Chapter 14
Dwight
L ife has a recipe, just like cronuts. For things to be good, you can’t have too much of anything—even the good stuff. You need work, you need play, you need lightness, you need challenge. For a long time, I didn’t get that.
I drank to excess. Trained to excess. Raged with excess.
For too long, my life had been a cronut that was made of sugar and nothing else.
Now though, ever since I’d moved back here, ever since I’d opened up to Marie, it felt like everything was in balance.
The mixer hummed a low, steady rhythm as I worked the dough. My hands moved without thinking—press, fold, turn—like muscle memory had taken over. The smell of cinnamon and butter hung in the air, clinging to my clothes, my skin. It was comforting in a way I didn’t expect.
When I’d been in my twenties, if you’d have told me I would have found satisfaction in baking, I would have laughed in your face.
"Morning, Dwight!" Mrs. Harper called as she bustled through the bakery door, the little bell above it jangling. She made a beeline for the counter, her purse swinging on her arm. "I need a dozen of those danishes. You know, the ones with the raspberry filling."
"Gotcha," I said, wiping my hands on my apron before grabbing a box. Her gaze traveled over the display case, lips twitching into an approving smile.
"You're spoiling us," she said. "Never thought we'd get pastries this good in Small falls."
"Appreciate it," I said, sealing the box and sliding it across the counter. "That'll be twelve even."
"Keep the change," she replied, handing me a twenty. Mrs. Harper had tipped each time she’d been in. Said it was for the extra glaze I put on her favorites. She lingered a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And don’t think we haven’t noticed you’ve been spending time with Marie Johnson."
I paused, caught between moving to the register and meeting her knowing stare. "Not sure what you're getting at," I said carefully, though my ears burned.
"Uh-huh," she said, a teasing edge to her tone. "Well, good for you two. Lord knows that girl deserves someone decent." And just like that, she was gone, the bell jingling behind her.
I shook my head, biting back a grin. Small Falls hadn’t changed much. People still couldn’t mind their own business if they tried.
By eight-thirty, the shop buzzed with its usual morning chaos. A young couple debated muffins versus scones while a businessman in a navy suit tapped his foot impatiently in line.
"Hey," a guy in his twenties said as I placed a fresh rack of donuts in the case. "Aren’t you Dwight Wilkins? From Vagrant Sun?"
"Used to be," I muttered, feeling heat creep up my neck. It wasn’t the first time someone had recognized me since I opened the bakery. I figured it’d die down eventually, but every now and then, someone wanted to bring it up.
"Man, that’s crazy," he said, pulling out his phone. "Can I—"
"Sorry," I cut him off, straightening up. "Kinda busy right now."
"Yeah, no problem," he said, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He grabbed a coffee and left without looking back.
Slowly, the rush started to abate a little.
The lull gave me a chance to breathe. I leaned against the prep table, sipping from a mug of lukewarm coffee. Outside, people hurried along Main Street, jackets pulled tight against the brisk wind. Inside, the warmth of the ovens wrapped around me like a blanket, grounding me.
Marie popped into my thoughts, uninvited but welcome. She’d mentioned last night that some of her regulars were stopping by my bakery as well as The Daily Grind. Competition, she’d said with a shrug, though I could tell it bugged her more than she let on. That’s when I reminded her of the idea of setting up a stall here. A win-win situation, I’d argued. More foot traffic for both of us. She lit up at the idea, her eyes sparkling the way they did when she got excited about something.
I set up a meeting with a realtor to look at some apartments, and I considered inviting Marie. I didn’t want to spook her though, make her seem like everything was moving too fast.
The bell above the door jingled, sharp and sudden, cutting through the lull. I glanced up from the display case where I’d been rearranging croissants. My hand stilled mid-reach when I saw him—Brett.
He stepped inside like he owned the place, his gaze sweeping over everything. Same confident stride, same half-smirk that could mean anything—or nothing. A woman carrying a coffee brushed past him on her way out, and he gave her a polite nod before turning his attention back to the shop. Back to me.
My stomach twisted. Not nerves exactly, but something close. I wiped my hands on my apron, slow and deliberate, buying myself a second. It was the first time Brett had set foot in here since I opened. And damn it, I wanted this to go well.
"Hey," I said, keeping my voice even. Cool. Like his opinion didn’t matter as much as it did. "Good to see you."
"Yeah, well." Brett shrugged, stepping further inside. He took his time looking around, eyes lingering on the polished countertops, the trays of pastries behind the glass. His expression didn’t give much away, but he wasn’t frowning. Yet. "Not bad, big bro."
"Thanks." I leaned against the counter, casual as I could manage, while my pulse thudded in my ears. The words weren’t glowing praise, but they weren’t a dig either. Coming from Brett, that was practically a compliment.
"Looks like business is good," he added, his tone light. He rested his forearms on the counter, leaning in a little. His eyes flicked toward the customers by the window, one of them happily tearing into a sticky bun.
"Trying to keep up," I said. My arms crossed over my chest, more out of habit than anything else. "It’s probably just busy because it’s my first week. Everyone wants to see what all the fuss is about. "
"Well, hopefully your bread and croissants will keep ‘em coming back for more." Brett nodded, his gaze shifting to the cinnamon rolls cooling on the back counter. The faintest smile tugged at his mouth—barely there, but enough for me to catch it. "Those smell damn good."
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. "They’re popular."
"Yeah, I bet." He straightened slightly, his focus swinging back to me. For a second, I thought he was about to crack another neutral comment and head out. Instead, his smile grew, just a little, and he said, "I wonder how much of this is Marie’s influence.”
The words hit like a punch I wasn’t ready for—not hard, but enough to leave me reeling. I blinked, caught off guard, trying to read his face. He didn’t say it with any bite or sarcasm. Just . . . a statement. Maybe even a compliment.
"Marie’s . . ." I started, then stopped, unsure how to follow that up without sounding like an idiot. My chest tightened in a weird mix of gratitude and disbelief. Brett didn’t usually hand out kindness so freely—to me at least—and I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
"She’s been a big help," I finished, keeping my tone steady.
"Mm." Brett just nodded, his smirk fading into something softer. Something almost approving. Then, just like that, he pushed off the counter and took a step back, his hands sliding into his jacket pockets. "Seems a good woman suits you."
"Thanks," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. My hands found their way to the edge of the counter, gripping it like an anchor. "I—yeah, it’s really starting to feel like home around here."
Brett gave me this slow nod, his expression unreadable but not dismissive. For once, he wasn’t giving me that sharp, skeptical look like he was waiting for me to screw up. “Good,” he said simply.
We stood there for another beat, the silence sitting heavier than I liked. He broke it first, jerking his chin toward the display case. "Cinnamon rolls your best seller?"
"Yeah. Those and the blueberry scones." My answer came easy, like muscle memory.
“Come on, pass one over here. You need to bribe the Fire Chief.”
I laughed, picking up a cinnamon roll with my tongs. “What are you, some kind of mafia boss?”
“Let’s just say you should give me an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Here you are, Don Wilkinio.” I gave him the roll, and he took a big bite.
“Damn, that is good . No concrete overcoat for you today. And we’ll even consider putting out a fire if one breaks out.”
“Generous,” I joked.
"You know it." His smirk flickered for a moment before fading into something quieter. He shifted on his feet, glancing around the shop again. "Well, looks like you’re handling things all right here."
"Trying to," I said.
"Keep trying," he said, stepping back toward the door. "I’ll stop by again soon."
"Yeah," I said. “Say—have you heard much from Marcus?”
“You didn’t hear? He’s on his honeymoon right now. Back in a couple weeks.”
“RIght. Okay. Well. See you later.”
The bell over the door chimed as it swung shut behind him, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
***
The lull hit after lunch, like clockwork. I leaned against the counter, wiping down the same stretch of stainless steel for the third time. There wasn’t much else to do until the oven timer went off or someone wandered in looking for a mid-afternoon sugar fix.
My hands moved automatically, folding dough, shaping rolls, testing the consistency of the new icing recipe I was playing with. I dipped a fingertip into the bowl, tasting it. Too sweet. Needed more tang. Lemon, maybe.
The buzz of my phone yanked me out of it. I wiped my hands on my apron and grabbed it off the counter. The screen flashed a name I hadn’t seen in weeks.
"Band Manager" stared back at me like a bad joke.
Why did Patrick want to speak to me? I’d basically cut all ties with him and the band. I didn’t have anything to say to him. I’d worked with my lawyer to negotiate some royalties from our songs, which would give me a passive income for a few years, and that had made things pretty shitty between us all.
Still, it didn’t matter to me, not any more.
I stared at the phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. My jaw tightened, and I tapped the side button, sending the call straight to voicemail.
Not today. Not now.
I tossed the phone back onto the counter, turning away from it like it wouldn’t keep pulling at the edges of my thoughts. Instead, I grabbed the lemon zest and started tweaking the icing. Hands busy. Mind focused.
Marie’d probably love this batch. I couldn’t wait to see her.
***
When work was done, I headed over to The Daily Grind. Marie was at the far table, her back to me, wiping down a wooden surface that had seen too many elbows and spilled drinks. Her hair was piled high, curls escaping in every direction like they always did by the end of the day.
God she was beautiful. What had I done to deserve someone like her?
"Hey, stranger," I called, leaning against the counter.
She turned, cloth still in hand, and her face lit up like I'd just told her she won the lottery. "Dwight!" she said, drawing out my name like it was some kind of treat. She tossed the rag into a bin and came toward me, all bounce and bright eyes. "You survive another day in dough-land?"
"Just barely," I said with a grin. "But I think I might’ve converted a picky seven-year-old into a donut disciple."
"Best donut ever?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Proclaimed loudly and publicly," I confirmed.
"Nice," she said, smirking. "I had someone order iced coffee today. In February." She rolled her eyes, then mimed holding a cup dramatically. "'Extra ice, please.’"
"A visionary," I deadpanned.
"A prophet, more like,” she shot back, laughing, and looped her arm through mine before I could say something else. "C’mon, let’s get out of here."
We strolled down Main Street, the cold air nipping at my ears. The town was quiet, most shops already closed, their window displays glowing faintly with Valentine’s day decorations. Marie’s arm brushed mine as we walked, her pace easy but close enough to remind me she was there. She always stayed close.
"Rebekah stopped by earlier," she said. "Apparently, her cat knocked over a sculpture she was working on. She was gonna bring it to the next Littles League."
"Sounds about right," I said. "What is it with cats and destroying the one thing you actually want them to leave alone?"
"Chaos agents," she said. "They live for it."
"Speaking of chaos," I said, nudging her lightly, "you ready for this lemon experiment tomorrow? It’s gonna blow your mind."
"Do I get exclusive taste-tester rights?" she asked, tilting her head up at me with mock innocence.
"Only if you agree to be brutally honest."
"Brutally honest is my middle name," she said, grinning. "But prepare yourself—I’m not afraid to crush your dreams."
"Noted," I said, chuckling.
When we reached the diner on the corner, she tugged my sleeve. "Feel like eating out tonight? Or are we risking food poisoning in your kitchenette again?"
"Risking food poisoning sounds more fun," I said, giving her a crooked smile.
***
Back at the motel, I cranked up the tiny stove burner while Marie rifled through a grocery bag, pulling out a box of spaghetti and a jar of tomato sauce. The room smelled faintly like bleach and burned toast—courtesy of the ancient toaster oven I’d nearly set on fire last week—but she didn’t seem to mind. She never minded.
"Why does this pot feel like it weighs fifty pounds, Daddy?" she muttered as she hefted it onto the burner. She twisted the lid off the sauce jar, sniffed it, then wrinkled her nose. "This smells like ketchup."
"High praise," I said, dumping noodles into the pot. "Want me to sing while we cook? Something Italian restauranty? Really set the mood?"
"God, no," she said immediately, laughing. "Last time you sang, I choked on my sippy cup."
"That’s because you have no appreciation for art," I said, humming off-key anyway.
"Art, my ass," she shot back, stirring the pasta. Her laugh bubbled up again—a sound so light and easy it made my chest ache.
"Careful, or I’ll serenade you properly next time," I threatened, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.
"Please don’t," she said, mock pleading, before pointing the wooden spoon at me. "Focus on not setting the kitchen on fire, maestro."
“Wheeeen the moon hits your eye like—”
“No! She squealed, stuffing her fingers into her ears.”
"Alright, alright," I said, and bumped her shoulder lightly as I slid past to grab plates.
"Watch it," she said, elbowing me back, but there was no heat behind it. Just warmth. Laughter. The kind of thing I hadn’t realized I missed until it was right in front of me.
By the time we were seated at the cramped little table in the corner, plates piled high with steaming pasta, it hit me how . . . normal this felt. Domestic, even. Like we’d been doing this forever. Not days.
“So,” I said, “do you think you’d like to come look around some apartments with me on Saturday?”
“Booooring,” she whined, but there was a gleam of naughtiness in her expression.
“Well, you don’t have to come.”
“What? No fair! I wanna come!”
“You are impossible, young lady.”
This evening, she was drinking from a sippy cup. She’d started to use some age play items recently, from time to time. It was so wonderful to see her slipping into littlespace every now and then. She seemed especially small after a long day at work. It seemed to really help her to relax.
“This spaghetti is actually really good,” she said, slurping up a long thread.
“Glad you’re enjoying it.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Baby Girl?”
She looked nervous, suddenly. “Do you think you might want to come to the Littles League with me tomorrow?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’d enjoy it.”
“I’m gonna try and let go and really be myself. And I just want some backup.”
I felt warmth spread through my chest. “I’d be honored.”
After dinner, Marie tidied up while I made cocoa. Then, it was Little time. Every day we did a different activity. Today was jenga.
Marie plopped down cross-legged on the floor, her wild curls bouncing with the motion. Her eyes sparkled with that familiar mischief as she set up the Jenga tower on the coffee table. I couldn't help but smile, feeling a warmth in my chest that had become more common since she'd barged into my life.
"Alright, mister," she said, her voice playful yet challenging. "You ready to lose?"
I chuckled, taking a seat across from her. "We'll see about that."
The game started innocently enough. We each took turns carefully pulling out blocks, the tower wobbling slightly but staying upright. Marie's laugh filled the room every time it looked like the tower might topple. Her joy was infectious, and I found myself grinning like an idiot.
But then, things shifted. Marie reached for a block, her fingers brushing against mine. Her touch was electric, sending a jolt through me. I looked at her, and there was a new spark in her eyes.
"You know," she said, her voice dropping to a sultry purr, "we could make this more interesting."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? How so?"
She leaned in, her breath warm on my ear. "Strip Jenga," she whispered.
I pulled back, looking at her in surprise. "Strip Jenga?"
She nodded, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Every time you knock over the tower, you lose an item of clothing."
I hesitated for a moment, feeling a familiar tension building. But Marie's eyes were alight with excitement and challenge. I couldn't resist her. I never could.
"Alright," I agreed, my voice steady despite the sudden pounding in my chest. "But you better be ready to lose, little girl. Hope you don’t get too chilly."
Marie giggled, her eyes shining with anticipation. "Game on, Daddy."
We started playing again, but the atmosphere had shifted. Every move was charged with tension, every touch lingered a little longer. Marie reached for a block, her fingers deliberately brushing against mine again. I felt a stirring in my pants, a heat building in my belly.
And then, I knocked over the tower.
Marie laughed, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Lose something, Daddy," she teased.
I smirked, pulling off my shirt. Her eyes roamed over my chest, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. I felt a surge of desire, a need to see that look in her eyes again.
We kept playing. And I kept losing. My socks came off next, then my belt. Marie was laughing so hard she was snorting, her cheeks flushed pink. I couldn't help but laugh with her. It was ridiculous and sexy all at once.
My pants came off.
I couldn’t understand how I kept losing, but I was trying my best. Finally, I was just in my boxers.
“Daddy, you’re good at lots of stuff, but not this!”
I chuckled.
It was Marie’s turn. She reached for a block, but her hand wrapped around mine instead. She stroked my fingers, her touch sending bolts of electricity straight to my groin. I hardened instantly, my cock straining against my jeans.
"Marie," I growled, a warning in my voice.
She just grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Yes, Daddy?"
I tried to focus on the game, but her hand was still on mine, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin. I reached for a block, my hand shaking slightly. And then, my cock brushed against the tower.
It crashed to the table, blocks scattering everywhere.
Marie dissolved into giggles, her hand covering her mouth. I looked at her, then at the mess on the table, then back at her.
"Marie," I said, my voice stern. "That's cheating."
She laughed harder, her shoulders shaking. "How is that cheating?" she managed to gasp out.
I raised an eyebrow. "You know exactly what you were doing."
She bit her lip, trying to suppress her laughter. "And what was I doing, Daddy?"
I leaned forward, my voice a low growl. "You were trying to distract me. And you succeeded. So now, you better do something to make it up to me."
Marie's laughter faded, replaced by a heated look in her eyes. She leaned in, her voice a soft purr. "And what do you want me to do, Daddy?"
I leaned back in my chair, my cock thick and tall, tenting my boxers. Marie's eyes flicked to it, her tongue tracing her lower lip. She read the room, understanding precisely what I needed. Her hands went to my knees, gently spreading them apart as she knelt before me.
"Is this what you want, Daddy?" she asked, her voice soft and sultry. She looked up at me through her lashes, her curls framing her face like a halo. “A way for me to say sorry for being naughty?”
I nodded, my throat already tight with anticipation. "Yes, baby girl," I managed to say. "But go slow."
Her fingers hooked into the waistband of my boxers, tugging them down gently. My cock sprang free, hard and ready. She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "So gorgeous," she murmured, her breath hot against my shaft.
She started with the tip, kissing and loving it like it was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted. I groaned, my head falling back against the chair. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive skin, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my balls.
Remembering her praise kink, I reached down, stroking her hair. "That's it, baby," I rasped. "You're doing so well. Feels so good." I wasn’t lying.
She moaned softly, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. Eager to please, she took me deeper, her mouth hot and wet around my shaft. I could feel her enthusiasm, her desire to make me feel good. It was intoxicating.
My hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white. Marie's head bobbed up and down, her curls bouncing with each movement. She took me deeper each time, her tongue working magic along my length.
"Fuck, Marie," I gasped. "You're amazing."
She pulled back slightly, her hand wrapping around my shaft. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with desire. "Your cock is perfect, Daddy," she said, her voice husky. "I'm so wet for you."
Her words sent a surge of lust through me. She took me deep again, her hand stroking my balls, her tongue licking my shaft. Her other hand trailed up my thigh, her fingers digging into the muscle.
I was in paradise, every nerve ending on fire. She sucked me deeper, her head moving faster. I could feel the tension building in my balls, the pressure ready to explode.
"Marie," I gasped, my voice ragged. "I want to fuck you. Need to be inside you."
She moaned again, the sound vibrating around my cock. She sucked me even deeper, her hand stroking my balls, her tongue licking my shaft. I was right on the edge, ready to blow. But I needed to be inside her, to feel her tight heat around me.
Her mouth popped off my cock, her hand still stroking me. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with lust and love. "Then fuck me, Daddy," she whispered. "I'm all yours."
The Jenga tower wobbled, then toppled, blocks scattering across the table like fallen soldiers. Marie stood up, her eyes locked onto mine, a smirk playing on her lips. "Looks like the game's over, Daddy," she said, her voice a sultry purr.
She stepped back, her hands going to the hem of her shirt. In one fluid motion, she pulled it off, her curls bouncing with the movement. Her bra followed, tossed aside like an afterthought. My breath hitched as I took in her bare skin, her breasts heaving with each breath.
Her gaze dropped to my cock, standing at full attention. She bit her lip, a soft moan escaping her. "Fuck, Daddy," she breathed. "You're so hard for me."
I growled, closing the distance between us. My hands cupped her face, my lips crashing onto hers. She melted into me, her body pressing against mine. I could feel her heart racing, her breath hitching as I deepened the kiss.
My hands roamed her body, tracing the curve of her spine, the swell of her hips. I hooked my thumbs into her jeans, pushing them down along with her panties. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside.
I walked her backwards, my lips never leaving hers. Her back hit the wall, her breath hitching as I pressed against her. I could feel her heat, her wetness against my cock. She was ready, so ready.
Marie's breathing hitched as I lifted her, her legs wrapping around my waist. My cock nudged at her entrance, her slick heat welcoming me. I thrust into her, a groan tearing from my throat. She was tight, so fucking tight.
Her nails dug into my shoulders, her head falling back against the wall. I kissed her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders, each thrust driving me deeper. She met each one, her hips grinding against mine.
Our bodies moved in perfect rhythm, the heat between us building with each thrust. Marie's moans filled the room, driving me even closer to the edge.
Her legs tightened around me, pulling me deeper into her. "Fuck me, Daddy," she whispered, her voice hoarse with need. "Make me yours."
I did as she asked, each thrust harder than the last. The room filled with the sounds of our bodies coming together, the slick slap of skin on skin. Marie's moans grew louder, more desperate as she met each thrust with enthusiasm.
Her hands gripped my back, her nails digging into my skin as her orgasm built. I could feel it, the tension in her body, the way her muscles tensed before releasing in a wave of pleasure. Her eyebrows furrowed, her face a picture of pure ecstasy.
The room filled with our sounds, our moans, our whispered endearments. I could feel her tightening around me, her body trembling. I was close, so fucking close.
I reached between us, my thumb finding her clit. I rubbed it in tight circles, her moans growing louder. "Come with me, baby girl," I growled. "Let go."
Her body convulsed, her inner muscles clamping down on my cock. I groaned, my own release exploding from me. I could feel her milking me, drawing out every last drop.
Our lips met and I kissed her as we came, our bodies shuddering with the force of our release. I held her there, my cock still buried inside her, our hearts pounding in sync.
As our breathing slowed, I pulled back, my eyes meeting hers. "I love you, Marie," I said, my voice hoarse. Her eyes welled up, her lips curving into a soft smile.
"I love you too, Daddy," she whispered.
A buzzing sound interrupted our moment. I glanced over at my phone, vibrating on the table. Five missed calls from the band manager. I sighed, reality crashing back in. But for now, I pushed it aside, focusing on the woman in my arms. The world could wait.