Chapter 5
Marie
A couple of days after the wedding, I walked into work early in the morning, my mind buzzing. Today—so I heard—Dwight was due to begin renovating the store he was turning into a bakery, and tonight I was heading to the Little’s League for the second time. So many things to be nervous about.
I dug my hands into the pocket of my jacket and tried to focus on something else—anything else. The only other thing that was in my brain at the moment: how to save my business from Dwight Wilkins’ new venture. What could I do? Maybe I could play him at his own game and create some new pastries. Spring flavors. Lavender mocha? Or maybe a honey-lemon scone? Something fresh but familiar, not too far off the beaten path. I needed to stay ahead.
Then I saw him.
He was standing outside what used to be Henderson’s Grocers. His back was to me, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, hands resting on his hips like he was sizing up a problem he couldn’t quite solve. I slowed without thinking.
"Don’t stop," I told myself. "Just keep walking."
But my feet didn’t listen. Something about the way he stood there, like he was trying to wrestle that beat-up building into submission, pulled at me.
The storefront looked worse than I remembered. Chipped paint peeled at the edges of the frame, and the windows were so dusty they blurred the inside into shadows. Not exactly the gleaming “modern bakery” people in town were whispering about. If this was his big idea, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
I crossed my arms as I got closer, a barrier between me and whatever this was. Dwight turned just as I reached the edge of the curb, catching sight of me.
His green eyes locked onto mine, steady and unreadable. For half a second, we both froze, like neither of us knew who should speak first. My heart kicked harder than I wanted it to.
"Morning," I said, short and clipped. A nod. That was all.
"Morning," he replied, his voice low and rough like gravel under boots. He didn’t smile, but there was something in his expression—a flicker of recognition, maybe—that made my skin feel too tight.
"Big plans?" I asked, jerking my chin toward the building. My tone was light, casual. Too casual.
"Something like that," he said, his hands dropping to his sides. For a moment, he looked less like a confident ex-rockstar-turned-baker and more like a man trying to piece together a puzzle with missing corners.
I held my ground, keeping my arms crossed. "Doesn’t look like much now," I said. Because what else could I say? Words filled the space between us, heavy and sharp-edged. Why was I even talking to him?
He smirked—just barely—and gestured toward the building with one hand, his leather jacket creaking at the motion. “It’s got good bones,” he said, his voice low but self-assured. “You just have to look past the dust and chipped paint.”
“Good bones,” I echoed, raising an eyebrow. “That what they call it when a place looks like it might collapse if you sneeze too hard?”
His smirk widened, but it didn’t reach those green eyes of his. “Funny,” he said, like he wasn’t sure if he meant it. He glanced back at the building, tilting his head. “I’m excited about it, though. There’s something here, you know? A little neon, some industrial accents . . . kinda cool, like Berlin.”
"Berlin?" I snorted before I could help myself, my skepticism cutting through like a knife. “Yeah, because nothing screams ‘Small Falls’ like pretending we’re in Germany. You do realize this town prides itself on historic charm, right?” I waved a hand toward the other shops lining Main Street, their painted signs and old-fashioned awnings practically begging for postcards.
His jaw tightened just a fraction, but he kept that easy stance, one hand sliding into his pocket. “Charm’s great,” he said, slow and calm, like he was explaining something to a kid who didn’t quite get it. “But charm doesn’t pay the bills forever. Innovation? That’s what keeps places like this alive.”
"Innovation?" I repeated, narrowing my eyes. My pulse kicked up, frustration bubbling under my skin. “Is that what you’re calling this? Trying to force something trendy onto a town that thrives on tradition?”
For a second, I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, like he almost enjoyed my irritation. "Yup," he said simply, leaning back on his heels. “Innovation shakes things up. And competition gives people options. It’s not about tearing anything down—it’s about making the whole place better.”
I bristled, heat creeping up the back of my neck. “Oh, so now you’re some kind of small-town savior? Please.” I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt, hoping he couldn’t see the way his confidence was starting to dig under my skin. He wasn’t supposed to be this . . . steady.
Dwight turned his gaze back to me, and for the first time, there was something softer in it. “The Daily Grind?” he said, his voice dipping just enough to make my cheeks flush. “That’s your place, right? Warm atmosphere. Feels like home when you walk in. You’ve done a hell of a job with it.”
I froze, caught off guard by the compliment. My stomach did this stupid little flip, and I hated it. I didn’t even know he’d been in. Must have been while I was on a break. I wondered for a moment if he’d planned that carefully. “Well, thanks,” I muttered, shrugging like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.
But he didn’t stop there. “That’s what I hope this place will be like,” he said, his tone quieter now, like he was letting me in on something secret. “A space where people feel good. Different from yours, sure, but still . . . something special. Just because it’s neon, doesn’t mean it can’t feel cozy.”
"Have you looked around, Dwight? This isn’t Berlin. This is Small Falls. We’ve got hand-painted signs, brick storefronts, shutters older than either of us. A neon monstrosity would stick out like a sore thumb."
His lips twitched—half amusement, half something else. “A sore thumb might not be such a bad thing,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. It was too casual, like he wasn’t taking me seriously. “But maybe you’ve got a point.”
I blinked. That wasn’t the answer I expected. “What?”
He shrugged, his jacket creaking with the movement. “Maybe I went overboard with the neon idea. The trendiness. I’m open to feedback. Gotta adapt if I want people to actually walk through the door.” He met my gaze, steady and calm, like he wasn’t rattled at all.
It threw me off balance. I’d come prepared for a fight, not this. “Well. Good,” I stammered, trying to recover.
A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. “So. You done chewing me out, or should I grab a pen to take notes?”
My cheeks burned, but I crossed my arms tighter, refusing to let him see he’d gotten under my skin. “I wasn’t chewing you out,” I muttered.
“Reminded me of my drill sergeant back in the military. I’m used to it. Gotta say though, I prefer you chewing me out to him.” He gave me a dirty look, but before I had time to reply, he pulled a key from his pocket, jangling it once before sliding it into the lock on the faded blue door. “Wanna see inside? Or can you tell me all the mistakes I’m making from out here?”
I hesitated, glancing at the door.
“I’ll bite,” I said, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. “Show me what you’ve got.”
He pushed the door open, stepping aside with a small bow that was just shy of mocking. “After you.”
The air hit me first—stale and thick, carrying the faint tang of old wood and dust. I wrinkled my nose but stepped inside anyway, my boots scuffing against the uneven floor. Dust swirled in the weak light filtering through the grimy windows, catching in my throat. The space stretched out in front of me, empty except for the ghosts of whatever had been here before.
“So?” Dwight’s voice came from behind me, low and quiet. I turned to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me like he could see every thought flickering across my face. “What do you think?”
I shrugged, pretending my heart hadn’t skipped at the way his eyes lingered on me. “Well, it’s a fixer-upper, that’s for sure.”
“That’s one way to put it.” His grin widened, just enough to make me bristle. “But it’s got potential.”
"Potential" was a generous word. The place looked like it’d been abandoned for years, layers of neglect piled up like sediment. But there was something about the way he said it, like he really meant it, that made me pause. “You’re gonna need more than potential to make this work.”
"Good thing I’ve got more than that." He stepped further into the room, his boots stirring up another little cloud of dust. “Today’s just the start. Gonna get this place cleaned up, scrubbed up, fitted out, and I’m gonna bake up a storm.”
"Big talk," I shot back, trying to keep my tone light, dismissive. But my stomach did another one of those stupid flips when he turned to look at me again, his expression softening just a fraction.
"Big talk is where it starts," he said simply. Then he gestured around the room, his gaze following the path of his hand. "Ovens along that back wall," he said, pointing casually. "Shelves here. Seating there."
"Seating?" I raised an eyebrow. "So people can watch their food poisoning happen in real-time?"
His laugh rumbled low and warm, like he wasn’t even fazed by my jab. That only annoyed me more.
"Vision takes work," he said, shrugging one broad shoulder. He didn’t look at me when he spoke, just kept mapping out his little fantasy bakery with sweeping hand gestures. "But once it’s done, this place is gonna be something special."
"Special" wasn’t exactly the word I’d use. Expensive, maybe. Impossible, definitely. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I watched him, trying to figure out why he looked so damn pleased with himself standing in a room that screamed money pit .
He gestured toward a corner near a large window, where faint sunlight cut through the grime. "Right there," he said, voice dipping like he was letting me in on a secret. "A nook. A cozy spot for people to sit with pastries, coffee. Maybe read a book, chat with friends."
My stomach dropped. Coffee. Of course. I stiffened, and my arms hugged tighter around my ribcage before I could stop myself. "So, you’re gonna serve coffee?" The question came out sharp, almost biting.
"Yeah, but hear me out," he said quickly, turning to face me fully now. His hands went up like he was surrendering, but there was nothing apologetic in his expression. "I’m not looking to compete with you. Actually..." He hesitated, then took a step closer. Close enough that I caught the faintest hint of something—cologne, or maybe just soap. "I was thinking about partnering with local roasters. Maybe even renting out space for someone like you."
"Someone like me?" I narrowed my eyes at him, heat creeping up my neck despite myself.
"Someone who knows what they’re doing," he clarified smoothly, leaning back like he expected me to swing on him. "The Daily Grind has its vibe. This would complement it."
"So I’d what, run a stall in the corner of the bakery?” I hated how my pulse ticked faster at the suggestion. Hated how he stood there, confident but not cocky, like he actually believed we could coexist without stepping on each other’s toes.
"Yeah." He smiled again—crooked, easy. Too easy. "Think about it. Your coffee in my shop means new customers for both of us."
"Or it means you’re poaching mine while pretending to play nice." My voice was steady, but inside, I felt off-balance. Like he’d yanked the rug out from under me, then offered to help me stand.
"Marie," he said, and my name coming from his mouth hit harder than it should’ve. He tilted his head, those green eyes locked onto mine. "It’s not like that."
"Sure it isn’t." I forced a short laugh, but it sounded weaker than I wanted. And the worst part? Somewhere under all my skepticism, under all the bristling and posturing, I could feel the tiniest flicker of admiration. For his nerve. For his thoughtfulness. For the way he made it all sound so possible.
"Just think about it. Just . . . imagine it wasn’t me, imagine it was someone else, who you didn’t know, who didn’t have my shitty reputation, who wasn’t a pariah in his town." His gaze lingered for half a second too long. “Imagine it was someone else who was passionate about baking, who was proposing it to you. Would you still be as negative on the idea?”
“But it is you, Dwight.”
“I’ve changed, Marie. I’m not who I was back then. Life has humbled me.” Dwight leaned against the counter, his hand spread wide over the rough wood like he was trying to feel its history or something. “I’m not here to fight. I’m here to bake.” The scars on the surface—deep grooves, cigarette burns, maybe even knife marks—looked like a fight had broken out here years ago. He traced one of the lines with his thumb, quiet for a moment, before speaking.
“I don’t get it, Dwight. Why baking?”
"I know, it must seem strange," he said, voice low and almost . . . careful. "This past year, while everything else in my life felt like it was spinning off its axis, baking was the only thing that made sense."
I blinked at him. That wasn’t what I expected. Not from him . "Baking?" I repeated, like the word didn’t make sense in my mouth.
"Yeah." He glanced up at me, his green eyes steady but softer now. "It’s . . . grounding. Kneading dough, watching it rise, getting lost in the rhythm. It kept me sane." His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Kept me sober too."
My arms dropped from where they were crossed tight over my chest. That admission caught me off guard. His tone wasn’t apologetic or heavy with self-pity—it just was . Matter-of-fact, like he was talking about the weather or what kind of flour made the best loaf.
"Wait," I blurted before I could think better of it. "You’re serious? Like, it actually helped you quit drinking?"
"Helped me stay quit," he corrected, his hand still resting on the counter. "Most nights, it was either bake or . . ." His sentence trailed off, but I didn’t need him to finish it. “Let’s just say I got really fucking good at making croissants.”
I shifted, uncomfortable now, because this was not the Dwight Wilkins I was ready to spar with. Vulnerable Dwight? No, thank you. My brain scrambled to remember the blurry rumors from years ago—something about his band, some messy breakup, bottles smashed backstage. And yet, standing here now, he looked nothing like the trainwreck I’d pictured back then. He looked solid. Real.
"Well," I started, hesitating. "That’s . . . I mean, good for you, I guess." Smooth, Marie. Real smooth.
His mouth quirked at my awkwardness, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he tapped a knuckle against the counter like he was bringing us both back to reality. "Anyway," he said, lighter now, "this place will need a lot of work, but I’ve got a plan."
"Do you?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re gonna need more than a plan. You’re gonna need money. A lot of it."
"Got that covered," he said, quick as a snap. Then, like he could see the doubt written all over my face, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folder. The edges were dog-eared, the paper inside smudged and creased. He flipped it open and laid it flat on the counter between us.
"See?" He jabbed a finger at a sketch, rough pencil lines outlining ovens, counters, tables. Another page showed a financial breakdown, handwritten and full of notes scribbled in the margins. "Touring paid well enough. Saved most of it after I stopped being an idiot. Plus, I’ve got a buddy investing. Small stake, nothing crazy. Contractors are already lined up. Tight schedule, but doable."
His handwriting was surprisingly neat for a guy who used to smash guitars on stage. I scanned the numbers, the timelines. They weren’t perfect, but they weren’t total garbage either.
"Still think I’m flying by the seat of my pants?" His voice had that edge again, half-challenging, half-teasing.
"Maybe," I said, straightening up. But the truth? I didn’t hate what I saw. And when I glanced back at him, there was something in his expression—defiance, sure, but also hope. Like he was daring me to poke holes in this and secretly hoping I wouldn’t.
"Alright," I said, crossing my arms again. "So you're not completely unprepared. But this is Small Falls, not New York City. Don’t think your fancy sketches mean the town’s gonna roll out the red carpet."
"Look," he said, stepping away from the window. "I get it. Community matters here. But maybe there’s room for both—tradition and something fresh." His tone was calm, measured, but his jaw was still set tight.
"Fresh doesn’t mean turning Small Falls into an Instagram backdrop," I muttered.
"Right," he said, his voice flat now. "Wouldn’t want that. God forbid anyone under fifty finds something exciting here."
"Exciting doesn’t mean flashing lights and graffiti," I snapped.
"Who’s talking about graffiti?" His mouth quirked up at the corner, though it wasn’t quite a smile. "You’re really giving me a lot of credit here. Maybe I should hire you as my marketing consultant."
"Pass," I said, though his sarcasm tugged at something in me—something dangerously close to amusement. I turned back toward the center of the room, needing space, air, anything to stop looking at that stupid smirk.
"Alright," he started, his voice softer now. "Tell me something, Ms. Local Expert. How’d you pull it off? The Daily Grind, I mean. That place is . . . what did you call it? A hub? Bet that didn’t happen overnight."
"Why do you care?" I asked, though the question lacked its earlier bite.
"Because I’m curious," he said simply. "And because I figure you’ve got a thing or two I could learn, even if you’re determined to hate my guts."
"Didn’t say I hated your guts," I mumbled, fiddling with the edge of my sleeve. "But fine. You wanna know? It was hell at first. Nobody trusted me. Half the town stuck to their Folgers at home, and the rest didn’t see why we needed ‘fancy coffee’ when the diner had drip for a buck."
"Sounds rough," he said, leaning in slightly. Just enough that I felt the weight of his attention. Like a spotlight aimed right at me.
"Yeah, well, it was. But I figured it out. Kept costs low, ran specials, hosted events. Eventually, people came around. And then one day—" I paused, feeling the faint tug of pride despite myself. "One day, I walked in, and it hit me. This wasn’t just my business anymore. It was theirs too."
"That’s impressive," Dwight said, and for once, there wasn’t any teasing in his tone. Just quiet sincerity. It threw me off balance, like stepping onto uneven ground.
"Well," I said, shrugging, "it worked out. Mostly. I still—" I stopped short, realizing I’d almost admitted how much I still worried. About money. About customers. About competition. Him.
"Still what?" he pressed gently.
"Nothing," I said quickly, shaking my head. "Anyway, that’s the story. Trial by fire. Lots of caffeine. No magic formula."
"Guessing your boyfriend helped out?" he asked, and the shift in his tone—light, easy, almost playful—made me blink.
"Boyfriend?" I repeated, caught off guard.
"Or husband," he added, watching me closely now. "Whoever’s backing you up."
"Nobody," I said, feeling the heat creep up my neck. "There’s no boyfriend. Or husband. It’s just me."
"Just you," he echoed, his voice dropping a fraction.
"Yeah," I said, forcing a laugh. "I’m married to the grind. Literally."
"Figures," he said, and for some reason, the way his gaze lingered made my pulse jump. But then he smiled—small, almost to himself—and leaned back again, letting the moment slip past.
Feeling a little more at ease, I asked, “So what was life on the road like? Was it all groupies and fun?" I asked, leaning back on the dusty stool. My voice came out lighter than I’d intended.
Dwight smirked, not missing a beat. "For some of the band, sure." He crossed his arms, his shoulder brushing the wall behind him, casual as anything. "But not for me."
"Really?" I tilted my head, folding my hands in my lap to keep them steady. "You don’t strike me as the ‘too serious for fun’ type."
"Depends on your definition of fun, I guess." His green eyes flicked to mine, sharp and unflinching, and held there just long enough to make my pulse skip.
"Okay, so what’s your definition?" I shot back, trying to regain some footing.
"Not people throwing themselves at me," he said, his tone calm, deliberate. "Never liked that."
"Why not?"
"Because I’ve got specific tastes." He pushed off the wall slightly, stepping closer without stepping too close. Just enough for me to notice. Just enough for me to feel it. "I like someone with a little fight in ’em."
My breath caught before I could stop it. It was the way he said it—not cocky, not like a line he’d rehearsed. Low and quiet, like it wasn’t for anyone else to hear but me.
"Fight, huh?" I managed, aiming for dismissive but landing somewhere closer to nervous.
"Yeah," he said simply, then paused. His gaze lingered, softened slightly, but not enough to lose its weight. "Plus . . ." He hesitated, like he was debating whether to say more. Then he did. "There’s a side of me I don’t really show people. Gets in the way sometimes."
"Gets in the way of what?" The words slipped out before I could decide if I even wanted to know.
"Relationships. Trust." He shrugged, like it didn’t matter, but his jaw tightened, just for a second. "It’s easier to keep things simple."
Dust floated lazily through the air between us, catching stray beams of light from the grimy windows. I noticed his hands again—resting at his sides, strong, capable, but flexing slightly, like he needed them busy. My heart thudded, uneven.
"Simple seems . . . boring," I said, finally.
"Maybe," he murmured, and his eyes locked on mine again. Not accidental. Not casual. There was something in them, something heavier than his words, and it hit me square in the chest.
"Anyway," Dwight said abruptly, breaking the moment like snapping a twig. "I could use some advice."
"Advice?" I blinked, thrown by the shift.
"Yeah. Business stuff. Local suppliers, how to navigate this town’s politics without stepping on every toe in sight." He gave me a lopsided grin, one corner of his mouth tugging up just slightly. "Seems like you’ve got that part figured out."
"Maybe," I said cautiously.
"Come on, Marie." He leaned against the counter now, casual again, but watching me closely. "Help a guy out."
"Why should I?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"Because you care about this place. Small Falls, I mean," he said simply. "And because if I screw this up, it’s not just bad for me—it’s bad for everyone who’s stuck here listening to me try to apologize later."
I hated that he had a point. But he was right. If he went full neon bakery Berlin chic or whatever he thought would work, Small Falls wouldn’t let him live it down. And neither would I.
“Plus,” he said, “I’ll pay you for your time. Like a consultant.”
"Fine," I said, after a long pause. “I’ll do it for the money.”
He gave me a rakish grin. “I think you’re doing it because you like me.”
“Never,” I replied, trying not to smile, trying not to blush. I failed at both.
“Whatever you say,” he said.
There was a moment, just for a second, when I felt the atmosphere morph and change to something dark and dangerous. My eyes dropped to his lips, and flicked back up. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.
Fuck.
I did like him.
I liked his ambition. I liked his confidence. I even liked that he’d asked me to dance the other day.
I swallowed.
What would happen if I kissed him? He wouldn’t want it. But there was something in his eyes. Was it hunger? Was it desire? Whatever it was, it was making warmth spread in my tummy, and lust curl in my core.
“I—uh—better head to work.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ve got contractors coming soon. But I’ll see you in a couple days? For some consultancy ?”
I nodded.
And as I left, something deep down in my gut spoke to me.
“ He’s a Daddy Dom ,” it said.