Chapter 20
Ella
It’s barely seven a.m., and the bakery smells like flour, vanilla, and panic.
We don’t open for another hour, but I’ve been here since before six, trying to make a dent in a list that feels longer every time I look at it.
The storage room looks like a game of Tetris played by someone having a nervous breakdown.
I’m crouched on the floor with a tape measure, checking the width of the aisle between the shelving units because the notice used the phrase minimum clearance for egress, and now that phrase lives in my head rent-free.
I shift the metal shelf two inches to the left, then another inch, then check again. The aisle is wider now, but it also means half our paper goods are stacked on the prep table, because apparently, cardboard boxes are a fire hazard if they're in the wrong place.
The fire extinguisher is sitting on the counter instead of its bracket because it has to be mounted at a specific height and within a specific distance from the back door, and when I moved the shelving, it no longer met both requirements.
The bracket is on the floor next to a drill I don’t remember buying and definitely don’t trust myself to use.
The exit sign is still lit, but it flickers every few minutes, which it did not do before yesterday. Now, I’m convinced it’s just waiting to fail during the reinspection, like it has a personal vendetta.
In the back, the refrigerator hums while I stare at the thermometer taped inside it like we’re in a standoff.
I started a new temperature log this morning because apparently “sometimes” and “usually” are not acceptable answers.
I’ve already written today’s date three times, just to prove I’m trying.
On the prep shelf, I’m dumping flour and sugar into new containers because dry goods can’t be in their original packaging. Everything has to be labeled, dated, and sealed, which is fine, except it takes forever, and my handwriting gets worse the more nervous I am.
None of this is dramatic.
None of this is fake.
And all of it, together, is enough to close me down.
I keep thinking of the word they used. Non-compliant, like the bakery is a badly behaved child.
Cup & Cake isn’t just my business. It’s my life raft. And now I’m walking around it with a label maker and a measuring tape, like that’s all that stands between me and losing it.
I seal another container, stick on another label, and tell myself to breathe.
And of course, that’s when my brain, traitor that it is, drifts to Nathan.
To Taylor.
To the silence.
I picture her again. Polished. Effortless. The kind of woman who probably doesn’t own sweatpants with flour on them.
But that’s just a picture. A few curated angles and good lighting. Not a life.
My brain keeps trying to turn it into a story anyway.
Someone like her doesn’t end up in a man’s phone by accident. Someone like her is intentional. Chosen.
The thought sits heavy for a moment before I catch myself. This is what I do when I don’t have information—I start inventing it.
I don’t actually know anything about her. Or about what she and Nathan are. I know a name. What she looks like in a few photos. And the fact that she is in his phone.
That’s it.
And somehow my mind is already halfway to a verdict.
I stop what I’m doing and take a slow breath. This is how you spiral. This is how you build something out of nothing and then let it start hurting you like it’s real.
I force myself to let it go—not because it’s easy, but because I can feel how close I am to becoming someone I don’t recognize.
I’m halfway through stacking napkin sleeves when I hear it, three soft knocks at the front door.
I freeze.
No one knocks this early.
Wiping my hands on my apron, I walk toward the storefront. My heart stutters when I see him through the glass.
Nathan.
Of course, it’s Nathan.
My heart seriously needs to get a grip, but it can’t. It’s screaming. He’s here. Nathan’s here. I refuse to believe it’s because I’m starved of a relationship. But is it because I genuinely see something in him I really like?
He looks...haunted. His jaw’s tight. Eyes tired.
I unlock the door. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says softly, eyes scanning my face. “Sorry… I know you don’t open till eight, but I really need a coffee.”
It’s all he says.
No explanation. No apology. Just need. And somehow, I understand that better than anything else right now.
“Come in,” I whisper. “I can do that. Just let me finish putting these last few boxes away.”
He nods and follows me toward the storage room.
As he steps inside behind me, his foot accidentally kicks the doorstop wedged underneath. The rubber wedge skitters across the floor, and the door swings shut behind us with a click.
I spin. “No, wait!”
Too late.
The latch clicks.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
Nathan frowns. “What was that?”
“The door,” I say, already jiggling the handle. “I’ve been fixing things all morning … and I installed the handle wrong…well, backwards….”
He stares at the handle. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. We’re stuck.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Hmmm… there has to be a way to open this. Do you have any tools in here?” he asks.
“I have an Allen key in here somewhere,” I offer in my most calm voice.
He stops fussing and watches as I turn toward the shelves. I scan through storage bins, random tools, and backup coffee filters.
There it is. Small, silver, stupid.
“I found it,” I say, then I turn back to him.
He’s staring at me like I’m a puzzle he’s desperate to solve. Like I’m both the question and the answer. Like he’s trying to memorize me.
I stop breathing, staring back. I keep my expression as neutral as I can, though.
He steps forward. The sound of the step echoes in the small room. He takes the Allen key from my hand. And without looking away, sets it back on the shelf.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The room goes from large to small in an instant as a tension so thick you could drown in it fills the air.
I don’t know who moves first, only that suddenly we’re crashing into each other, mouths desperate, bodies impossibly close.
His hands slide up my sides, up my arms, curling into my ponytail and tugging gently until my head tilts back. He kisses my neck, bites my chin, then my lower lip like he’s trying to brand himself into me.
I jump up, legs wrapping around him instinctively, and he pins me back against the door with a deep growl in his throat.
I gasp.
He sets me down just as quickly, and I push him backward toward the shelves, fingers already working his belt free, sliding it slowly from the loops.
His breathing’s ragged.
Mine’s nonexistent.
And then, knock knock knock.
“Ella?” Ashton’s voice. Sharp. Suspicious. “Why are you locked in the storage room?”
My eyes go wide.
Nathan steps back, already refastening his belt. “Are you closing tonight?”
“What?”
He buttons his shirt. “Are you closing the bakery tonight?”
“Yes,” I say, flustered, wiping my mouth, adjusting my apron. “I can be.”
He smirks. “Good. I’ll see you at seven.”
He leans in. Presses a soft kiss to my forehead. Then he grabs the Allen key from the shelf, unlocks the door, and walks out.
Ashton stands there, jaw fully unhinged, looking like she just witnessed the last five minutes of Titanic.
Nathan nods politely as he passes her. “Hi, Ashton.”
Ashton doesn’t move. She just slowly turns to look at me, hair tousled, shirt wrinkled, breathless, and borderline feral in the storage room doorway.
She mouths, “What. The. Fuck.”
I don’t even have the energy to respond.
Because…same.