Chapter 4
Luca
W ell. That meeting hadn’t gone exactly according to plan.
The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights. I stood there, staring at the crumpled paper towel on the table, a smudge of coffee staining its corner. The smell lingered—stale and acidic—mixing uneasily with the memory of Rebekah’s wide, tear-filled eyes as she bolted from the room.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaling sharply through my nose.
Damn it.
"Slow down," I’d said, like she hadn’t already been teetering on the edge of her nerves. I should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. My words weren’t meant to chastise, but they landed like a gavel: heavy, final, no room for appeal. And then she’d shattered, right in front of me.
I shook my head, trying to push the image away, but it clung to me—the trembling of her hands, the way her voice had caught before she muttered her rushed apology and ran.
Guilt coiled tight in my chest, but beneath it, something else stirred. Something I didn’t want to name. There was a fire in her, chaotic and uncontained, but it wasn’t just that. It was the vulnerability underneath, raw and unguarded, that seemed to pull at me despite every logical reason to keep my distance.
Forever Girl .
The words were burned into my head, even though I was doing my best not to think them.
I forced myself into motion, gathering the scattered papers she’d left behind and stacking them neatly on the table. A few drops of coffee had bled onto one of the pages, blurring the ink. I stared at the mark longer than necessary before shaking my head again and tossing the paper towel in the trash. Enough. Dwelling wouldn’t fix anything.
Grabbing my coat from the back of the chair, I shrugged it on and headed for the door. Small Falls bustled around me in its usual subdued rhythm—shopkeepers chatting on doorsteps, parents guiding kids across the crosswalk by the library. A few familiar faces nodded or waved as I passed, and I returned the gestures automatically without breaking stride.
My feet carried me toward Dwight’s bakery almost on autopilot, though I barely registered the walk. My thoughts stuck stubbornly on Rebekah. Her flushed cheeks, the tremor in her voice when she tried to explain herself, the way her gaze darted everywhere except at me. Had I really been so harsh? It wasn’t a simple spilled cup of coffee that unraveled her—it was me . The realization sat uncomfortably in my gut, heavier with each step.
I jammed my hands into my coat pockets, my pace quickening as if I could outwalk the gnawing unease. She wasn’t fragile—I’d seen enough of her energy and determination to know that much. But something about today . . . something had cracked. And I’d been the one to widen the fissure.
The bell above the door jingled softly as I stepped into Sweet Surrender, a rush of warm air and yeasty sweetness enveloping me immediately. The bakery smelled like home—if home were a blend of cinnamon, sugar, and freshly baked bread. My shoulders dropped a fraction, some of the tension peeling away as the aroma worked its magic.
"Hey there, lawyer man," Dwight called from behind the counter, his deep voice carrying a familiar edge of humor. He was dusted in flour again, streaks of it smudged across his black T-shirt like battle scars. The silver hoop in his left ear caught the light, glinting as he leaned forward to slide a tray of cookies onto the display rack. "You look like you’ve been through it."
"Something like that." My lips tugged into an automatic half-smile as I approached the counter, taking in the lineup of pastries in the glass case. Each one looked almost too perfect to eat, decorated with icing swirls that reminded me of sheet music. Dwight had never completely let go of his rock-star past, even if he claimed to have traded guitar solos for sourdough starters.
"Coffee?" he asked, tilting his head toward the machine behind him. "Or are we going straight for the sugar today?"
"Just coffee," I said, shaking my head lightly. "Thanks, though." I hesitated, then added, "Maybe a quiet spot, if you’ve got one."
Dwight paused mid-reach for a mug, studying me with a sharpness that made it clear he was already reading between the lines. "Follow me," he said finally, grabbing the cup and gesturing for me to come around the side of the counter.
I trailed after him, weaving past a couple of customers browsing the pastry cases. Dwight led me to the back corner of the bakery, where a small table sat tucked against the wall, half-hidden by a display shelf stacked with cookbooks and jars of homemade jam. It was quieter here, the hum of conversation and the clatter of plates fading into background noise.
"Here you go," he said, setting the steaming coffee in front of me before pulling out the chair opposite mine. He leaned against the back of it instead of sitting down, crossing his arms over his chest. "You want a pastry? On the house, as always. You know, in case you forgot that you saved me from eternal touring hell."
"Appreciate the offer, but I’m fine. Really." I wrapped my hands around the coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into my skin.
"Fine, huh?" Dwight raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "You don’t exactly look fine. What’s up?"
"It’s Rebekah," I said before I could stop myself. The name came out heavier than I intended, like it carried all the weight of the last hour. "She was at the fundraiser meeting today. Things . . . didn’t go well."
"Rebekah?" The teasing edge dropped from Dwight’s voice instantly. His brow furrowed as he straightened up, pushing aside the tray of cinnamon rolls he’d been arranging. "What happened?"
"Well, she spilled coffee on me," I started, then shook my head, frustrated with how shallow that sounded. "That’s not the point, exactly. My reaction could have been better. Then she panicked. Completely froze up, and then bolted before I had the chance to apologize." The memory flickered behind my eyes—her wide, tear-filled gaze, her trembling hands clutching at the papers she’d scattered. Something twisted in my chest just thinking about it.
"Ah, hell." Dwight sighed, raking a hand through his short, graying hair. "That doesn’t sound good. Not with her." He leaned both elbows on the table, his full attention locked on me now. "What’d you say to her?"
"Nothing too harsh," I said, though the words tasted defensive even to me. I ran a hand over my face, trying to tamp down the guilt bubbling up again. "I told her to slow down. That’s all. But . . . I think it hit wrong. Like maybe she thought I was—" I broke off, unsure how to finish the sentence without sounding like I’d handled things poorly. Which, of course, I had.
"Like you were scolding her?" Dwight supplied, his tone gentler than usual.
"Yeah," I admitted, staring into my coffee.
Dwight leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, his sharp gaze cutting through my frazzled thoughts like a knife. "So, what’re you gonna do about it?" he asked, nodding toward the coffee cup I was gripping a little too tightly.
I exhaled slowly and set the cup down, the ceramic clinking against the saucer. "I’ve been thinking," I started, keeping my tone even. "She’s good—really good. Creative, passionate. The ideas she brought to the table for the fundraiser were fresh and exciting. Honestly, better than anything I could’ve come up with on my own."
"Go on," Dwight prompted, his brows raising slightly as he grabbed a flour-dusted towel off the counter and began wiping his hands absently.
"I need to smooth things over with her," I admitted, leaning forward, elbows braced on the small wooden table between us. "But more than that, I want her to take more ownership of the fundraiser. Maybe even co-lead parts of it with me. I think it could be good for her."
"Bold move." Dwight tilted his head, studying me like I was an overly complicated chessboard. "You sure about that?"
"Not entirely," I admitted, the weight of my uncertainty settling in my chest. "That’s the problem. She looked terrified earlier, Dwight. Not just upset or embarrassed—terrified. Over a spilled cup of coffee. It wasn’t normal."
He tossed the towel over his shoulder and sighed heavily, the sound carrying decades of weariness. "I know what you mean."
"Her reaction was . . . bigger than the situation called for," I continued, shaking my head slightly. "And if I give her more responsibility, I’m worried I’ll just make things worse for her. But at the same time . . ." I trailed off, unsure how to articulate the knot of admiration and worry twisting inside me. "She deserves the chance to shine. I don’t want to let her anxiety hold her back."
"Mm." Dwight rubbed the back of his neck, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You don’t miss much, do you? Seem to have Rebekah all figured out.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m sure there’s a lot I don’t see.”
"She’s definitely been having a rough time of it lately."
"Yeah?" My stomach tightened at his words, though I kept my expression neutral.
"Yeah." Dwight planted one hand on the counter and leaned his weight into it, shaking his head. "She's been skipping Littles League for months now—not like her at all. She founded the club, with Lucy. Used to be, you’d see her in the community center every Saturday, laughing, running the games, making sure everyone had a good time. Lately? Nothing. She’s withdrawn from her usual crowd too. Heard she’s been piling stuff on her plate, trying to keep herself too busy to notice . . . whatever it is she’s dealing with."
"Not sure that’s the best way to deal with things," I murmured, the pang in my chest sharpening.
"No," Dwight said bluntly. "Her nerves have always been a bit high-strung, but these days? Every little thing feels huge to her. It’s like she’s got this weight pressing down on her, making every misstep feel like the end of the world."
"Like spilling coffee on someone," I muttered, more to myself than him.
"Exactly." Dwight nodded, his gaze softening. "Thing is, when she’s in a good place, she thrives. You saw it yourself—she’s creative, driven, full of energy. But when she’s overwhelmed? She starts pulling away from everything and everyone that could help her get back on track."
"Everything and everyone?" I repeated, frowning.
"Yep. Even her safe spaces—the things that used to calm her down or make her feel at home? She’s been avoiding them." Dwight’s voice dipped lower, his tone heavy with concern. "It’s not like her. Not at all."
The thought of Rebekah, usually so lively and animated, retreating from the places and people she loved stirred something in me—something protective I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t pity; it was deeper than that. A need to steady her, to remind her she didn’t have to carry all of this alone. I pressed my lips together, letting the silence stretch as I tried to reconcile the urge with my own hesitations.
Deep down, it reminded me of myself. How I used to be. I knew that feeling, and I’d worked hard to overcome it. It was hard to think of someone like Rebekah struggling with that.
"Guess that explains a lot," I finally said, sitting back in my chair. My fingers drummed lightly on the tabletop before going still. "But it complicates things. I don’t want to overwhelm her, Dwight. If I push too hard, ask too much—" I shook my head again, feeling the familiar tug-of-war between logic and instinct. "I don’t want to hurt her."
"Then don’t," Dwight said simply, shrugging one shoulder. "But don’t underestimate her either, Luca. She’s tougher than she looks. And sometimes, what people need isn’t less—they need more. More support. More trust. More people believing they can handle it."
"Maybe," I allowed, though doubt lingered at the edges of my thoughts.
"She’s got something about her, doesn’t she?" Dwight asked casually, but there was a pointedness behind his words that pulled my gaze upward. He leaned one elbow on the counter, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"She’s . . ." I hesitated, the words coming unbidden like they’d been sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for air. "She’s brilliant. Creative in ways I don’t think I could ever be. Yeah, there’s something about her—" I exhaled sharply, shaking my head as if to clear it. "Even when she panicked earlier, there was this… rawness to her. Like every emotion she has is right there, just beneath the surface, waiting to spill out. It’s—"
"Have you got a crush on her?" Dwight cut in, his grin widening as he straightened up and crossed his arms over his flour-dusted chest. When I didn’t immediately deny it, he chuckled softly. "Thought so."
"That’s not—" I started, but he held up a hand, silencing me with a single arch of his eyebrow.
"Relax, I’m not judging. Far from it. Just calling it like I see it." His tone was light, but there was a spark of mischief in his eyes that put me immediately on edge. "So . . . you gonna do something about it? Or let it keep eating at you until you’re a bigger mess than she is?"
"What exactly are you suggesting?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. My voice was clipped, defensive.
"I think you know exactly what I mean." He leaned in slightly, his grin taking on a conspiratorial edge. "Are you planning to step in? Be her Daddy Dom? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like that’s what you want."
The coffee mug froze halfway to my lips, and I nearly choked on nothing at all. "Jesus, Dwight," I muttered, setting the cup down harder than I meant to. Heat crept up my neck, and I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing myself to stay calm. "Where do you even get—" I stopped myself, exhaling slowly before continuing, more measured this time. "I barely know her. No. That’s not happening."
"Why not?" he pressed, unbothered by my obvious discomfort. "You saying you’re not interested? Because I’m calling bullshit on that."
"That’s not the issue," I shot back, my voice low but firm. "It’s not about me. It’s about her. She’s clearly . . . fragile right now. She doesn’t need someone complicating her life with whatever that would entail." I waved a hand vaguely, hoping it would end the conversation. It didn’t.
"Whatever that would entail?" Dwight echoed, tilting his head like he was genuinely curious. "Care to elaborate?"
"Don’t make me spell it out," I said through gritted teeth, but his silence forced me to continue. "Being a Daddy Dom isn’t some casual role you pick up when it suits you. It’s . . . everything. Constant communication. Boundaries. Emotional support, discipline, structure—it’s a responsibility. A big one." I paused, dragging a hand through my hair. "And for someone like her, who’s already carrying too much… it could go either way. Either it helps her find balance, or it pushes her further into chaos. And I’m not about to risk being the reason she falls apart."
Dwight studied me carefully, his smirk fading into something softer, more thoughtful. "Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this," he said after a moment. "More than you’re willing to admit, maybe."
"Because I have to," I replied, meeting his gaze head-on. "This isn’t just about attraction or . . . whatever else you’re implying. It’s about doing what’s best for her. And right now, that’s not me."
"Don’t you think she needs someone like you though? Someone steady, Luca. Someone who can handle her chaos without flinching." Dwight’s voice was calm but laced with that maddening certainty of his.
I set my coffee down a little too hard on the small table in front of me. "Dwight, I’m barely keeping my own life together right now. Between the new practice and the fundraiser—" I gestured vaguely toward him, "—there’s no room for anything else. Especially not something as . . . complex as that."
His brow arched, the glint in his eye more knowing than I cared to admit. "You’re overthinking it, man. Rebekah’s not some fragile porcelain doll. And she’ll be good for you. Her chaos might just balance out all your control-freak tendencies." He smirked, tapping an idle rhythm against the counter. "Think about it—a little discipline here, a little nurturing there."
"Discipline," I repeated dryly, shaking my head. “Luckily, that’s something I have in abundance. I’m not one to give into my impulses.”
"Man, I wish I had your iron will," Dwight said, leaning back against the counter with a smirk that was equal parts teasing and knowing. "If I’d been half as disciplined as you, I might’ve avoided all the flamboyant temptations of life on the road." He gestured broadly, as if summoning his wild past out of thin air.
"Flamboyant isn’t exactly my style," I replied dryly, though I couldn’t help the corner of my mouth quirking up.
"Yeah, no kidding." Dwight chuckled, tossing the flour-dusted towel onto the counter beside him. "You’re like a human fortress. Nothing gets through unless you let it."
The door chime jingled suddenly, and we both glanced toward the front of the bakery. A young couple walked in, their laughter bouncing softly off the walls. Dwight straightened, giving them a quick nod before turning his attention back to me. His voice dropped an octave as he leaned closer.
"Alright, Luca. So what’s your plan?”
I exhaled slowly, setting the mug down on the table between us. "I’ll ask Rebekah to co-manage the fundraiser’s creative direction. I’ll give her the support she needs."
Dwight raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet, waiting for me to continue.
"This will let her know that I value her. I don’t think she’s silly or weak for running. It’s important for her to know that one mistake doesn’t erase everything else she brings to the table," I added, my tone measured. "But I’ll be careful not to overwhelm her."
I leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed on the faintly swirling steam rising from my coffee cup. The rich scent wrapped around me, grounding me, but my thoughts were far from settled.
Dwight tilted his head, leaning one hip casually against the counter. His arms crossed, flour still dusting the sleeves of his black T-shirt. "And you think you’ll manage that?" he asked with a wry smile, clearly skeptical.
"I’ll manage," I said firmly, though even I could hear the strain in my voice. Discipline. That was my armor. My shield. And if there was one thing I excelled at, it was holding the line.
"Okay," Dwight said, nodding approvingly. "Maybe loosen the tie a little before you talk to her."
"Ha, ha," I deadpanned, though my smirk betrayed me.
I knew I could do this. I just hoped that I was as disciplined as I claimed to be.