Chapter 20
The thought of doing something just for me, selfishly, is strange.
It’s not in my nature. After years of taking care of everyone else, I’m not even sure how to begin.
But a small-town bakery in the heart of Chicago? That dream is my own. My idea.
My plans. My money. All of the risk and all of the reward.
This is the job I want. The one I feel passionate about. The one that will get me out of bed in the morning. Not just because
it sounds fun. Not just because it’s a way for me to share something I love.
Because I believe I can do it.
I pull out my phone and call Lennon.
“Tell me everything,” she says. “How’d you and Pickleboy hit it off?”
Pickleboy. Hilarious.
I singsong, “Oh, he ditched me in the middle of the date.”
“Oh no!”
“Oh yeah,” I say, mimicking her. “But it was fine. He and the redhead—Daphne—hit it off. They bonded over cats.”
“Cats? Like the musical?”
“No,” I say, laughing. “But that would be so much worse.”
She laughs. “Unbelievable. So Hot Neighbor was also ditched?”
“Yeah,” I say, reminiscing about the night. “We got ice cream.”
“Okay . . . promising.”
I squint at the phone. “Promising?”
“Yes! You and Miles went on a date.”
“No,” I say. Because seriously, if she starts teasing me about Miles, I’m going to turn into that ninth grader with the off-limits
crush again. And it’s taking everything in my power not to let that happen. “We’re just friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously,” I say. “Miles is not interested in any kind of serious relationship.”
“And that’s a problem?”
I pause, trying to imagine a world where I’m a casual dater.
I suppose that’s what I’ve been doing, hilariously.
“I don’t want to become one of Miles’s two-dates-and-he’s-out women,” I say. “We’re friends. Good ones, it turns out. And
I still don’t have many of those.”
“You have me,” she says. “I’m a great friend.”
I smile. “You are. But I didn’t call you to talk about boys. This is a business call.” I try to put on my most professional
voice.
“Oh, okay. Let me shift gears,” she says. Then, lowering her voice, sounding like an announcer, she says, “You’ve reached
Lennon. How can I help you?”
I smile at the change in her tone. “The storefront we looked at—did . . . the chiropractor lease it?” I realize once my question
is out that I’m nervous.
Nervous she’ll say no.
More nervous she’ll say yes.
“Let me check,” she says. “Since it wasn’t technically my listing, I haven’t kept track. But . . . why?”
“Oh, you know.” I try to sound casual. “Just curious.” I’m amazed I can hear her shuffling papers over the sound of my heart
pounding.
“Okay, here it is.” More shuffling. “No, the chiropractor didn’t lease it, but . . .”
I hold my breath as I listen for what’s next.
I hear the clicking of her computer keys. “Nope. Still available.”
I blow out the breath in one hot stream, shocked at how happy this makes me. “Okay, so . . . what do I need to do to lease
it?”
“You want to lease the storefront?” I can hear the excitement in her voice.
“I think so,” I say. “If I can swing it. I want to open a bakery.”
“No way, Claire! That’s a great idea!” Her enthusiasm is like a confetti popper inside me.
“Yeah?”
“Yes! I love this!” She’s back to clicking. “Hold on.” She must’ve set her cell phone down and picked up her office landline
because I can hear her talking to someone else. “Yeah, I’ve got a very interested renter.” Pause. “Right. Okay, great.” Pause.
“Sounds good. I’ll call when I have more details, but don’t show it to anyone else.” She laughs, then comes back on the line.
“All right, let’s figure out what we need to do to make this happen.”
And it hits me then that I’ve just taken the first real step toward starting my own business. In a new city.
Because I want to.
Over the next few days, I work on the logistics of owning a business and opening a bakery.
It’s . . . a lot.
There are things I never thought to think of, but thankfully Lennon—and Miles—are both willing to lend their expertise.
I should probably make more of an effort to stop thinking about Miles, but it’s hard when he keeps coming around. Last night,
after I texted to tell him the ball is rolling, he showed up with a pizza and a six-pack of Dr Pepper. “I’m here to tell you
everything I know about starting a business,” he’d said.
“What are we going to do after those four and a half minutes are up?” I cracked.
“That’s funny,” he said dryly. “I mean, I can take my Dr Pepper and go—” He raised a brow and turned to leave.
“No, no, no! I’m kidding. I might actually need some help here. There’s so much to think about. I thought it would be about the baking, and it’s totally not.”
“Yeah, lots of people start businesses to do something they love. The problems start when what they love turns into a job.”
He walked into my apartment and set the pizza and soda down on the counter, then looked at me. “Do you have a pen? You’re
going to want to take notes. I’m very successful. A very big deal.”
“With a very big head.” I smiled at him, glad he showed up, then spent the rest of the night asking questions, making plans,
and laughing. A lot.
This was becoming a habit.
“Part two tomorrow,” he’d said when he was leaving. “I’ll get Mediterranean.” He stopped in the doorway. “Unless you have
other plans.”
I grabbed onto the door, not wanting him to leave. “I don’t.”
At the sight of his now-familiar smile, my stomach did a little two-step. He stood there for a beat, then finally turned and
walked away.
I won’t admit how long I stood there watching him walk toward his apartment.
Not out loud anyway.
Afterward, I stalked his website because I had no idea, really, what he does or how he does it.
Sure, I’d seen the courtyard, and I knew that if he owned this building he had to be doing pretty well for himself. But I
didn’t understand the scope of his success.
He’s the owner of a very prominent firm that boasts a pretty incredible portfolio. High-end clients with noteworthy projects.
After looking through the before and after photos of several projects on his website and hearing him talk about a playground installation he’s doing for the city with all the excitement of a kid meeting their favorite superhero, I’m more certain than ever that this man is more than a landscape architect. He’s an artist.
I spent the rest of the night sketching, journaling, and dreaming, mostly about The Porch, but about Miles too.
The next night, I’m standing at his door holding a glass pan of baklava and trying to calm the nerves bouncing around in my
stomach. Before I can knock, he pulls the door open.
“Hi there, future business owner,” he says knowingly.
I look up and off to the side and do a little curtsy.
“I saw you walk over. Come on in.” He opens the door a little wider, and I walk inside, feeling a little like we’re taking
our friendship to a new level.
He invaded my space, but he’s inviting me into his.
Being in here is a glimpse into who Miles is when nobody else is looking. Who is, if I had to guess, a lot like who he is
when we’re together.
Still, I’m apprehensive. Guarded. I want things to be honest, and I think I’m getting to know this guy . . . but look what happened last time.
I thought I knew John.
Turns out everyone knew him but me.
With Miles, my emotions and my logic are struggling to find a balance.
I take a quick look around. The layout of his apartment is similar to mine. The vibe in here is very Nate Berkus. Modern,
neutral, masculine. And it smells like Miles, a fragrance that is quickly becoming one of my favorite—and most familiar—scents.
“I made this,” I say, holding out the baklava.
As Miles takes it from me, his fingers brush mine and I force myself to silently chant, He’s just a friend over and over in hopes that the romantic part of me will listen.
“It’s celebratory baklava,” I say, my hands still on my end of the pan.
“What are we celebrating?” he asks.
I take a breath and hold it. “I know tonight is part two of you sharing your infinite wisdom with me, but”—I wince—“I signed
the lease this morning.”
He raises his eyebrows and grins.
I make a face that’s equal parts excited and terrified.
He beams. “Big first step. Huge first step.”
“Am I crazy?”
“Yeah,” he says, not missing a beat. “But it’s way more fun that way.”
I let go of the dish and groan. “I’m not a huge risk taker.”
He walks over to the counter and sets down the baklava. “Huh. I beg to differ.” He waves a hand over the spread on the counter.
“You’re about to try another new cuisine. That’s risky.”
I smile and shake my head, then look at all the unboxed Mediterranean dishes that smell like heaven. “You know what I mean.”
He puts his hands on the counter and pulls my gaze. “Listen, you moved here to a city where you don’t know anyone, with no
job, no family, and no friends. I’d say that’s pretty risky.”
I feel intoxicated realizing that he noticed. Because part of me assumed everyone back home, apart from Minnie, probably thought
I was running away from something and not toward something.
But Miles gets it. And he’s acknowledging how hard it was.
“Pretty brave, Claire.”
I don’t look away. I’m frozen and trying desperately to swallow the lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I finally say.
He claps his hands together and looks down at the food. “I don’t think we should even use plates,” he says. “Grab a fork.”
I’m grateful for the change of subject and the levity. “Is that because you hate doing dishes?” I laugh.
“Yes.” He holds out a fork and I take it, then sit on the stool next to the counter.
As we eat, we talk. I have about a million and twelve ideas, and even more questions.
Thankfully, the space is in great shape—mostly in need of decorating and not renovating, but there are still going to be some steep up-front expenses.
This springboards the conversation into the benefits of getting a loan versus using my savings as an investment versus trying to secure an investor or two.