Baker Daddy (Small Falls #3)

Chapter 6

Dwight

I ran a hand over the countertop, feeling the smooth grain of the wood. It wasn’t perfect—there was still sawdust in the corners, and the walls needed another coat of paint—but it was mine. My bakery. The thought settled heavy in my chest, equal parts pride and nerves. I glanced at the clock on my phone. Two minutes until Marie said she’d show up.

I was up very early this morning, visiting a friend’s bakery a couple towns away. Last night I’d rustled up a batch of croissant pastry, so I could give Marie a taste of what I hoped to offer in my bakery when we opened up. This morning I’d rolled the pastry into crescents and had baked it until they were crisp and golden brown. I couldn’t wait to share them with Marie.

I paced the floor, practicing what I’d say. “Thanks for coming, Marie. I really value your input.” No, too stiff. “Marie, I’m glad you’re here. I want this place to feel like home—for both of us . . .” I stopped mid-step, groaning. Too much. Way too much. Why did my bakery have to feel like her home? She’d laugh me out of my own shop.

Pulling in a breath, I shook my head. Focus. This was about the bakery. Not her curly hair or how her smile made my stomach twist—or the way she’d looked at me last time, when we’d been standing too close, talking about suppliers. Just the bakery. Keep it professional. I could do that.

But when, moments later, I heard a knock at my door, all thoughts of keeping things professional left my brain in an instant. I opened the door, and there she was, Marie Johnson, looking like she owned the damn world.

"Morning," she said, stepping inside. Her heels clicked against the floor, sharp and confident. She was wearing a suit! It was dark gray with some kind of pattern I couldn’t name, and it fit her like a glove. She had a bright yellow scarf tied loosely around her neck, and her curls were pinned back just enough to show off the angles of her jaw. She looked... incredible. Intimidating, almost. Like she belonged in a boardroom, not my half-finished bakery.

"Wow." The word slipped out before I could stop it. I cleared my throat, trying to play it cool. "You dress up like this for all your meetings, or am I special?"

She smirked, one hand resting on her hip. "Figured if you're paying me as a consultant, I should at least look the part."

"Uh-huh." I let my gaze flick over her, slow enough to make her shift a little where she stood. "You like playing dress-up, huh?"

Her cheeks went pink. Just a touch, but I caught it. She rolled her eyes, brushing past me. "Don’t start, Dwight."

"Who, me?" I grinned, trailing after her. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Marie stopped in the middle of the room, turning a slow circle. Her lips parted slightly as she took it all in—the clean walls, the beams I’d decided to keep, the empty space waiting to become something real. Her fingers brushed absently over her scarf, a small gesture that gave away more than her carefully neutral expression did.

"Well . . ." she said, finally. Her voice was light, but her brow quirked as she glanced back at me. "You’ve been busy."

"Not bad, right?" I stuffed my hands in my pockets, rocking back on my heels. "Figured it was time to make this place look less like a haunted house."

"Mission accomplished." She started walking again, her heels clicking softly. "I mean, it’s still rough, but . . . yeah. It’s got potential."

"High praise," I teased.

“You’re still thinking about putting the seating area here?” Her tone was casual, but her eyes scanned the space like a hawk.

I nodded, stepping closer. “Yeah. Couple of small tables, maybe a bench along that wall.” I gestured at the far side, where sunlight poured in through the cleaned-up windows. “Keep it simple. Cozy.”

She tilted her head, lips pursing slightly. “You’re not worried it’ll feel cramped once you get racks and display cases in here?”

“Nope.” I crossed my arms, standing beside her. “I measured it out. There’s plenty of room for people to sit without bumping elbows with someone grabbing a muffin.”

Her mouth twitched like she wanted to argue, but instead, she gestured toward the windows. “And what about the light? You put a big display case right there, you’re gonna cut off half of it.”

I followed her gaze, then shrugged. “Display case is going over there.” I pointed toward the opposite wall, smirking as her brow furrowed. “See? Thought this through.”

“Seriously, Dwight, don’t crowd the space. People wanna feel like they can breathe when they’re sitting down, not like they’re trapped between pastries and strangers.”

“Noted.” I couldn’t help but watch her as she kept moving, her stride confident, her curls bouncing lightly with each step. She had this way of commanding attention without even trying, and somehow, it only made me want to focus harder.

We rounded the corner near the back of the shop, stopping by the freshly installed countertop. I ran a hand along its smooth surface, nodding toward the empty space beyond. “This is where the ovens will go. Picture it—customers standing here, looking at trays of fresh bread coming out, the smell filling the air . . .”

Marie leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. “You’ve got quite the vision, huh?”

“Gotta have one,” I said, glancing at her. “Otherwise, why bother?”

She smirked, tilting her head slightly. “Okay, Mr. Visionary. But if you think you’re gonna lure people away from my coffee shop with fancy bread smells alone, you’d better bring your A-game.”

“Oh, I will.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the counter. “You might have the caffeine, but I’ll have the best croissants in the county. Watch.”

Her laugh was soft but sharp, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Big talk. You sure you can back that up?”

I reached under the counter and pulled out the box, setting it down between us. The cardboard edges were still warm. I flipped the lid open, letting the buttery aroma spill into the air.

"Figured you’d need proof," I said, cocking a brow at her.

Marie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. She leaned in slightly, catching the scent before she straightened again, arms crossed. "What’s this? Some kind of bribe?"

"Call it . . . persuasion." I grabbed one of the croissants wrapped in parchment and held it out to her. The bag steamed faintly, carrying that rich, golden smell that had taken me months to perfect.

She hesitated, lips twitching like she was fighting back a smile. "Fine," she said, snatching the croissant from my hand. "But if this is bad, I’ll never let you live it down."

"Fair deal," I shot back, watching as she broke off a piece. Her fingers lingered on the flaky edge, almost hesitant. Then she popped it into her mouth.

The sound she made wasn’t loud, but it hit me like a freight train. A low, unfiltered moan—one she clearly hadn’t meant to let slip. Her cheeks flushed pink immediately, her eyes darting to mine as though she’d been caught doing something scandalous.

"Good?" I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.

"Shut up," she muttered, covering her mouth with her hand as she chewed. But her expression gave her away: half-embarrassed, half-lost in pure pleasure.

My pulse kicked hard. I couldn’t stop staring at her face, the way her lashes fluttered just slightly as she took another bite. Something about seeing her like this—unguarded, genuinely enjoying herself—made every nerve in my body tighten.

Her gaze lifted, locking onto mine. Neither of us moved. For a moment, the bakery didn’t exist. Just her, standing there with crumbs dusting her fingers, and me, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

"Okay," she said finally, breaking the spell. She shook her head, rolling her eyes, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips. "I’ll give you this one. That’s . . . annoyingly good."

"Annoyingly?" I repeated, smirking now.

"Yeah," she said, brushing her hands off. "Like, frustratingly good. You’re gonna ruin my reputation if people start skipping coffee for this."

"Don’t worry," I said, leaning back against the counter. "Like I said, you’re welcome to sell your coffee here. If it’ll help, I can even make some croissants for you to bake in your store, too."

"Bold of you to assume these are better than what I already sell," she quipped.

"They are though, aren’t they?"

She held my gaze, eyes locked on mine. “No comment,” she said.

The air buzzed softly between us, charged with something I couldn’t quite name. She broke the spell, looked away. “So, you changed the windows?”

The glass gleamed, clear and sharp, finally rid of years of grime. Outside, the brick facade of Main Street framed the view like a postcard.

"Yep. Had them replaced," I said, nodding at the panes. "Figured people might want to be able to see out while they’re sitting with their coffee or pastries. Call me old fashioned."

To my surprise, as she laughed, she let out a small snort.

“Wait, did you just—”

“No. Absolutely not. And if you ever tell anyone I did, I’ll deny it forever.”

“Understood.” I grinned.

Marie stepped closer, palm smoothing over the glass’s cool surface. Her reflection caught the light, softening the sharpness of her profile, but her brow furrowed like she was calculating something I couldn’t see.

"You know, it’s a big improvement," she murmured. Her voice had this quiet edge, like she wasn’t just talking about the windows. "Light’s better now."

"That’s what I want," I said, stepping up behind her before I could think twice. Close enough that I caught the faint scent of her shampoo—something citrusy and sweet. "Bright. Welcoming."

She froze for half a second, her hand still pressed to the glass. Then, slowly, she glanced back at me. Her eyes locked on mine, wide and searching. My pulse thudded hard enough to make my chest ache. We didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something, but nothing came. Just the sound of our breathing, too close and not close enough.

"Alright," she blurted, spinning away so fast I had to take a step back. She pointed sharply at the wall. "What’s this layout you’ve got going here? Looks like you’re trying to confuse everyone who walks in."

I blinked, my head still catching up, but she was already halfway across the room, jabbing a finger at the blueprint I’d pinned to the exposed studs of the far wall.

"Confuse them?" I followed her, my tone sharper than I meant. "It’s practical. People come in, they see the display first thing. It’s right there."

"Yeah, right there in the way," she shot back, crossing her arms. "Look at this—" She stabbed at the paper again, her nails clicking against the pin. "The line’s gonna bottleneck between the register and the seating. You’ll have chaos every morning."

"People aren’t stampeding through here like it’s Black Friday," I countered. "They’ll browse the pastries, then pay. Easy flow."

"Easy flow, my butt." She leaned closer, squinting at the sketch like it personally offended her. "You’re underestimating how indecisive people are when they’re hungry. They need space to hover without blocking traffic."

"Hovering’s what causes the traffic," I said, leaning in beside her. "If anything, they’ll linger less if I keep the path direct."

"Direct to disaster," she muttered, tapping the spot where the register sat on the drawing. "Move this here, closer to the entrance, and shift the display case back. That way, they can browse and pay in one fluid motion."

"You make it sound like I’m choreographing a ballet."

"Hey, I know my way around customer flow." She turned, her face inches from mine, and suddenly I forgot what we were arguing about. Her curls brushed my arm as she shifted, and my breath hitched.

"Well," I said, voice lower than I intended, "I’ll take your input into consideration.” My heart was pounding .

I folded the blueprint and set it on the edge of the counter. My fingers lingered on the paper for a second longer than they should have, giving me just enough time to collect my thoughts. “So. How’s your shop going?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.

“It’s good. Stressful.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You? Stressed?”

Marie smirked, brushing a stray curl out of her face. She shrugged, leaning back against the newly-installed countertop. “Honestly? Day-to-day stress is normal. It’s fine. But . . . this is different. Like something’s missing. So, I’ve been trying something new.”

“Yeah?” I leaned in slightly, watching how she fidgeted with the delicate chain of her necklace.

She hesitated before answering, her eyes darting toward mine, then away. “I’ve been going to this . . . group. Little’s League. You might have heard about it. Lucy set it up.” She said it lightly, almost as if testing it out loud. Her lips quirked into an uneven smile, but her voice betrayed a flicker of vulnerability.

Little’s League. The words hit me like a shot of adrenaline straight to the chest. I kept my expression steady, though my pulse quickened. I nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. How’s that going for you?” I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral. Casual. Like we were talking about the weather or her favorite coffee roast.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, maybe because I didn’t pry. “It’s good,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I mean, it’s helping, I think. Letting go is harder than it looks, though. I’ve only been a couple times. Feel like I’ve got a lot to learn.” She laughed softly, self-deprecating, and the sound twisted something deep in me.

Letting go. I wanted to help her do that. Wanted it more than I’d let myself want anything in a long time.

My jaw tightened, but I forced myself to stay in control. I couldn’t let her see too much—not yet. “Sounds like you’re onto something,” I said, keeping my voice even. “It’s great you’ve got a group like that.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, sharp and searching. She tilted her head slightly, studying me. “What’s that look for?” she asked, a teasing challenge in her tone. But there was something else there too—a hint of curiosity. A need for reassurance.

I swallowed hard. “Nothing,” I said at first, but her raised brow told me she wasn’t buying it. I cleared my throat, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “I just think it’s cool. You know, finding ways to make life . . . work. Everybody needs something.”

Her cheeks flushed faintly, softening her usual sharpness. “Not everyone gets it,” she murmured, the edge of her lip curling into a half-smile. “If you’re not sympathetic it kind seem kinda weird.”

“Right. You know, I’ve always found it weird the way society reveres child-like qualities. You know? Curiosity. Playfulness. Open-heartedness. But we ridicule people who really want to embrace those qualities.”

She held me gaze. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“I hope the group helps,” I said, my voice dripping with meaning.

“It’s helping me find balance. Or trying to, anyway.”

“That’s what matters,” I said quietly. My chest felt too full, like I’d swallowed something heavy and it had settled right behind my ribs. This wasn’t just small talk anymore; this was a door cracking open between us.

"Mm," she murmured noncommittally, tapping her nails lightly on the surface. Then, out of nowhere, she tilted her head, grinning. "This whole thing you’ve got going on . . ." She waved a hand toward me, then gestured vaguely at the room. "It’s kinda got a Daddy vibe, don’t you think?"

The word hit like a spark to dry kindling. My chest tightened, heat surging straight to my gut.

"Excuse me?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.

"Don’t act like you didn’t hear me," she teased, taking a half step closer. Her grin wavered, just slightly, like even she wasn’t sure how far to push this. "You’re giving off serious Daddy energy. Coming into town. Taking this place over. Paying me to give you advice. It’s . . .interesting. You like to be in control."

"Interesting." The word fell heavy between us. I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

"Yeah," she said, her voice quieter now. Softer. But still playful, testing the waters. "Daddy."

There it was again, dropping from her lips like a dare.

I felt my pulse hammering in my ears. Her gaze locked on mine, and for once, there was no teasing in her expression. Just tension. Thick, crackling, unrelenting.

"Marie," I started, but my voice caught.

"Yes, Daddy?" she shot back, breathless, bold. Too bold.

"Jesus," I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand across my face, trying to rein myself in.

"Too much?" she asked, almost innocently, though her lips twitched like she wanted to laugh.

"Careful," I warned, low and rough.

Instead of pulling back, she stepped closer. Close enough that I caught the faintest trace of her scent again—it was light and sweet and bright, and made me want to pull her into me.

"Careful?" she echoed, tilting her head. “What do I need to be careful of, Daddy?”

The word hit harder this time, slamming into something buried deep. Something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long, long time.

"Marie," I said again, but it barely sounded like me. My voice had dropped, gravelly and thick.

Her smile faltered, just a fraction, as if she’d finally realized what she’d stirred up. But instead of backing down, she stayed right there. She held out a hand, placed it over my heart.

"Say something," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

I couldn’t. The air around us felt charged, humming with everything I wasn’t saying. My hands curled into fists at my sides, fighting the urge to touch her, to pull her closer.

Her hand was still on my chest when I moved.

I didn’t think about it, didn’t weigh the consequences or give myself time to talk myself out of it. I just leaned down and kissed her.

It started soft—tentative, testing—but the second my lips brushed hers, something inside me cracked wide open. She gasped against my mouth, and that sound, that soft little sound, undid me completely.

Her hand fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I groaned, deep in my chest, as if she’d yanked the air straight out of my lungs along with it. My hands finally moved, sliding up to cradle her face, my fingers tangling in the wild curls framing her cheeks.

She tasted like coffee and a hint of something sweet, maybe sugar from one of those pastries. I didn’t care. Didn’t stop to figure it out. All I cared about was the way she melted into me, pressing herself against me like she couldn’t get close enough.

Everything else—the bakery, the half-finished walls, the dusty floor—it all disappeared. There was nothing but her.

I kissed her deeper, harder, letting every ounce of frustration, curiosity, and need pour into it. Her nails scraped lightly over my chest, sending sparks shooting down my spine. The heat between us burned hotter, sharper, until I wasn’t sure where I ended and she began.

Then it hit me.

Like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head, reality slammed back in.

“More, Daddy,” she whimpered.

I pulled away so fast it felt like ripping off a bandage.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, stumbling back a step. My heart pounded hard enough to rattle my ribs, and I dragged a shaky hand through my hair, trying to catch my breath. My lips still tingled from the kiss.

"Dwight . . ." Her voice was soft, unsure, but her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen. God, I’d done that.

"That—" I swallowed, shaking my head. "That shouldn’t have happened. I—I’m sorry."

"Sorry?" Her brows pulled together, confusion flashing in her bright brown eyes.

"Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that." My words came out rough, clumsy, tumbling over themselves. I gestured vaguely between us. "This . . . I’ve got too much shit. Too many complications. You don’t—you don’t want that."

"How do you know what I want?" she shot back, her voice steadying, finding its edge again.

"Because I know me," I said, bitter and sharp. "And trust me, Marie, I’m not good for anyone right now."

"That’s your call to make?" Her tone was biting, but there was something softer underneath. Something that made my chest ache.

"Yeah, it is," I said, quieter this time. I forced myself to meet her gaze, even though it felt like standing in front of an oncoming train.

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but no words came. Instead, she just stared at me, her expression caught somewhere between anger and hurt.

"Marie . . ." I tried, but she shook her head.

"Don’t," she said, holding up a hand. Her voice wavered, the spark in her eyes refusing to dim, even as color rose high in her cheeks.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

"Look," I said finally, forcing myself to take another step back. "I need to . . . I just need to figure some things out, okay?"

"Fine," she said, the word clipped and sharp.

But the way she looked at me, like she was daring me to change my mind, nearly broke me all over again.

"Fine," I echoed, more to myself than to her.

And just like that, the moment died, leaving behind nothing but tension and regret hanging in the air between us.