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Kiernan’s laugh carries through the empty bakery and I roll the cloth I’m holding and then flick his thigh with it. He jumps away from me, laughing as he makes a dash for the kitchen.

“Yeah, run, you coward,” I chuckle. Kiernan returns a moment later, armed with his own dish towel, which he flicks at me, making contact with my hip.

“Fuck! Okay. Okay.” I hold my hands up in surrender.

“Who’s the coward now?” Kee asks, laughing so hard his eyes water.

“Funny,” I retort, dropping my tea towel onto the counter. The bakery is empty, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have work to do. I have another batch of scones to get out of the oven and I’ve baked cookies for an event at the garden centre, that Kiernan needs to place into individual bags.

We chat for a while, finishing our tasks and serving the customers who dribble in. Many of whom have kids with them since it’s summer holidays. I sell a lot of cupcakes and ice ring donuts, and by lunchtime; I am all out of the sweetest of our treats.

We have also run out of milk, which isn’t ideal because there are still a few hours left to the day.

“Was there no milk with this morning’s deliveries?” I ask Kiernan as he hands a napkin to a mum with a baby on her hip.

“Nope. They had a problem with their supplier and it got delayed until tomorrow. They sent an email.”

“Oh.” Shit. I totally missed that. Kiernan and I both check the bakery’s emails and social media accounts, but the deliveries and anything finance related is my responsibility.

“Sorry,” he says. “I thought you knew.”

“No. It’s my fault. I didn’t check the delivery note or the emails this morning.”

“Easily fixed!” he exclaims. “I’ll run out and get some.”

It’s as quiet as it usually is at lunchtime – because we don’t sell sandwiches and sausage rolls like the deli down the road does. But I’ve no doubt that we’ll get a few more coffee and cake orders in before I shut around four.

“Thanks, Kee. Take my credit card.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my wallet, and hand Kiernan my card. He disappears into the kitchen and I hear the back door close as he leaves the bakery. With more things to get done, I start with wiping crumbs off the counter, then turn my back on the empty store and fix the details on the specials blackboard, removing the word ‘cupcakes’. I’ll have to double the quantity tomorrow and perhaps add a second flavour.

The main bakery door opens, the blinds rattling against the glass as it does, a draft wafting in that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I spin around and come face to face with a man I’ve only seen once before. Bald, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He walks slowly towards the counter, peering around the empty bakery.

“Can I help you?” I swallow thickly, resting my hands in front of me on the counter.

The man grins. “I think we can help each other.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. If you don’t want to order something, please leave.” My hands shake so I press them harder into the wood, peering over his shoulder and hoping someone comes into the bakery soon, so I’m not alone.

“My boss is not happy. You’re making things very difficult for him.” He runs a hand along the glass shelf at the far end of the counter, right next to the entry to the back of the bakery.

“I don’t care about your boss.”

The guy laughs, and it’s a horrible, raspy sound that has my pulse spiking.

“You should care, Mr Brody. He always gets what he wants.” The man rounds the back of the counter, stepping closer to me. “He will stop at nothing.”

I straighten, pulling my hands into fists at my side.

“You can’t bully me into selling.”

“I’ve been given a job to do and I never fail. But we can do this the easy, painless way, Caspian. Just name your price. What will it take? More money? Your own bakery in Edinburgh? What about something in London? Big, flashy. My boss can give it to you.” The guy advances and I back up as far as I can, but short of bounding over the counter, he’s got me trapped. He stops so close I can see the crow’s feet at the side of his eyes. He’s bigger than me. Imposing, with an angry sneer on his face.

“Nothing. I don’t want anything from your boss.”

“Wrong answer.” In the blink of an eye, his hand is on my throat, his grip tightening and a whimper falling from my lips. I try to flinch away, but his hold is too tight and I’m no match for him. Panic builds in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me, not just because his grip hurts, or because I’m struggling to catch a breath, but because he’s touching me.

My heart beats so hard I can hear it in my ears, and my eyes well up. I’ve been in this position before – held up against a wall by a bully with dirty, rough hands. It didn’t end well for me. I shut my eyes against both the memory and my current reality.

Out of nowhere, there’s a loud growl, seconds before a calm, authoritative voice laced with warning says, “You shouldn’t touch him.”