Chapter 5
5
LILY
T he January morning rush finally ebbs around eleven, leaving the bakery smelling of vanilla and fresh coffee, dusted in flour like the snow outside. Our little shop sits quiet now after the chaos of post-holiday customers desperate for comfort food in the bitter winter cold. The industrial mixer hums as I work on a batch of Italian buttercream, trying to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of sugar and egg whites coming together. But every few minutes, my attention drifts to my phone, dark and silent on the counter for another message from James. He’s been quiet for the past week. Again.
Hannah’s been watching me all morning, wearing that expression I know too well—the one she’s worn since Mom died, as though she has to be both sister and mother now. I see her reflection in the polished display case as she approaches, her steps measured.
“That’s the fourth time you’ve checked your phone,” she says, reaching past me to turn off the mixer. “And you nearly dropped Mrs. Lyn’s birthday order form in the sink earlier when you got a message. This isn’t like you, Lily.”
“I’m just expecting an important message.”
“You’ve been checking your phone all morning,” Hannah observes, wiping down the counter. “Even during the rush. That’s not like you.”
I grab the phone and tuck it deep into my apron pocket. “Just waiting for a message.”
“From James?” She tries to sound casual, but I catch the way her eyes narrow slightly.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Maybe.”
“You can talk to me, you know.” Hannah abandons her cleaning, leaning against the counter.
“You know that wedding cake fiasco right before Christmas when you left me all alone to do it?” I focus on arranging cream puffs on a golden tray, buying time. “When I was elbow-deep in cake and desperately needed your new number to complain about it?” I shoot her a look. “By the way, thanks for changing your number right in the middle of the busy season. Really, this is your fault, sis.”
She rolls her eyes at me.
“Anyway, there I was, trying to type your new number, and apparently, my desperate finger hit the wrong number.” I fidget with another cream puff. “And instead of, you know, ignoring the crazy person having a wedding cake meltdown, he actually wrote back.”
“And you kept talking to the wrong number guy?” The big sister tone creeps into her voice.
“He was actually really funny and made me forget about my stress!” I chance a look at her. “And then we just... kept talking.”
“Lily...” Hannah stares at me deeply. “Have you even met him?”
“Not exactly.” The cream puffs can’t be arranged any better, but I keep fiddling with them, anyway. “We’ve talked about everything, and he has this sourdough starter named Bertha. And he mentioned catching up, maybe on Valentine’s Day.” I trail off, seeing her expression. “What?”
“So you’re sharing personal things with someone you’ve never met?” Hannah’s voice has that edge to it, the one that says she’s trying not to sound judgmental but definitely is. “Do you even know what he looks like?”
“Does it matter? I know it’s a guy.”
Hannah scoffs. “Yeah, maybe he’s a serial killer.”
I let out a strangled laugh, remembering our playful messages about murder. If she only knew.
“Or,” Hannah continues. “What if he has a family? You know how many men do this? Prey on women online, especially Omegas?—”
“He doesn’t know I’m an Omega,” I cut in. “I never told him that.”
“Is James even his real name?”
The question hits harder than it should. “I... assume it is.” But now doubt creeps in, the way it always does when Hannah gets that tone.
She pulls out her phone. “What’s his number?”
“What are you doing?”
“Remember how we set up Ruby with those blind dates?” A slight smile crosses her face. “Well, one of them, Dominic is a security specialist—basically a legal hacker. And he owes us one for introducing him to Ruby. If anyone can track down this number, it’s him.”
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around my phone. “Hannah...”
“Come on, Lily. Let me at least try. For my peace of mind?”
I stare at her for a long moment, then slowly recite the number. My stomach knots as she types it into her phone and messages it to Dominic.
“Done,” she finally says, hitting send. “Now we wait.”
The next few hours in the bakery crawl by like molasses. Every time the bell over the door chimes, I jump. Every ping from a phone makes my heart race. I mess up three orders and nearly burn a batch of snickerdoodles. Hannah keeps shooting me concerned glances between customers.
Late afternoon, just as I’m pulling a tray of sourdough from the oven, Hannah bursts through the swinging doors from the front of the shop, her phone in hand. I freeze, still holding the bread paddle.
“Is it Dominic?” I ask, barely breathing.
She nods, eyes scanning her screen. “He says based on the area code, he was able to triangulate—whatever that means—and narrow it down to a rural area. There’s some kind of facility there...”
“What kind?” Something in my chest constricts as I watch her face.
“It’s the Alpine Ridge Correctional Facility,” she says carefully.
The world tilts sideways. “What?”
“Are you sure he said he was a chef?”
My mind races through our conversations. He’d talked about cooking, about recipes, about kitchen disasters, but had he ever actually said where he worked?
“Maybe...” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Maybe he’s a guard there. That would explain the phone, right? And the weird hours, and...”
“Or,” Hannah says gently. “He could have an illegal phone, and he’s an inmate.”
“No.” But even as I say it, pieces start clicking into place. The vague answers about his work. The specific times he’d message me. The way he’d deflect questions about sending me photos of where he was. And never wanting to do a video call.
“He sent me a photo of his shoes in his hand, but he hasn’t asked me for photos of me,” I protest weakly, pulling out my phone.
Hannah studies the image. “That could be anything. Prison kitchen uniform, for all we know.”
My hands shake as I type to James. Hey... what exactly do you do for a living? Where are you right now?
“Lily...” Hannah reaches for my hand.
“He’ll explain,” I insist. “There has to be?—”
“When did you last hear from him?”
“Last week. But he already told me he’d explain everything when we met.”
Hannah’s eyes fill with sympathy. “Of course he did. Probably when he gets released or escapes.”
“Stop it.” My stomach drops.
“Lily, you need to think about this. A man who won’t tell you basic things about his life, who sends cropped photos?—”
“He listened when I talked about Mom,” I cut in, hating the way my tone breaks. “When I told him about finding her recipes, about how much I missed her. He understood that kind of loss. That wasn’t fake.”
“Or he’s really good at what he does.” Hannah stands, coming around to my side. “Con men don’t succeed by being obvious, Lily. They succeed by finding what people need and becoming exactly that.”
My phone sits silently in my trembling hands. No response. No typing dots. Nothing.
“I need air.” I head for the back door, but Hannah catches my arm.
“You need to delete and block his number.”
“I need to know the truth.”
“The truth?” Her tone rises slightly. “The truth is, you’ve been texting a prisoner who lied to you for weeks. Who knows what else he’s lying about? His name? His crime? Whether he’s even getting out?”
Each question lands like a blow. Because she’s right—of course, she’s right. Hannah’s always right about things. She was right about Marcus in college, about David last year, about every red flag I’ve ever tried to ignore.
But this feels different. The way he wrote about his grandfather’s death, about grief and healing. The way he made me laugh. The way talking to him felt more real than any conversation I’ve had with any guy, ever.
“Give me the laptop,” I whisper.
“Lily...”
“Please.”
She hesitates, then slides it over. I go to the government inmate locator site and type in his name and correctional location.
Eight James pop up. I don’t know his surname… My gut aches and I’m going to be sick.
I close the laptop.
“Get rid of his number,” Hannah says softly. “Whatever this was... it wasn’t real.”
But that’s the thing about real connections—they don’t feel any less real just because they’re impossible. They don’t hurt any less just because you should have known better.
I stare at our last exchange. I could demand answers. Could tell him I know the truth. Could...
Instead, I set the phone face-down on the counter and turn back to my cream puffs. They at least make sense.
“You were right,” I tell Hannah, hating the sympathy in her eyes as I turn toward her. I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over his number.
Then I block him. Part of me feels wrong on the inside…
Hannah reaches for me, gives me a huge hug, then pulls back. “You did amazing, and now we need to figure out what we’re going to do about the Anderson-Pierce wedding.”
I blink at the sudden change of subject. “What about it?”
“Mike called. His delivery guy went to a different town first, and his truck broke down and we’re not getting our specialty flour shipment tomorrow. Could be weeks.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “We need that chocolate-cherry cake for the tasting on Thursday, and you know regular flour won’t give us the same texture for our baked goods either.”
“Seriously? Could this day get any better?” I drop my head onto the counter.
“Actually...” Hannah’s voice takes on that carefully casual tone she uses when she’s trying to help. “Pike Mill’s supply store has them in stock. I rang them but they have no staff to send for delivery. And all couriers are booked.”
I lift my head. “Pike Mill? That’s like three hours away.”
“Exactly.” She starts gathering empty mixing bowls. “You could take my car tomorrow morning. Crank up those awful breakup songs you pretend not to love. Maybe stop at that little coffee shop by the lake.” She bumps my shoulder. “Sometimes, a drive is the best way to clear your head. Get some perspective.”
“You just want me out of the kitchen before I stress-bake three dozen chocolate chip cookies.”
“The fact that we’re drowning in comfort cookies is purely coincidental.” Her smile fades to something softer. “Seriously, though. Go for a drive. Scream along to Taylor Swift. Get some air that doesn’t smell like sugar and regret.”
I look down at my phone, no longer with his number. Memories that were beautiful, impossible things that were never meant to last.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Maybe I will.”