Chapter 4
Jonah
The problem with having Chloe in my house is that I’m aware of her constantly.
It’s been three days since she moved in, and I can’t seem to turn off the part of my brain that tracks her movements. The soft pad of her feet on the stairs. The way she hums while making coffee in the kitchen. The sound of her laugh when the twins say something ridiculous at breakfast.
I fold the dough with more force than necessary.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. Exactly why I almost didn’t hire her, despite her being the most qualified applicant —despite being the only applicant who didn’t run screaming when I mentioned four a.m. baker’s hours and twin four-year-olds.
They can really gang up on a person and most nannies understood that.
I told myself I could keep it professional. That I could have an attractive woman living in my house and not develop some inconvenient attraction to her. That three years of celibacy and single fatherhood had effectively neutered any romantic impulses I might have once had.
I was wrong on all counts.
So fucking wrong.
The dough tears under my hands.
“Dammit,” I mutter, trying to repair the damage.
Croissants are unforgiving, brutally unkind to absent bakery.
They require patience, precision, the kind of attention I’m not capable of when my mind keeps drifting to things like the way Chloe’s eyes light up when she talks to the twins, or how she touched my arm yesterday when she was laughing at something Mia said, or how she’s started staying up after the girls go to bed, sitting at my kitchen counter while I clean up for the day, just.. . talking to me.
No one’s just talked to me in years.
The bell above the bakery door chimes, and I look up to see Jake letting himself in for the morning delivery run.
“Morning,” he says, grabbing his keys from the hook. “You look like hell.”
“Good morning to you too, Jake.”
He grins, completely unrepentant. Young, perpetually cheerful, and deeply in love with his girlfriend of five years, Jake is the kind of guy who thinks everyone should be as happy as he is. It’s exhausting.
“Seriously though, you okay? You’ve been weird all week.” He leans against the counter, studying me with the kind of concern that makes me want to throw a bag of flour at his head.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You’re always tired. This is a different kinda tired, like you’re thinking about thinking about thinking.” His eyes narrow and then they widen. “This is about the new nanny, isn’t it?”
“No.” It’s too quick and I fold the dough for the final lamination even harder than before.
“Oh man, it totally is!” Jake’s grin widens. “Is she hot? Please tell me she’s hot. You need something good in your life, and you’re always so grumpy here at the bakery, never with the girls of course, but I really think you need to get la—”
“Jake!”
“What? I’m just saying, you’re thirty-six, not dead. And you’ve been alone since—”
“Jake.” I stretch his name and put enough warning in my voice that he finally stops talking. “Chloe is my employee. She’s here to take care of my daughters. That’s it.”
“But is she hot?”
I throw the dish towel at him.
He catches it, laughing. “I’ll take that as a yes. When do I get to meet her?”
“Never, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Come on, I’m harmless. I just want to see who’s got you all twisted up.”
“I’m not twisted up.”
“You just tore your croissant dough… again. You never tear your dough.” Jake tosses the towel back at me. “Face it, boss. You’re into her. Big time.”
I don’t respond, because what am I supposed to say?
That he’s right? That I’ve spent the last three nights lying awake in my too-big bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the woman sleeping down the hall?
That yesterday, when she asked me to teach her how to make sourdough starter, I spent twenty minutes standing too close to her, breathing in whatever shampoo she uses, trying not to notice the freckles on her shoulder where her wide-necked sweatshirt had slipped?
Done that Flashdance thing that drives men into insanity.
And that I’m terrified of what happens when she leaves in six months, because the twins already adore her, and I’m not far behind?
“She’s temporary,” I say finally. “She’s got a teaching job lined up for the fall. She’s only here until then.”
Jake’s expression softens. “Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
“She won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
But I do. I know it because I’ve already been here. I fell for someone who had bigger dreams than Valentine, Montana could offer. Already watched someone walk away because staying meant giving up on the life they really wanted.
I won’t do that again. Won’t be the reason someone sacrifices their ambitions.
Even if part of me —the stupid, hopeful part that I thought died three years ago— wishes things could be different.
“Just... go! Make your deliveries, Jake.” I turn back to the dough, starting over. “And stop trying to play matchmaker.”
“Fine, fine.” He heads toward the back door, then pauses. “But for the record? You deserve to be happy, Jonah. The twins deserve to see you happy. Just... think about it.”
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my ruined croissant dough.
The problem is, I have been thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it constantly.
I’ve been thinking about how Chloe reads to the girls at bedtime, doing different voices for each character until they’re shrieking with laughter.
How she’s already figured out that Ava needs extra reassurance in the mornings and Mia needs space when she’s frustrated.
How she cleaned out the trashcans yesterday without being asked, because she noticed they were dirty and didn’t want me to have to deal with it.
How she fits into our life like she’s always been here.
How much harder it’s going to be when she leaves.
I’m shaping the croissants —starting completely over with fresh dough— when I hear it. The soft creak of the Spice Spice Baby’s back door, the one that connects to the alley where I park.
My heart does something stupid in my chest.
“Jonah?” Chloe’s voice, tentative. “You here?”
I wipe my hands on my apron and step out of my nook in the kitchen. She’s standing in the doorway, backlit by the streetlamp outside, wearing jeans and a thick sweater and a jacket that’s too thin for November in Montana.
“Chloe? What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Are the girls—”
“The girls are fine,” she says quickly. “Still asleep. Your mom came over to sit with them— I texted her, hope that’s okay. I just...” She shifts her weight, looking uncertain in a way I’ve never seen her look before. “I couldn’t sleep. And I thought maybe you could use some help?”
My mom lives… next door and is to bed at eight and up at four.
Probably where I get my ability to do early mornings.
And I had told her that Mom wanted to help me out, but two four-year-olds can be a little much for someone in their late fifties.
She prefers the sleeping and sleepy mornings with grandma’s pancakes to the crazy afternoons with screaming and crayons on the walls.
I stare at her. “It’s five in the morning, Chloe. Most people are sleeping and especially those who have to take care of toddlers in the morning.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to be up this early. That’s not part of the job.”
“I know that too.” She steps inside, closing the door behind her. “But I wanted to. Is that okay?”
No. It’s not okay. Because having her here, in my space, at this hour when the rest of the world is asleep and it’s just us— that’s dangerous. That’s asking for trouble.
But I nod anyway. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
Her smile could light up the whole bakery.
And just like that, I know I’m in even deeper trouble than I thought.