Rejected: A love story-Chapter 102: My thoughts were a mess

I rushed into the bakery, the bell above the door giving a small jingle. Mike was standing behind the counter, arranging pastries into neat rows. He looked up as soon as I walked in and smiled at me.

"Morning, Fiona," he said warmly.

I glanced at the clock on the wall and immediately felt a pang of guilt. "Sorry if I’m late—"

"You’re not," he interrupted, shaking his head. "Relax. You’re right on time."

Relieved, I nodded and headed toward the back where I’d seen the cubbies yesterday. I dropped my bag and books in one of the empty slots and grabbed an apron hanging on the hook. The fabric felt stiff and smelled faintly of flour.

"First things first," Mike said as I tied the apron around my waist. He nodded toward the sink. "Wash your hands. Then we’ll get started."

I followed his instructions, scrubbing my hands under the cold water. My nerves were already buzzing, but I tried not to let it show.

"You ready?" he asked when I finished drying my hands.

"As ready as I’ll ever be," I said, forcing a small smile.

He led me to the counter, where a mound of dough was waiting. It looked soft and sticky, and I had no idea what to do with it.

"Ever kneaded a dough before?" he asked, glancing at me.

"Nope," I admitted. "Not even once."

"That’s okay," he said, stepping closer. "I’ll teach you."

Before I could say anything, he moved behind me. I froze for a second as he reached around, placing his hands lightly over mine.

"Here," he said, his voice low. "Press down with your palms, like this."

I swallowed hard, trying to focus on the dough in front of me and not the fact that he was so close. I could feel him—his warmth, the solid weight of him behind me. It was impossible to ignore.

"Now fold it over," he continued, guiding my hands. "And keep it moving. Press, fold, turn."

I nodded, my heart beating faster than I wanted to admit. "Like this?"

"Yeah, you’ve got it," he said, his breath brushing lightly against the side of my face.

We worked together like that for a few minutes, his hands occasionally brushing mine as he guided me. Every so often, our elbows or shoulders would bump, and we’d both mumble apologies before falling back into the rhythm.

"You’re a fast learner," Mike said after a while, stepping back to give me space.

"Thanks," I said, glancing over my shoulder at him. He was smiling again, easy and confident, like he always seemed to be.

I was starting to feel more comfortable when I reached for a rolling pin on the counter. My hand slipped, and the sharp edge of a pastry cutter nicked my finger.

"Ah—damn it," I muttered, pulling my hand back.

Mike was at my side in an instant. "What happened?"

"It’s nothing," I said quickly, clutching my finger.

"Let me see," he said, his voice firm but gentle. Before I could argue, he was already pulling my hand toward him.

"It’s just a scratch," I said, but he wasn’t listening.

He led me to the sink and turned on the tap, holding my hand under the cool water. The sting was sharp at first, but it quickly faded.

"You need to be careful," he said, his tone a mix of concern and exasperation.

"I will," I mumbled, feeling oddly flustered as he inspected the cut.

He grabbed a small first aid kit from a shelf nearby and pulled out a bandage and a bottle of antiseptic.

"Mike, really, it’s fine—"

"Stop," he said, cutting me off. "Let me take care of it."

I sighed, letting him dab the antiseptic onto my finger. His hands were steady and careful, and I couldn’t help but notice how close he was standing.

"There," he said, wrapping the bandage around my finger and securing it with a small piece of tape. "Good as new."

"Thanks," I said softly, looking up at him.

When our eyes met, I froze. He was watching me, his expression unreadable but intense. My heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Neither of us said anything. The silence between us felt heavy, like it could tip over into something else at any second.

The bell above the door jingled, breaking whatever moment we were having.

Mike stepped back quickly, clearing his throat. "I’ll get that," he said, flashing me a quick smile before heading to the front of the bakery.

I stood there for a second, staring down at my bandaged finger. My thoughts were a mess, and my chest felt tight in a way I couldn’t explain.

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I untied my apron, folding it neatly and hanging it back on the hook. My bag felt heavier on my shoulder than it had earlier, probably because my arms were already sore from kneading dough.

"I have to go to class," I said, glancing at Mike. He was wiping down the counter, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a little messy from the morning rush.

He looked up and nodded. "Alright. You’ll be back this evening?"

"Yeah," I said. "Around five, I think."

"Good," he said, offering me a small smile. "Have a good class."

"Thanks," I said, heading toward the door.

The walk to school wasn’t long, and the cool breeze felt good after the warmth of the bakery. I adjusted the strap of my bag and quickened my pace, glancing at my phone. If I hurried, I might make it before the professor noticed I was late.

By the time I got to the lecture hall, the door was already closed, and I could hear the muffled voice of the professor inside. I hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open as quietly as I could. This was going to be the first time I was late.

The room was packed, rows of students scribbling in their notebooks or typing on laptops. The professor didn’t even glance up as I slipped inside.

I scanned the room quickly, looking for an empty seat. A girl around my age caught my eye, waving me over to the spot next to her.

I hurried over, sliding into the seat and setting my bag down on the floor.

"You’re late," she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Yeah," I whispered back, feeling my cheeks heat up. "Rough morning."