Every Kind of Heaven. Jillian HartЧитать онлайн книгу.
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“Looks like you need help,” said a rumbling baritone from behind her.
Could the morning get any worse?
“Oh no, I’m fine,” Ava said.
“Fine, huh? Aren’t those your car keys inside the car?”
“I believe so.”
Brice studied her for a moment. “Hey, it’s no big deal. This kind of thing happens, right?” Tender feelings came to life and he couldn’t seem to stop them. Maybe Ava’s keys getting locked inside the car was providential. Just like the fact that he was here to help at just the right moment.
“Let me help. It’ll just take a minute, and then you can be on your way,” he added.
Why was her every sense attuned to this man? Ava felt his presence like the bright radiant sun on her back, almost as if she was interested in him. But of course, she couldn’t be. And she especially couldn’t be falling in love with Brice Donovan.
JILLIAN HART
makes her home in Washington State, where she has lived most of her life. When Jillian is not hard at work on her next story, she loves to read, go to lunch with her friends and spend quiet evenings with her family.
Every Kind of Heaven
Jillian Hart
I consider that our present sufferings
are not worth comparing with the glory
that will be revealed in us.
—Romans 8:18
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Baker Ava McKaslin stopped humming as she stepped back from the worktable to inspect the wedding cake. Her footsteps echoed in the industrial kitchen, nearly empty except for a few basics—the sink, countertops and the few pieces of equipment she’d managed to buy off the previous tenant. They’d considered it too cumbersome and expensive to move the industrial oven and fridge, which was just her luck.
She might not have the bakery of her dreams yet, God willing, but it was a start. Besides, her cake was spectacular, if she did say so herself.
But what was with all the silence? She cut a look to the long stretch of metal counter behind her. The CD had come to an end. She’d probably forgotten to hit Repeat again. Okay, she forgot most things most of the time. Since her hands were all frosting coated, she hit the Play button with her elbow. The first beats of percussion got her right back into the creative mode. Although some people found it hard to think with bass blasting from her portable boom box, she thought it helped her brain cells to fire…or synapse…or do whatever brain cells did.
As the Christian music pulsed with an upbeat rhythm, she went back to work on the top tier. The delicate scrollwork took patience, not to mention stamina. Her wrist and arms were killing her, since she’d been at this for six hours straight. Ah, the price of being a baker. She ignored the burn in her exhausted muscles. Pain, that didn’t matter. What mattered was not failing.
Before she’d bought this place, she’d been unofficially in business by using her oldest sister Katherine’s snazzy kitchen off and on for a few months. This was her very first wedding cake in her own bakery. How great was that? And it was actually going well—a total shocker. So far there were no disasters. No kitchen fires. No last-minute cancellation of the wedding. It was almost as if this business venture of hers was meant to be.
Maybe she hadn’t made a disastrous mistake by jumping into this entrepreneurial thing with both feet. And, best of all, the remodeling contractor would start work soon transforming this drab commercial space into a cheerful bakery shop in less than a couple of weeks. That was another reason why she was in such a great mood.
“Hello?” a man’s voice—a stranger’s voice—yelled over the booming music.
She screamed. The spatula slipped from her grip. What was a man doing in her kitchen? A man she’d never seen before. Her brain scrambled and her body refused to move. She could only gape at him in wide-eyed horror.
Oh, no. What if he was the backdoor burglar? The thief that had been breaking into the back doors of restaurants and assaulting and stealing? What if this dude was him?
It would be smart to call 9-1-1, but she had no idea where her cell was. There was no business phone installed yet. Even if she did have her cell or a working landline, it wouldn’t matter since she was paralyzed in place.
“Uh…uh…” That was the best speech she could manage? Get it together, Ava. You’re about to be robbed. “I’ve seen your face, so I can identify you in a lineup.”
The burglar stared at her. Wow, he was really handsome. And he looked startled. His strong, chiseled jaw was clenched tight in, perhaps, fury and his striking dark eyes glittered with viciousness…or maybe that was humor. The left corner of his mouth quirked up as if he were holding back a grin.
Great, she had to get an easily amused thief.
“I’ve got two bucks in my purse. That’s it, buddy. There’s not another cent on the premises. You’ve picked the wrong place to rob. So t-t-turn around r-right now and go away. Go on. Shoo.”
There, that ought to scare him off or confuse him. She really didn’t care which. Adrenaline—or maybe it was terror—started to spill like ice into her veins.
“Go ahead, call the cops.” He called her bluff, crossing his arms over his wide chest. He had the audacity to lean one big shoulder against the doorframe, as if he had all the time in the world. He looked more like a movie star than a criminal. “Explain to the police how you left the front door unlocked.”
“No, I—” Wait, she did forget to lock stuff. And if he’d come in the front door, then he wasn’t the backdoor thief. Maybe. Unless he’d changed his M.O. and was that very likely? She didn’t think so. “I did leave the door unlocked, didn’t I?”
“Anyone could walk right in. Even the backdoor burglar. That’s who you thought I was, right?”
Okay, her mind was starting to unscramble. He didn’t look like any criminal she’d seen on TV. To make matters worse, he looked better than any man she’d seen on TV. He was handsome to a fault. His thick black hair fell with disregard for convention over his collar. He wore a short-sleeve polo shirt—black—with the little expensive insignia. His clothes—including his baggy khaki shorts and exclusive manly leather sandals—were top of the line. Expensive.
It was likely that the backdoor thief didn’t dress like that or have such a perfect smile. She hit Pause on the boom box. “Okay, I feel dumb now. What were you doing surprising me like that? You just can’t go walking into any place you want.”
“I’m