Stunt Double's Pre-Dawn Bakery Kneading

The bell above the bakery door gave a sleepy jingle at 4:12 a.m., announcing Riley’s arrival like a half-hearted apology. The stuntwoman trudged in, still half-zipped into a black neoprene undersuit that clung to every inch of her athletic frame. Her dark ponytail was already coming undone, and a faint bruise was blooming along her left cheekbone from yesterday’s high-fall rehearsal. She looked like trouble wrapped in exhaustion.

Behind the counter, Lena didn’t even glance up from the mountain of dough she was manhandling. “We open at four-thirty, stunt girl. The sign’s not lying.”

Riley leaned heavily on the glass display case, leaving a faint smudge of stage blood on the pristine surface. “Look, I’ve got a six a.m. call, I’m doubling for an actress who apparently thinks gravity is optional, and if I don’t get caffeine and carbs in the next ten minutes I’m going to fold like cheap lawn furniture. Your lights were on. I took it as an invitation.”

Lena finally straightened. Flour dusted her forearms like expensive body glitter, and her white tank top was doing heroic work containing a pair of full, heavy breasts that swayed with the motion. She was taller than Riley by a couple of inches, broader in the shoulders from years of lifting fifty-pound sacks of bread flour, and her sarcastic mouth was already curving into a dangerous smile.

“Desperate and flexible,” Lena drawled, wiping her hands on a towel that had seen better days. “My two favorite qualities in a customer. What’s your poison, Crash Test Barbie?”

Riley’s gaze drifted—completely against her will—down the long line of Lena’s throat to the flour handprint just above the neckline of that tank top. She swallowed. “Large coffee. Whatever muffin you’ve got that tastes like regret and brown sugar. And maybe one of those flaky things that looks like it could kill a man with butter.”

Lena’s eyebrow arched. “You any good at eating things that could kill you?”

“Professionally,” Riley shot back, voice dropping an octave before she could stop it. “I get paid to fall off buildings and pretend it doesn’t hurt. Eating your pastry is basically a vacation.”

Lena laughed, low and warm, the sound rolling through the quiet bakery like distant thunder. She turned to the espresso machine, hips rolling in a way that made the simple gray sweatpants she wore look criminal. “You know, most people who come in this early are either hungover fishermen or heartbroken teenagers. You’re the first walking erection I’ve seen before sunrise.”

Riley choked on nothing. “I’m sorry, did you just call me a walking erection?”

“Only in the most complimentary way.” Lena steamed milk with practiced flicks of her wrist. “You’ve got that ‘I can bend in directions God didn’t intend’ energy. Impressive flexibility. Makes a girl wonder what else you can do with it.”