Baker Daddy (Small Falls #3)

Chapter 18

Dwight

Two Months Later

W hy was I this nervous? I never normally got nervous. Not like this. I’d played huge shows to thousands of people, but I’d never felt like this.

I gripped my stainless steel counter, letting the cold ground me. I watched Beck fiddle with his guitar strap near the makeshift stage. It had been two months since everything almost went up in flames, and now here I was, about to do something that scared me almost as much as losing it had.

"Focus," I muttered under my breath. My eyes darted to the stage—just a couple stools, the mic stand, chairs shoved to the sides to make room for tonight’s crowd. It looked simple enough, cozy even, but it might as well have been Madison Square Garden the way my chest was hammering.

I ran a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the strands. No booze this time. Nothing to dull the anxiety. That thought hit like a sucker punch, stealing the air from my lungs. Every other performance I'd ever done, there’d always been something to take the edge off. Whiskey, beer, hell, even cheap vodka on bad nights. Not tonight though. Tonight was just me, raw nerves, and a guitar.

"Deep breaths, man." Jared’s voice cut through the fog in my head. He was crouched next to his cajón, tapping out a rhythm with his fingers like he couldn’t wait to get started. His grin was easy, relaxed, like we weren’t about to step into what felt like a damn firing squad. "You good?"

"Yeah," I lied. My mouth was dry. I adjusted the strap of my guitar slung over my shoulder, the weight of it both comforting and suffocating.

Beck strummed a few chords, testing the tuning. Myles leaned against the counter, bass in hand, nodding along as if we were back in some dive bar instead of my bakery. They were cool, calm. Supportive, even. It was weird seeing them like this, without the shadow of Patrick breathing down our necks.

"Remember that gig in Philly?" Beck said, glancing at me with a smirk. "When your amp blew, and you still killed it acoustically?"

"Different vibe," I said. My voice came out rougher than I meant. My eyes flickered toward the door where I knew Marie would be walking in any minute. Different vibe didn’t even cover it. Back then, I hadn’t cared who I disappointed. Now . . . now it felt like every second ticked closer to a test I wasn’t sure I could pass.

"Hey, you’ve got this," Jared said, his grin softening into something quieter, like he could see straight through me. "We’re all here because we want to be. Not ‘cause some asshole told us to. Right, Myles?"

"Right," Myles said, his voice low and steady. He gave me a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was enough.

"Okay," I said, mostly to myself. My pulse pounded so loud I barely heard the words. My feet moved toward the stage, each step heavier than the last. This is home. This is for Marie. I repeated it like a mantra, biting down on the panic clawing its way up my throat.

"Let’s tune up," Beck said, plucking a string and twisting the peg. His nonchalance grated on me, but I envied it too. How could they all look so damn relaxed when I felt like I might puke?

"Sure," I said, sliding onto one of the stools. My guitar felt foreign in my hands, like it belonged to someone else. I glanced toward the back of the room again, heart jumping at the thought of her coming through that door, her curls bouncing, her eyes lighting up when she saw me. God, I wanted to make her proud.

I was nervous because I cared.

***

The low hum of chatter filled the bakery like a steady heartbeat. I leaned against the edge of the stage, my guitar hanging awkwardly over my shoulder. The smell of vanilla and butter drifted up to me, warm and familiar, almost enough to settle the twisting in my gut. Almost.

Marie’s people were easy to spot— The Daily Grind crew clustered near the espresso machine, laughing and passing around tiny cups of coffee. My staff mingled nearby, clearly outnumbered but holding their own. Lucy stood at the center of it all with her usual megawatt grin, gesturing wildly as she told some story that had Rebekah wiping tears from her eyes, trying not to choke on her pastry.

And then there was Marie. My Little Girl.

I spotted her curls first, bright and wild, bouncing as she moved through the crowd. She wore this cardigan—soft pink with little flowers along the edges—and I swear it made her glow. She laughed at something Sam said, the sound cutting through the noise and hitting me square in the chest.

God, she was beautiful. And terrifying. Because tonight wasn’t just about the music or the bakery or even the band—I was doing this for her. To show her I could be all of me: the baker, the ex-rocker, the mess trying to piece himself back together.

No pressure, right?

I yanked at my guitar strap, adjusting it over my shoulder. It felt too tight, like it might choke me if I didn’t keep moving. Beck plucked out a few notes behind me, the strings humming low and steady, grounding everything.

"Hey, Dwight," he said without looking up. "Stop fidgeting. You’re gonna wear a hole in that strap."

"Yeah, thanks, man," I muttered. My fingers tightened around the neck of my guitar.

"Just saying." He smirked, strumming another lazy chord.

I turned back toward the room, scanning the pockets of people again. Maisie—Brett’s Little—waved when our eyes met, grinning like this was the greatest thing she’d ever seen. A couple of guys from the hardware store raised their coffee cups in salute. They all looked so damn happy to be here, like they weren’t waiting for me to screw this up.

"Better get used to it," I whispered under my breath. "They’re here for a show."

But the knot in my stomach didn’t ease. Not yet.

Instead, my mind slipped back, unbidden, to the chaos of two months ago—the screaming matches with Patrick, the endless phone calls, the way it felt like every door was slamming shut all at once. That contract should’ve crushed me. If Marcus hadn’t called in Luca, if Luca hadn’t found that ridiculous loophole . . . hell, I wouldn’t even have this place anymore.

"One performance," I murmured, testing the words like they still weren’t real. Just one. No more tours, no more managers breathing down my neck. Just me, my bakery, and my life.

"Hey, you good?" Jared’s voice snapped me out of it.

"Yeah," I lied.

I looked over at the door. Brett was there, arms crossed like a bouncer at some exclusive club, nodding to neighbors as they wandered in. Every now and then, he’d crack a half-smile or clap someone on the back, but it wasn’t forced. No gritted teeth, no wary glances. Just easy conversation. Beside him, Marcus leaned against the wall, sipping coffee from a paper cup, looking about as relaxed as I’d ever seen him.

I caught myself staring, caught on that flicker of ease between them. It still felt new, fragile, like if I looked too hard it might dissolve. But there it was—no tension, no unspoken accusations hanging in the air. Just my brothers, standing together, like maybe we were figuring out how to be family again.

Piece by piece, we were putting ourselves back together. That thought steadied my lungs, let me draw in a full breath for what felt like the first time all night.

Beck strummed a few lazy chords on his guitar, leaning against the edge of one of the bakery counters. "Testing" wasn’t the right word for what he was doing. He wasn’t testing anything. He was killing time. Watching me. Waiting for me to decide we were ready.

"Whenever you’re good, boss," Beck said, lifting his chin in my direction.

Myles stood quietly off to the side, bass slung low across his body, the strap worn and fraying at the edges. He wasn’t playing yet, just running his fingers along the strings, eyes scanning the room with something that almost looked like contentment. His shoulders weren’t hunched, his jaw wasn’t tight. They all looked lighter tonight, freer, like the weight of Patrick’s bullshit had finally been lifted off their backs.

I’d had meetings with them, one by one, without Patrick. They were as pissed with him as me. Didn’t want to do any touring at all. But there was money in the record label that they wouldn’t release to us without another tour, which is why they were pissed.

Luckily for me, technically, this one show counted as a tour. Luca, the lawyer, had made sure of that. After this, we’d all have more money, and we’d all be free. I could almost taste it.

"Alright." My voice came out steadier this time, strong enough to make Beck raise an eyebrow.

"Alright?" he repeated.

"Let’s do it," I said, gripping the neck of my guitar like it might slip out of my hands if I wasn’t careful.

"Now we’re talking," Jared said, snapping his drumsticks together for emphasis.

"Showtime," Beck added, stepping into place beside me.

"Yeah," I murmured, mostly to myself, as I turned back toward the crowd. My stomach twisted, but the knot loosened just a little more. They were here for me. All of them. For better or worse, this was happening.

I opened my mouth to say something, but my gaze got stuck on Marie. My throat tightened. She wasn’t looking at anyone else, just gazing straight at me.

“I love you,” she mouthed. It hit like a sucker punch.

I froze up for a second, guitar strap pulling tight across my shoulder as I gripped the neck too hard. She smiled—just a little tilt of her lips—but it was enough to knock me off balance.

I exhaled sharp through my nose, forcing myself to look away before I got too lost in her. This wasn’t just for her, but it sure as hell felt like it.

My stomach churned, but I stepped forward anyway, boots scuffing against the wooden platform we’d set up.

"Hey," I said, voice cracking. I cleared my throat fast, gripping the mic stand like a lifeline. "Uh, thanks for coming tonight."

A few claps broke out, scattered but warm, followed by a couple of whoops from the back. I caught Sam’s voice in there, loud and teasing, and it made me laugh under my breath despite myself.

Marie was front and center now, leaning lightly against the counter like she belonged there. Her arms crossed over her chest, but her face was open, shining, like she wasn’t hiding anything tonight. The knot in my gut loosened a fraction.

"Alright," I said, glancing back at Beck and the guys. My fingers shook when I adjusted my grip on the guitar neck, but I focused on her instead of the crowd. Just her.

Beck hit the first chord, soft and slow, like a memory sneaking back in. Jared tapped out a steady rhythm on the cajón, his palms working the wooden box with a muted thump that matched my heartbeat. Myles slid into the bassline smooth as butter, weaving under Beck’s melody. I closed my eyes for half a second, just enough to breathe.

Then it was my turn.

The first note wobbled in my throat, and I almost winced. I gripped the guitar harder, fingers biting into the strings as I leaned into the mic. The crowd faded—Marie didn’t. Front and center, her face tilted up toward me like she was holding her breath.

"Come gather ‘round," I sang, voice cracking slightly before it evened out. Muscle memory kicked in, dragging me along until I found my footing. The lyrics flowed easier after that, like they’d been waiting for me to stop overthinking. My fingers moved without hesitation, strumming chords I hadn’t touched in ages but felt as familiar as breathing.

The sound filled the room, warm and unpolished. It wasn’t perfect—that was the point. The hum of the bakery fridges blended with the music, soft clinks of cups and spoons adding their own layer. It felt . . . right. Like the chaos of the past two months had settled into something real. Something mine.

It was both halves of me, finally together.

I glanced at Beck mid-song, catching his eye just long enough to see him nod. His grin was small, but it was there, and it sent a flicker of relief through me.

The last verse came faster than I expected. By then, the words weren’t just coming from my head—they were clawing their way outta my chest. I held the final note longer than I needed to, letting it bounce off the walls before silence took over. My hands shook against the strings as I let them fall still.

The applause startled me. It came in waves, claps and cheers echoing louder than I thought twenty-something people could manage. I blinked, pulling back just far enough to scan the crowd. Faces blurred together except hers. Marie. She wasn’t clapping like the others. Her hands were clasped tight at her chest, brown eyes glistening, lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

"Ready for another?" Beck asked behind me, already plucking out a melody to fill the space.

"Yeah," I said, barely loud enough for him to hear. My gaze stayed locked on Marie as I squared my stance, adjusting the strap across my shoulder. This next one was hers. Whether she realized it or not.

***

My fingers shook as I set my guitar on the stand. The applause had settled into a warm hum, like the afterglow of a good meal, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the hammering in my chest. I stepped up to the mic, gripping it tighter than I probably needed to. The bakery was so quiet now that I could hear the faint buzz of the overhead lights mixing with the scent of cinnamon and coffee still hanging in the air.

"Uh," I started, clearing my throat when my voice cracked. Smooth. Real smooth. A few chuckles rippled through the crowd, loosening the knot in my gut just a little. "I never thought . . ." My gaze drifted to Marcus and Brett near the door. Both of them were watching me, arms crossed, looking like they’d been waiting for this moment as long as I had. Lucy dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a napkin while Rebekah leaned toward her, whispering something with a smile. "I never thought I’d stand in my own bakery, singing these songs, especially not sober."

That got a laugh—a real one this time. It wasn’t mean, just knowing. The kind of laugh you get from people who’ve seen you at your worst and stuck around anyway.

"Yet here we are," I said, gesturing a hand toward the band, then sweeping it over the space—the stage, the counters, the racks of pastries out on display. "None of this would exist without some serious help." My words wavered, thick with the weight of what I owed everyone in that room. "My bandmates"—I glanced at Beck, Jared, and Myles—"agreed we only needed one show to end our old contract. They didn’t have to do it here, but they did. Right here, in my new home."

"Home" tasted strange on my tongue, like I was still breaking it in, but it felt right. I let the word sit there for a second, soaking into the silence. Then I took a breath, the kind you take before you jump off a cliff.

"This show . . ." I paused again, my throat tight, "is dedicated to them—for trusting me again—and to someone else." My eyes found her instantly.

Marie stood near the front, her curls catching the soft glow of the string lights. Her hands were clasped against her chest, fingers twisting slightly like she didn’t know what to do with them. When my gaze landed on her, her cheeks flushed pink, and her lips parted, just barely. I swear I could feel the heat of her blush from where I stood.

"Marie," I said, the name heavy and raw in my mouth. My pulse pounded in my ears. "You’re the reason I can stand here without drowning in guilt or fear." My voice cracked, and I didn’t care. If anything, it made the words sharper, more real.

Her eyes shimmered, unshed tears pooling at the corners, and it damn near broke me.

"You showed me a life beyond chaos," I pushed on, every word dragging something out of me I hadn’t realized I’d buried. "Helped me accept who I am—even the parts I was too ashamed to face."

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she didn’t wipe it away.

"This gig"—I gestured at the band behind me, my voice shaking—"is our last with the band. But it’s the first one that feels like it’s on my terms… because of you."

The applause started slow, but it grew, wrapping around us like a living thing. People clapped, cheered, whistled, but all I saw was her. Marie lifted a hand to her mouth, overwhelmed, her shoulders trembling.

I gripped the mic stand like it was the only thing holding me upright. No stadium, no sold-out arena had ever felt like this. Nothing ever had.

I barely had time to step back from the mic before I saw Marie, weaving through the crowd like a shot of sunlight cutting through a storm.

"Hey, whoa—" was all I managed before she reached me.

She hit me full force, arms wrapping tight around my waist, cheek pressed to my chest like she was staking a claim. I could feel the dampness of her tears soaking into my shirt. My pulse thudded hard against her, but not from nerves this time.

"That was . . ." Her voice cracked as she pulled back just enough to beam up at me, her eyes brighter than any spotlight I’d ever stood under. "Dwight, that was everything."

"Yeah?" My throat tightened, making my voice rougher than I meant it to be. I slid an arm around her shoulders, holding her close as the applause shifted into something rowdier—catcalls and whistles now.

"Get a room!" someone hollered, probably Brett, followed by a sharp laugh that could only be Lucy’s.

"Don’t encourage them," Marcus muttered somewhere nearby, though the amusement in his tone betrayed him.

"Ignore them," Marie whispered, burying her face in my chest like they weren’t even there.

"Gladly," I murmured, letting my hand trace slow circles between her shoulder blades.

"Alright, alright," Brett interrupted, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Break it up, Lovebirds. Some of us are trying to keep our dinner down."

"Don’t mind him," Marcus said, stepping in as Brett grumbled something under his breath. He gave my shoulder a quick squeeze, his expression softer than I was used to. "Luca really came through, huh? Glad he could help."

"Yeah," I said, my voice low. "Me too."

"He’s actually thinking of moving to town,” Marcus said. “He’s had enough of the big city. Wants to move somewhere that’s tolerant of our lifestyle.”

“Think we can convince him to stick around?" Lucy chimed in, sidling up with a grin. "I mean, Small Falls has its charms.” She glanced over at Rebekah, who was blushing. Then she leaned in, “Beks has a major crush on Mr. Fancy Lawyer.”

“Have not!” Rebekah gasped, mock scandalized.

"I’m not sure," I said, chuckling as I pulled Marie closer. “He deserves a medal as far as I’m concerned. Marcus, tell him if he does end up here, he’ll have free pastries from me for life.”

“Hey! I want free pastries for life!” Lucy whined.

“Well, all you need to do is find a loophole in a contract that saves my business and my relationship,” I joked.

We all laughed. It felt wonderful.

The bakery started to empty after that. One by one, people drifted out with hugs and handshakes, leaving behind crumbs and the faint buzz of excitement that still lingered in the air. By the time the last guest waved goodbye, the place felt quieter than it had in weeks.

"Finally," Marie sighed, leaning against the display case. Her cardigan had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the strap of a lacy tank top underneath. She didn’t bother fixing it, and I didn’t bother pretending not to notice.

"Finally," I echoed, stepping closer until her body brushed mine.

She tilted her head up, mischief dancing in her gaze. "So," she drawled, her lips curving into that teasing little smile that always got me into trouble. "You were pretty good up there, Rock Star."

"Pretty good?" I repeated, arching a brow. "That’s all I get?"

"Mm-hmm," she hummed, her finger trailing along the edge of my belt. "But don’t worry. I’ve decided to become your personal groupie. You know, to help boost your confidence."

"Personal groupie, huh?" My voice dropped, and the corner of my mouth twitched despite myself. "Sounds like a lot of responsibility."

"Think you’re up for it?" she asked, her grin widening.

"Maybe," I said, letting my hands slide down to grip her hips. "But groupies have rules. Daily spankings, for starters. Can’t have you getting out of hand."

Her laugh burst out, bright and unrestrained, filling the space like music. God, I loved that sound. Loved the way it made my chest ache and my heart race all at once.

"Is that so?" she managed, still giggling as she leaned into me.

"Absolutely," I said, brushing my nose against hers. "It’s for your own good."

"Guess I’ll have to behave, then," she murmured, her voice softening.

I broke away, walked up to the window, closed the blinds. “Now, to be my groupie, you have to do some pretty deranged stuff.”

“Anything for my Rock Star,” she said, her voice breathy.

“Anything?”