Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MAYA
I’ve been elbow-deep in pastry cream since nine, and there’s flour dusted on my eyelashes, but it’s the good kind of exhaustion.
The kind where the quiet hum of the ovens and the low indie playlist in the background feel like safety.
The kitchen’s warm from the bake, the windows slightly steamed up, and I’m down to my sleeves rolled and hair twisted into a high knot that’s barely holding.
Lila’s at nursery until half three. The childminder is dropping her back here today since my shift runs late. Which means I’ve got another hour before the chaos resumes, and in the meantime, I’m armed with a cloth, a bucket of soapy water, and a to-do list longer than my sleep debt.
I’ve just started scrubbing down the bench when the bell above the bakery door jingles.
I expect it to be Chloe from the coffee shop next door, borrowing sugar again. Or Mrs. Faulkner, checking if I’ve set any pastries aside for her knitting group.
But it’s not.
It’s Jacko.
Massive, sweaty, grinning Jacko, in trackies and a faded Raptors hoodie, his hair damp from a post-training shower and a paper bag tucked under one arm.
“Afternoon, trouble,” he says, and my stupid stomach does this little somersault it absolutely has no business doing.
“You’re early,” I say, as casually as I can manage while my brain screams that he looks unfairly edible for someone who probably faceplanted into the boards less than an hour ago.
He shrugs. “Finished drills early. Coach is in a good mood. Figured I’d take advantage and swing by. Brought bribes.”
He holds up the paper bag.
“What’s that?”
“Salted caramel brownies. From that posh bakery on Main Street that you said was ‘overhyped nonsense with a decent swirl.’” His grin turns smug. “Figured I’d let you judge properly.”
I narrow my eyes. “This some kind of psychological warfare?”
“Only if I win.”
I snort and toss my cloth in the bucket. “Come on, then. But if they’re dry, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
Owen follows me through to the back kitchen, and even though he’s been in here before, it always feels different when it’s just us. The bakery’s closed to customers now, just soft afternoon light slanting through the blinds and the scent of warm sugar in the air.
He hops up to sit on the prep counter like he’s done it a hundred times, legs swinging slightly, watching me with that steady, observant way he always does. Like he’s not just looking, he’s seeing.
I hand him a knife and a plate and gesture to the bag. “Well? Let’s see if these overpriced squares of sin are actually worth your detour.”
He pulls out the box with a bit too much reverence, like we’re about to perform some kind of sacred baking ritual. “Brace yourself,” he says, then carefully lifts one brownie out, breaking it in half with a soft crackle of crust and a glossy, fudgy middle that glistens with sea salt.
I make a face. “Okay, that does look good.”
Jacko hands me half. Our fingers brush, and it shouldn’t feel like anything, but it does. Just for a second. Like warmth zipping from my knuckles to my ribs.
I pretend it doesn’t and take a bite.
Silence, save for the low hum of the oven and whatever moody ballad the playlist has wandered into. The brownie is disgustingly good. Rich, molten, just the right chew. I close my eyes and sigh.
Jacko’s watching me when I open them. He looks way too pleased with himself.
“Well?” he asks, a smug tilt to his voice.
I chew slowly, then lick a crumb off my thumb just to make his ears go a little pink. “Fine. It’s not completely overhyped.”
His smile cracks wider, like I’ve handed him a gold medal. “I’ll take that as a glowing endorsement.”
I shake my head, grinning despite myself, and grab a second cloth. “If you’re going to loiter and gloat, you’re on drying duty. There’s a tray of tart tins that need stacking.”
He hops down without complaint, sleeves already shoved up, and grabs the tea towel hanging on the hook by the sink. “Yes, chef.”
We settle into the rhythm easily. Me washing, him drying, our shoulders bumping occasionally in that accidentally-on-purpose way. Jacko hums along to the music, badly and off-key, but it makes the space feel warmer somehow. Safer.
“So,” he says after a while, quieter now, “how’s today been? You holding up?”
The question is gentle. Not loaded, not nosy. Just there.
I nod, scrubbing at a stubborn smear of caramel. “Better than yesterday. Worse than tomorrow, probably. You know. Life.”
He doesn’t push. Just says, “Yeah. I get that.”
And weirdly, I believe him.
We work in silence for a while longer, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy. Just companionable. His presence is big, calming, like standing next to a very friendly tree that smells faintly of sugar and shower gel.
When the clock hits three-thirty, I hear the soft chime of the childminder’s knock on the side door. Jacko immediately steps back, like he knows this moment isn’t his. Like he respects the line.
“I’ll head out,” he says, brushing crumbs from his hoodie. “Let you two have your chaos.”
“You don’t have to,” I start, then stop myself. Because I don’t know what I’m inviting. And I’m not sure I’m ready for it. Not yet.
He nods like he understands, like he always does. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, soft.
Then he’s gone, the bell above the front door jingling once more, and I’m left alone in the warmth, the quiet, and the echo of his smile still tugging at the corners of mine.
And maybe I let it linger.