "Hey. I wanted to come by. I owe you an apology for running off like that today."

"S'okay," I said. "Come in."

She stepped past me. "So, this is your new place?"

Her perfume or shampoo or whatever she put on her skin mixed with the scent of baking bread, and the combined smells fired up all the pleasure centers in my brain. I flexed my fingers, wanting to take her into my arms and press my nose into her hair so I could inhale. Nibbling on her neck would also feel amazing. I imagined she tasted like pure sugar—just like she had all those years ago. Lifting her skirt and caressing her thighs today would be even better.

I licked my lips, recalling how we couldn't keep their hands off each other. We'd had to do it all behind our parents' backs, of course, but it had all felt so right, like we'd known each other forever.

The night we lost our virginity, I'd snuck into her room. She'd lit a candle and greeted me wearing just a white tank top and little white shorts. Her legs were velvety, and I couldn't believe my luck as she pulled me toward her, down onto the bed. And when she looked at me with those sparkling green eyes as I took off her clothes, I'd melted.

Surrendered my goddamn soul to her. Never had I seen anything so beautiful.

"Leo?"

I shook my head. Dammit. I'd zoned out again.

"Sorry. What was your question?"

"What's the name of your bakery going to be?"

I stood straighter, trying to summon my military focus. "Sugar Rush, that's the name. You like it?"

"Love it. It's beautiful. Unusual."

"I'm not sure if you remember, but that's the name of my family's bakeries in New Orleans."

"Right. Chicory coffee, croissants, and beignets. Sugar Rush."

"You do remember."

"Yes." Her eyes burned into mine.

"Yeah, my dad wanted to open a bakery here for all the tourists."

Jessica nodded. "There's lots of them, that's for sure. More every year."

I folded my arms, trying to play it cool. I could only let her see the cold, professional exterior I'd become so good at showing the world. "I like it here, though. There's something special. Maybe it's the architecture, or the blue skies and tropical plants. I dunno. Makes me happy."

I shrugged and grinned, and it seemed to coax a genuine smile from her. Then there was silence, and Jessica held my stare with her green eyes. Her expression revealed nothing of her thoughts. Why had she knocked on my bakery's back door after dark? What the hell did she want?

I untied the apron from my hips and pulled it over my head. My T-shirt rode up a little as I did so, exposing my stomach to the warm bakery air. I got a little thrill when I spied her glancing at my body.

"Leo, I'm sorry about earlier on the beach. I've had kind of a rough year. I was just...really surprised to see you today."

I tilted my head in acknowledgment. "Well, I probably should have called or just stopped by."

Her mouth slanted downward. "That probably would have been better."

Words raced from my lips, and I was acutely aware my lazy, Cajun-tinged accent was heavier. And there was some truth to what I was saying. "I guess I didn't want to run the risk of running into your mom after all that happened. I don't think she'll be too happy to see me."

Jessica's jaw clenched, and she flashed me an angry look. "No need to worry about that now."

"What? Why? Did she move—?"

My words cut off at the way Jessica's shoulders slumped.

"No. She died last year. A stroke. I found her collapsed on the floor at the hotel registration desk one morning. She was only fifty."

So, this was the source of her sadness. I exhaled a long sigh. My heart hurt when I imagined Jessica finding her mom, then experiencing such a huge loss. I also wondered if Dad knew about it.

"God, I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Jessica said in a flat voice. "I rode with her in the ambulance and held her hand as she slipped away. The last thing I remember was wailing in the emergency room, pleading for doctors to do something. Anything. Of course, they couldn't."

I bowed my head. The obvious pain in her voice made my chest tighten, and the thought of sirens and holding the dead made me think of Afghanistan. I took a deep breath and held on to the counter as panic washed over me. Sometimes anxiety made me feel disembodied and I had to ground myself by touching something solid.

"I apologize for asking. I didn't know. I'm an idiot for prying."

When I looked up, she was staring at me, unblinking. Luckily, the surge of panic had subsided as quickly as it appeared.

Breathe.

"How would you have known?" Jessica said. "It's not like we kept in touch over the years."

Swallowing an uncomfortable lump in my throat, I stepped closer, wanting to take her in my arms. If only she didn't have such a combative edge to her voice, I might have. But I didn't dare touch her. Not now. And, anyway, that wouldn't help either of us.

"Jessica, I feel like I owe you some answers—or an apology."

____