The Jilted Heiress Claims The Surgeon Brother

"Angie."

Dalton's voice stopped her just as her hand touched the doorknob. She turned back, raising an eyebrow.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. "Why a bakery? You could do anything. You could run a corporation. Why this?"

It was the question of a man who valued efficiency and prestige. Baking seemed so... small.

Angelena walked back to him, stopping just a foot away. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw seriousness.

"Because I love it," she said simply.

She held out her hands, palms up, between them. They were pale and slender, but the skin at the base of her fingers and the webbing of her thumbs was rough. Thin, white scars crisscrossed her knuckles, and a thick callus rested on her index finger.

Dalton's gaze fell to her hands, and the air left his lungs. These weren't the hands he remembered-the soft, perfectly manicured hands of an heiress. These were the hands of a worker, marked with scars and calluses that told a story of hardship he couldn't begin to fathom. A sharp, protective ache seized his chest. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the marks. "What is this?"

"Burns. Cuts. Calluses from whisking and lifting flour bags," Angelena said softly. "When things were at their worst in Paris, the smell of butter and sugar was the only thing that got me out of bed. Flour, butter, sugar... you mix them together, and you create something that makes people happy. It's magic."

Her voice was thick with emotion. "This isn't a hobby, Dalton. This is my life. This is what I want to do until the day I die."

Dalton looked up from her hands to her face. The fire in her eyes was undeniable. It was the fire of a survivor. The fire of someone who had clawed their way out of the dark.

He reached out and wrapped his long fingers around her wrist. His thumb brushed gently over the rough callus on her palm. The touch was light, reverent, like he was handling a fragile artifact.

"I understand," he said, his voice barely a whisper. The roughness in his tone was gone, replaced by a deep, aching tenderness. "Take care of your hands."

Angelena's breath hitched. The feeling of his skin on hers was electric. She looked down at his hand holding her wrist, then slowly, deliberately, she curled her fingers inward.

Her fingertips dragged lightly across the sensitive center of his palm.

Dalton jerked as if he'd been burned. His spine went straight, his eyes widening. The sensation shot up his arm, short-circuiting his brain.

Angelena pulled her hand back, a sly smile playing on her lips. "So, Dr. Barron, will you come to my grand opening?"

It wasn't a question. It was a demand wrapped in silk.

Dalton swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. He looked into her eyes, seeing the challenge there, and found himself unable to resist.

"I'll be there," he said. A promise from a man who never broke his word.

"It's a date," Angelena said. She turned and slipped inside the cottage, leaving him standing in the cold night air.

Dalton stood there for a long moment. He opened his own hand, staring at the palm. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, warm and teasing. He curled his fingers into a fist, trying to hold onto the sensation.

He was in trouble. Deep, irrevocable trouble. And the worst part was, he couldn't bring himself to care.