HANS: Alliance Series Book Four(49)

I bite my lip.

If it really was him in Mexico, if Hans really is the man who so swiftly and violently saved us, is that because of his past?

My nose twitches as an unpleasant scent hits it.

“Oh shit!” I spin around and snatch the hot mitts off the counter before yanking open the oven door.

A mixture of steam and smoke billows out, and I use the mitts to fan it away.

“Damn it.” Lifting out the tray, I can see the darkened edges around the too-flat cookies.

“No!” I whine, knowing I’ve burned them.

After shutting the oven door, I turn it off and set the tray on top of the stove.

A few of the chunks of sweet corn that are sticking out of the cookies caught fire. There are no flames now, just smoke trailing from the burnt little chunks.

I look at the Post-it note I already filled out for Hans—the words mocking me. Charred sweet corn cookies indeed. The charring was supposed to only be from when I flash seared the fresh sweet corn. A little note of umami flavor to the sugar sweetness. Not charred to within an inch of its life.

My eyes start to sting, and I realize how hazy it is in the kitchen.

I groan. The last thing I need is my smoke detector going off.

I reach over the sink and open the window behind it to let in some fresh air.

Even though night has fallen, it’s still warm outside. But the little breeze is immediate, and the haze starts to lessen.

I still stand here, waving the oven mitts around, trying to bring in more fresh air.

It’s dark out, and with the lights on inside, I can’t see through the window into the backyard, but I’m thankful my house backs up to the woods. The number of times I’ve had to wave smoke out of my house is a little embarrassing, and I’m glad no one can see me.

The clock on the back of the stove shows that two minutes have passed since I pulled the cookies out of the oven, but the recipe says to let them sit for five before transferring to the cooling racks.

At this point, it doesn’t really matter what I do with them, but I’m still going to stick with the recipe.

I let my eyes close as I breathe through my frustration.

Along with needing to hone my baking skills, I need to figure out what to do next month.

My company is giving everyone who was on that bus the next two weeks off, fully paid, but it doesn’t take a lawyer to recognize the huge pile of shit that will no doubt hit the fan.

Our names were supposed to be kept confidential, but with social media and those job networking sites, it hasn’t taken the news outlets long to narrow down the people involved.

I have no desire to talk to the media about what happened, but I can think of at least four people right off the top of my head who will jump at the chance.

Even if the company can survive the scandal, I don’t know that I want to deal with it.

My cheeks puff out with my exhale, and I accept that I should start looking for a new job on Monday.

I’ve got a little money saved, but not enough to survive being jobless for more than a month or two. And I’m all too familiar with how long the hiring process can take.

A crack sounds from outside, and my eyes snap open.

I stand totally still, listening, but I don’t hear anything else.

Unnerved, I slowly step away from the open window.

It’s nothing.

It certainly isn’t the Mexican cartel coming to get you.

Just stay calm.

I take another step across the kitchen, toward the door that leads outside.

I don’t go out onto my little back patio much, since I’m more of an indoor girl, but I do have a small slab of concrete behind the kitchen, big enough for a grill I never use.

My gaze flicks back to the window.

“It’s nothing.” I stamp my foot as I say it.

A branch fell out of a tree because it was dead, or a bunny, maybe a coyote, stepped on a stick. The noise was literally nothing.

But if I don’t check, I know I won’t be able to sleep.

Huffing out a breath, I move to the storage bench sitting next to the door and yank it open.

I may not go outside much, but I keep all my things right here. A pile of knitted winter hats—my last failed hobby. A rain jacket that’s too tight on my arms. Two and a half pairs of flip-flops. Oversized grill tongs. And… I pick up the beginner crossbow sitting on top of it all. Then I wince over the fact that I left it sitting in there loaded, arrow already notched into place.

It’s not heavy duty, only meant for target practice, not for hunting. But it does have a high-powered flashlight attached to it. And holding it will make me feel better about opening the back door.

It’s shaped like a short shotgun, with a pistol-type grip and trigger in the middle of the length. So I put the butt to my shoulder and hold it in place with my right hand, my pointer finger resting next to the trigger, then I use my left hand to swing the door open.

Darkness.

I forgot to turn on the flashlight feature before I opened the door.

There’s a small pool of light on the grass from the open kitchen window, but there seems to be no moon at all tonight.

My left hand fumbles for the little button on the side of the bow, then I find it.

And I flip it on.

Brightness flares in my vision, and I blink it away to see a man sprinting across the lawn toward me.

A stranger.

I stumble backward.