Chapter 12
Julie
I close the bakery early.
I leave a sign on the door says Closed for a Special Delivery, which is technically true. Desirae called early this morning, saying the dress was ready.
“It’s perfect, Julie. Trust me. You’re going to cry the second you see it.”
Challenge accepted, Des.
But now that the door’s locked, the ovens are off, and the last muffin tin is soaking in the sink, my chest feels tight. Mrs. Waverly’s funeral is tomorrow. The reality of it hangs over my shoulders like a weighted blanket, and suddenly a dress fitting feels like walking into a moment I’ve been pretending isn’t coming.
I slide into my car and drive across town. The sky is low and heavy, warmth settling over Pelican Point in a sleepy haze. The streets are quiet, the kind of soft stillness that feels like the town itself knows something sacred is about to happen.
As I walk into Coastal Couture, the tiny bell above the door tinkles like a fairy charm. The scent of expensive fabric, lavender sachets, and Desirae’s signature vanilla perfume wraps around me instantly.
She appears from behind a dressing curtain with a dramatic flourish, holding a black garment bag like it contains a wedding dress blessed by royalty.
“There she is,” Desirae says, eyes twinkling. “I’ve been waiting all day to see your face.”
I arch a brow. “That good?”
“Oh, honey,” she says, drawing me into the dressing area. “Better.”
She unzips the bag slowly, like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a diamond-studded hat.
It’s simple, elegant, and timeless. Black crepe, soft as a whisper. Sleeves that kiss the shoulders and fall into delicate fluttering cuffs. A high neckline that dips into a subtle V in the back, where a row of tiny black buttons glints like pearls in shadow. There are delicate embroidered violets stitched near the hem—a homage, I realize, to Mrs. Waverly’s name.
I suck in a breath. “Oh my god…”
Desirae just nods. “Go on. Try it. I’ll fetch you some heels and tissues.”
She shoos me into the changing room, and I slip out of my bakery clothes, careful with the dress like it might vanish if I move too fast. The second I pull the fabric over my shoulders; it molds to me like it was made from a dream.
I step out, barefoot, and Desirae freezes mid-sip of her coffee. “I knew it,” she whispers. “Look at you.”
I turn toward the mirror and… yeah, it’s perfect.
The dress fits like it was sewn directly onto my skin. It hugs where it should, skims where it needs to, and the detail at the hem makes my throat go tight. I press a hand over my heart.
“She would’ve loved this,” I murmur.
Desirae steps beside me. “She’d have said you look like a woman who knows her worth. Which you do.”
My eyes sting, but I manage to smile. “She’d have made me wear a hat, too. One of those ridiculous ones with netting and fake birds.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Desirae laughs. “I’ve got three in the back.”
We share a quiet moment, the mirror reflecting not just the dress but everything else sitting heavy on my chest. Loss. Love. Lingering confusion.
Marcus.
Desirae gives me a sideways glance, then nudges my arm gently. “Are you okay?”
I don’t answer right away. Just stare at the way the dress hugs my ribs. “It’s just a guy. He left this morning without saying a word. Hasn’t texted. Hasn’t stopped by. Not even for his precious stupid danish.”
She hums. “Maybe he’s scared.”
“Yeah, well, so am I and I didn’t run.”
She nods, quiet. “You’re stronger than he expected. Sometimes, that scares men more than it should.”
I glance at the mirror, then at her. “Is it bad I still wanted him to show up today even though I’m pissed as hell?”
Desirae gives me a soft smile. “Not bad. Just honest.”
I change back into my clothes and thank her. As I leave the shop, carefully carrying the garment bag like it holds my whole heart, I look up at the sky. The sun’s just starting to sink, casting amber light over the quiet town.
I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to shift.
And God help me… I don’t know if I hope it’s him or dread it if it is.
* * *
By the time I turn onto my street, the golden hour is softening everything into something too beautiful to bear. The violets embroidered on the dress Desirae gave me catch the light even through the garment bag, and for one fleeting second, I think maybe today hasn’t been as heavy as I expected.
Then I see it. A familiar truck parked in my driveway, engine off, windows cracked.
Marcus.
He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other scrubbing the back of his neck like he's been debating getting out of the truck for hours. He looks like hell—like he hasn’t slept, like he’s been carrying around something heavy and refuses to set it down.
Well. So have I.
I pull into the driveway beside his truck, heart pounding as I throw the car into park and step out, careful with the dress.
He gets out of his truck slowly, eyes locking on me like he’s bracing for impact.
Smart man.
“You’ve got one hell of a nerve showing up now, King,” I say, slamming the door with more force than necessary.
“Julie—”
“No.” I hold up a hand, my other one white-knuckling the garment bag. “You don’t get to speak first. You lost that privilege when you walked out of my house this morning without saying a damn word.”
His jaw ticks. He opens his mouth, but I keep going.
“You think I don’t know what last night meant? You think I just hand over pieces of myself to anyone who looks at me like I’m some… piece of ass?” My voice cracks, but I don’t let it break completely. “I let you in, Marcus. In my home. In my bed. In my heart.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“I don’t care!” I shout, surprising both of us. “You don’t get to come back now, hours later, and pretend it was nothing. I’m not some one-night stand who can’t take a hint. You could’ve said something—anything—but you didn’t.”
He takes a tentative step forward. I step back.
“I’m a catch,” I snap, voice low and shaking with all the heat and heartbreak that’s been building in my chest all day. “I bake the best pastries in town. I’m funny as hell when I’m not elbow deep in cookie dough. And I don’t let people in easily. But you? I let you in.”
His throat works like he’s trying to swallow everything he wants to say at once. But I don’t stop.
“So, if this is you realizing you’re not cut out for anything real, then fine. Walk away. But do me a favor—find someplace else to get your precious raspberry danish because I don’t want to know you.”
He stands there like he’s been struck, not saying a word.
Good.
I nod sharply and move toward my front door, the dress swinging at my side like a war flag.
As I unlock the door, I feel his gaze burning between my shoulder blades. I can practically hear him breathing, the weight of everything he’s not saying pressing against my back like a hand trying to reach me through glass.
I wait one second.
Then two.
When the silence stretches on without a word, I go inside and shut the door behind me—leaving him standing there in the dusk, exactly where he left me this morning.
Alone.