Baker Daddy (Small Falls #3)

Chapter 4

Dwight

T he bass from the speakers thumped under my boots. I stayed planted near the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed, trying to ignore the sting still buzzing under my skin. Marie’s "no" hadn’t been loud or dramatic—just a sharp shake of her head and a clipped, “Not interested.” But damn if it didn’t hit like a slap.

I couldn’t say I blamed her. Hell, we’d barely exchanged more than a few words before tonight, all quick-fire small-town pleasantries about coffee orders and bakery hours. She didn’t owe me a thing, especially not a dance. Still, those big brown eyes of hers had sparked something in me when they narrowed, irritation clear as day.

And then there was the other thing. The flicker. A guarded curiosity, maybe. Or maybe I was imagining it, projecting something I had no business dragging out of storage. Either way, it stirred something deep, something I’d worked hard to bury—a part of myself that had no place here, now.

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to shake it off. Focus. I wasn’t here for her. I wasn’t here for myself either. This night was about Marcus and Lucy. About proving I could be a different man. A better one.

But damn, I’d felt that old spark again. That sliver of confidence, stupid and stubborn, that made me ask her anyway. The confidence I’d needed to get on stage and perform. The courage I’d needed to fight for my country. Even sober, even knowing the odds, I’d had the confidence to go for it. Maybe some things didn’t change after all.

Laughter burst behind me, a wave of voices rolling in as more people crowded into the reception hall. I shifted my weight, catching sight of the open bar across the room. The bottles glinted under the string lights, amber and gold, bright blues and greens. A whiskey neat would’ve taken the edge off. A cold beer would’ve smoothed out the rough patches in my chest.

The craving came fast, like it always did when I least wanted it. My jaw tightened, and I shoved my hands into my pockets, fingers curling into fists. Not tonight. Not here. I thought of the hours in those meetings, the smell of burnt coffee and the cheap folding chairs, the stories shared by people who knew what rock bottom tasted like. I thought of the nights spent covered in flour, dough sticking to my palms instead of a bottle.

I wasn’t breaking now. Not at my brother’s wedding.

The line for the bar stretched across the room, but I turned away from it, heading instead toward the far corner where a table of non-alcoholic drinks sat mostly untouched. The fizzy hiss of a bottle opener and the quiet clink of ice cubes greeted me as I reached for a bottle of soft ginger ale. I cracked it open, poured it into one of the cheap plastic cups they’d stacked neatly next to the pitchers of water and lemonade. The carbonation stung my throat as I took a long sip.

The room felt too full—too loud, too bright. For a moment, I questioned why I was even here. Shouldn’t I just leave, now that I’ve made the speech and seen the wedding, I should probably just leave. Every laugh or burst of chatter around me hit like a sharp elbow to the ribs. I squeezed the cup in my hand, careful not to crush it, and fixed my gaze on nothing in particular. Just breathe. Just keep moving through it.

No. I was here for a reason.

Lucy’s eyes caught mine from across the room. She stood near Marcus, her auburn hair swept back in some fancy style that made her look like she belonged on the cover of one of those bridal magazines. When she saw me, her expression hardened for a moment. It was hard to place—tight, maybe. Concerned? Or just annoyed? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to overthink it. I hoped I hadn’t upset her with my speech.

I nodded at her, quick and stiff. She gave me a brief, distracted smile before turning back to her conversation with someone I didn’t recognize.

Still standing there, ginger ale in hand, I glanced out over the crowd—and froze. Marie.

She was on the other side of the room, champagne flute dangling loosely in her fingers. She laughed at something her friend said, her face lighting up in a way that sent a strange twist through my chest. Her blond curls bounced as she gestured, that half-empty glass swaying dangerously close to spilling. She wore confidence like armor, every movement deliberate yet careless, playful in a way that felt . . . younger than the woman who’d shot me down on the dance floor earlier.

I shouldn’t have been watching her. I knew that. But there was something there—a spark, a lightness in the way she tilted her head, the way her fingers curled around the stem of the glass like she didn’t quite trust herself not to drop it. It tugged at something buried deep inside me, something I’d worked hard to ignore for years.

I tightened my grip on the cup, the plastic creaking under the pressure.

No. Not tonight. Not here.

But damn if it wasn’t hard to look away.

A man I vaguely recognized from high school—Greg? Grant? Something with a G—passed by, nodding like he wasn’t sure if he should even bother. I nodded back, short and polite, not about to force anything. He slowed, his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something, but then he just kept moving, disappearing into the crowd.

My chest tightened. Same old story. People didn’t know what to make of me now. The screw-up who skipped town, now back like nothing happened. Like I could just waltz in, slap my name on a bakery, and expect everyone to forget the mess I’d left behind.

I took a long sip of my ginger ale, trying to mask the sour taste in my throat. It didn’t help. My grip on the flimsy plastic cup tightened until I thought it might crack.

“Get it together,” I muttered under my breath. This was Marcus’s night, not mine. No one had to like me.

I placed the cup down on the nearest table, the fizz still swirling in the amber liquid. Then I scanned the room, trying to anchor myself to something, someone. My gaze snagged on Marcus, standing off to the side near a pair of older guests. His shoulders were stiff, his smile tight, but he was holding court like a pro. Lucy was nowhere in sight.

This was it. If I was going to show him I meant business—that I wasn’t here for drama—this was my window. Before I could overthink it, I straightened my back, adjusted my tie, and started weaving through the crowd toward him.

I slipped through the crowd, keeping my steps measured, my eyes fixed on Marcus. My palms were damp, and I rubbed them against the sides of my slacks as I moved. The laughter and clink of glasses felt muffled, like I was underwater. My heart thudded in my chest, steady but too loud, drowning out the noise around me.

Marcus nodded at something one of the older guests said, his tight smile barely holding. The lines around his mouth looked deeper up close, and the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased since I’d spotted him. He had that look—like he’d been running on adrenaline for hours and was just waiting for it to crash.

The couple finally drifted off, their voices fading into the hum of the reception. This was my opening.

"Hey," I said, my voice low, careful. I stopped a few feet away, giving him space. "Got a second?"

Marcus turned toward me slowly, like he already knew what I was going to say and wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. His jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. For a second, I thought he might tell me to back off, but then he gave a sharp nod and stepped aside.

"Make it quick," he muttered, his voice clipped.

We edged toward a corner near a draped table, the fabric brushing against my arm. It was quieter here, away from the main crush of people, though the sounds of clinking glass and soft music still filled the air. Marcus stood stiffly, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowing on me like I was some threat he couldn’t quite pin down.

“Want to congratulate you,” I said, clearing my throat. “It’s been a wonderful day.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “Glad you could make it.”

"I wouldn’t miss it. Look," I continued. My voice felt rough, like I hadn’t used it in weeks. "I know this isn’t the time or place, but I needed to say it. Needed you to hear it."

His brow lifted faintly, but he didn’t say a word. Just stared, waiting. That stare made my skin itch, but I pushed through.

"I’m sorry, Marcus." My words came out fast, tumbling over each other. "For everything. For what I said, for how I handled things back then. For . . ." I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to look away. "For outing you the way I did. It was cruel. Stupid. I wasn’t thinking about anyone but myself, and I—" My voice cracked, so I paused, taking a breath before continuing. "I’ve spent years regretting it. Hating myself for it."

Marcus’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of pain, maybe, or disbelief. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or if he even cared to.

"That’s not who I am anymore," I added quickly, needing him to understand. "I’ve changed. I’ve worked hard to be better. To fix what I can, even if I know I can’t undo what I’ve done. I’m staying in Small Falls. Opening the bakery. I want you to see that I’m serious, that I’m not just passing through."

He exhaled sharply, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re holding back a hundred things they want to say. His arms stayed crossed, his posture rigid, but his gaze was locked on me now, unflinching.

"Why now?" he asked, his tone flat but laced with something sharper. "Why come back here, of all places? You could’ve started over anywhere."

"Because it’s home," I said, my voice softer now. "And because of you. I wanted to make things right. Or at least try."

My hands itched to do something—clench, gesture, anything—but I kept them at my sides, still, grounded. The weight of the room pressed down on me, the clinking glasses and muted laughter swirling around like background noise in a bad dream.

"Marcus," I said, leaning in slightly, keeping my voice steady. "You don’t have to forgive me. Hell, I don’t expect you to. But I need you to know I’m not going anywhere. Not this time."

The silence stretched between us, heavy and taut. Marcus’s brow furrowed, his jaw clenching so hard I could almost hear it over the noise of the reception. His arms stayed crossed, like he was physically holding himself back from saying too much.

“You walked away and never looked back,” he said finally, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the hum of distant laughter and clinking glasses. “It’s been almost a decade. And now you want to plant roots like everything’s fine?”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My chest tightened, air coming in short, shallow bursts. He wasn’t yelling, but damn if it didn’t feel worse than that.

“I know how it looks,” I said, keeping my voice steady, even though my throat felt like sandpaper. “I do. But I’m not that guy anymore, Marcus.”

He scoffed, the sound bitter and loaded. His gaze pinned me in place, guarded and dark—like he was waiting for me to screw up right there on the spot.

“I’ve worked my ass off to get clean,” I pushed on, gripping the edge of the table behind me, grounding myself in its solidness. “Baking—it saved me, man. Gave me something to hold onto when I didn’t have anything else. I’m not just here to play pretend or patch things up and bolt again. This is real.”

Marcus didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His silence was like a wall, one I couldn’t tell if I’d ever break through. My pulse hammered in my ears, and for a second, I thought about walking away, sparing us both the awkwardness. But then his eyes flickered—not softening exactly, but shifting somehow, like maybe he was at least hearing me, even if he wasn’t buying it yet.

Across the room, Lucy’s laugh rang out, bright and warm. I followed Marcus’s gaze as it landed on her. She stood by a cluster of guests, her champagne flute catching the light as she gestured animatedly. She was glowing in a way only someone who’d found their peace could. Marcus’s shoulders loosened slightly as he watched her, but there was still tension in the set of his jaw when he turned back to me.

“This is the happiest day of my life,” he said, voice measured but firm. “I’m doing my best not to let the past ruin it.”

I nodded slowly, swallowing the knot forming in my throat.

“I get it. You need time. Space. Whatever you need to figure out how you feel about all this.” I gestured vaguely between us, trying not to let the crack in my voice show. “I’m not expecting miracles, Marcus.”

His silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, like waiting for a storm to break. I forced myself not to fidget, not to look away. Instead, I straightened up, squaring my shoulders like I used to before stepping into a fight. Old habits died hard.

"Thanks for hearing me out," I added after a beat, quieter this time. His eyes flicked to mine, then away, and that was answer enough. The knot in my stomach tightened, but I wouldn’t push it. Not tonight.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Lucy waving to him, her smile wide and beckoning. Marcus’s head turned toward her, softening just enough for me to notice.

"She’s waiting for you," I murmured, stepping back a little to give him space. He took a breath and nodded, his movements stiff but deliberate. I thought he was going to walk away right then, leave me standing there with nothing but unfinished business and the stale taste of ginger ale on my tongue.

But he stopped. Turned back. His eyes locked on mine, dark and serious.

"Don’t mess this up," he said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise around us. It wasn’t just a warning—it was a challenge, one I couldn’t afford to ignore. His gaze swept over me, like he was taking stock of everything I’d ever done and weighing it against whatever reasons I’d given him tonight. "Not the bakery. Not Lucy's peace of mind. None of it."

I swallowed hard and gave him a single nod, slow and deliberate. "I won’t," I said, meaning it more than anything I’d said all night.

He lingered for half a second longer, then turned on his heel and walked away, moving toward Lucy and whatever future he’d built for himself without me in it.

I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white against the polished wood. The noise of the reception blurred into the background—clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, the faint strains of a love song I couldn’t name. My chest felt tight, like Marcus’s words had knocked something loose and it was rattling around in there, sharp and dangerous. He hadn’t told me to leave, but he might as well have handed me a checklist of all the ways I could screw this up.

"Don’t mess this up," I muttered under my breath, the taste of ginger ale still bitter on my tongue. My fingers flexed, smoothing over the table’s edge as if that would steady me. It didn’t.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marie again, leaning closer to one of her friends now, her lips curved in a smile that should’ve been illegal. It stirred something deep, something I didn’t want to think about. The kind of pull that made my feet itch to move, my mouth twitch to speak. But I stayed rooted where I was because dragging her into my disaster wasn’t fair. She deserved better than whatever wreckage I’d bring to her doorstep.

I stepped back from the table, away from temptation—both liquid and human—and made my way toward the door. It was time for me to leave. One day, when I’d proved myself to these people, maybe I could celebrate again. Until then, though, I had work to do.

Hard work.