Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Paige
The pub is noticeably louder now. A couple of servers weave between tables with full trays, and the clink of pint glasses carries over the music. I glance toward the bar, where a handful of people are already lined up, waiting on drinks.
“Don’t they need you here?” I ask, tilting my head toward the growing crowd.
Ben follows my gaze, then shrugs like it’s no big deal. “They’ll be fine for a while without me.” He lifts a hand toward the bar, catching the eye of a tall guy wiping down the counter. The man gives a quick nod, like they’ve done this routine a hundred times before.
Ben turns back to me, gesturing toward the door. “Shall we?”
I stand, sliding my bag onto my shoulder, and follow him toward the entrance, feeling an odd flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with the fact that I now officially have my own bakery space.
Ben holds the door for me, and the rush of cooler evening air washes over my face, cutting through the warmth and noise of the pub.
Outside, the light is softer now, the sun sliding lower toward the horizon, tinting the street in gold and rose. The pub’s chatter fades behind us, replaced by the sound of passing cars and the voices of tourists still on the street.
I sneak a glance at him as we step onto the sidewalk.
Up close, outside of the busy Wandering Pint, he somehow seems…
taller. Broader. The rolled sleeves of his shirt hug his forearms, the faint pull of fabric across his shoulders hinting at muscle.
A lot of muscle. His jeans are worn but not sloppy, the dark denim fitting just right, and there’s an ease and confidence in the way he walks—as if he belongs to this street, this building, this town.
I’m not sure if it’s his presence or the memory of recognizing him that has my stomach doing this weird flip. It’s not like I didn’t know I’d be seeing him at some point, but knowing and experiencing are two different things entirely.
I’ve spent years pushing Ben Hoffman into the mental category of “people I used to know.” Now he’s walking next to me, close enough that our arms could brush if either of us leaned an inch toward the other.
We pass the bakery’s big window, and I can’t help but glance inside again. It looks different now. Not because anything has changed, but because this time it’s mine. Mine to do with what I please.
The excitement and nerves in my gut war with each other and make me feel a little sick.
Ben’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “So,” he says casually, “this is where you’ll be spending most of your waking hours soon.”
I smile faintly. “Guess so. Feels different looking at it now.”
He gives a short nod and gestures to the door.
I’m confused for a moment before I remember I have the key.
“Oh, right,” I say, digging through my bag, hoping he can’t see the redness spreading across my cheeks in the dying light of the sun.
I hold it out for him, but he just nods at me to open it.
The key is cool in my palm as I fit it into the lock. It turns with a faint click, the sound oddly loud despite the lively street behind me. I push the door open, and the scent of dust and disuse drifts out to meet us. The air inside the empty space is cool.
Ben steps in behind me, his footsteps loud on the dusty hardwood. The soft scrape of the door swinging shut echoes off the walls. “Lights are just behind the counter there,” he says, his voice low but carrying easily in the emptiness.
He walks behind the counter and flicks the lights on. The overheads hum to life, flooding the space with a flat, yellow glow that somehow makes every scuff, scratch, and worn patch on the floor stand out more. It’s not pretty yet—but it’s mine.
Though I was already here with Kelly a week ago, it all feels different now that I actually have the key in my hand.
Ben’s already walking the length of the room, his hands in his pockets, like he’s checking it over for himself. In the glow, the definition in his shoulders and back is even more noticeable, and my eyes linger a beat too long before I force them away.
“This’ll clean up nicely,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at me. There’s something in his gaze, like he’s assessing me, but it’s not unfriendly. Just… stiff.
Well, Kelly did warn me about it.
“You’ve got good bones to work with here,” he continues.
I step in farther, my shoes tapping softly on the floorboards, and look around in anticipation and anxiety. “Good bones,” I repeat, trying to sound casual. “Guess that’s better than bad bones.”
Immediately, I regret it. What a stupid thing to say. What the hell does that even mean? Bad bones?
But the corner of his mouth just quirks, like he’s suppressing a smile, before he nods toward the counter along the far wall. “Plumbing’s intact there. Electrical, we’ll know more after tomorrow. But space-wise, you’ve got options.”
I nod slowly and walk back to the small hallway that leads to the kitchen. I find some more switches along the wall and flick them on, imagining ovens along the back, the scent of bread curling through the air, display cases lined with pastries in the front. It’s easy to get lost in the vision.
The ovens in the back are small, older models, their once-white enamel now dulled to an off-gray with faint scorch marks along the edges.
The glass in the doors is clouded from years of use, and the knobs feel loose when I test one with my fingertips.
They’ll work, for sure, but they’re a far cry from what I’m picturing.
In my head, I see gleaming, stainless steel ovens—big, commercial-grade beasts with digital displays and perfect, even heat. I can almost hear them coming to life, the faint tick of timers counting down batches of cupcakes or trays of croissants.
The fridge in the corner isn’t much better. It’s bulky, the kind that stutters unevenly and smells faintly metallic when you open the door. I can already imagine it replaced with something sleek and efficient, maybe a double-door with adjustable shelving.
I run my fingers over the handle and yank the fridge open. “I wonder if I can put a small walk-in somewhere,” I muse aloud.
I glance over my shoulder toward Ben, leaning casually against the arched opening like he has all the time in the world.
His eyes narrow, already assessing the space, the wiring, the logistics. Even without him answering yet, I get the feeling that if anyone could make it happen—or tell me flat-out why it can’t—it’s him.
Finally, he shrugs. “Maybe, but that’ll take a lot more work than anticipated.”
He walks over to a door off to the side and opens it to reveal a pantry.
“This is probably the only spot for it, and it’ll need to be gutted completely,” he says, stepping into the small pantry space and flicking on the single overhead bulb.
The yellow light spills over plain wooden shelves lined with dust and a few abandoned jars of what used to be something edible.
“Walls would have to be insulated, floor sealed, ventilation added—basically a full conversion. And you’d need a dedicated unit to keep the temperature steady. ”
I step in beside him, the space barely big enough for both of us. My shoulder brushes his arm, and I pretend not to notice, focusing instead on imagining these shelves replaced with gleaming metal racks, cool air swirling around them, trays of dough proofing perfectly.
“That sounds… expensive,” I say, though the word feels too small for what I know it would cost.
“It is.”
Of course he would know. I’m sure the kitchen at The Wandering Pint is fully decked out as well. It would have to be to keep up with business.
“But if you’re serious about production capacity, it might be worth it,” he says absently, reaching over my head to wiggle one of the shelves.
I suck in a breath at how close he is in the small space. A part of me, the business-minded part, is already calculating numbers. But the other part of me, the flustered one, wants to ask more just to keep him talking in that deep voice of his.
Instead, I nod once, tucking the idea away for later. “Maybe that’s a project for down the line,” I say quietly.
He nods once, the movement slow and deliberate. “That would be smart,” he says, his voice low. “See how the business does before you make a commitment that big. No point in sinking a ton of money into infrastructure until you know the space—and the market—are working for you.”
I glance at him, and there’s nothing dismissive in his tone. Just straightforward advice, the kind you give when you’ve already learned the lesson the hard way. His gaze sweeps the small pantry again, as if he’s already imagining how it could be transformed if the time came.
“Besides,” he adds, stepping back so we’re no longer shoulder to shoulder, “you’ll learn pretty quickly what’s worth investing in and what’s just nice to have.”
I follow him out into the main kitchen, disappointed as he wanders off and the empty space wraps around me.
Ben moves toward the center of the kitchen, his boots muted on the worn linoleum. I trail after him, my gaze dragging along the walls, the counters, the ceiling—cataloging everything that will have to change before this place feels like mine.
It’s not unpleasant, but it’s far from inviting.
He rests one hand on the edge of the counter, fingers splayed over the laminate surface, and gestures vaguely toward the back wall.
“You’ve got room for the ovens you’re talking about, maybe a prep station here.
If you want to add another sink, plumbing’s close enough to tap into without too much trouble. ”
I picture it instantly: shiny new prep tables, mixers lined up, everything in its place and humming with energy. My chest tightens, excitement tangling with nerves. This dream is about to become real.
“And out front,” he says, tipping his head toward the doorway that leads to the main space, “you’ve got enough room for a decent seating area if you want to offer dine-in. Could even fit a couple of bistro tables in the window, get that whole coffee shop vibe.”
“Oh!” I say suddenly, remembering my idea for outdoor seating. “How about outdoor seating?”
Ben’s brows lift in mild curiosity, and he pauses mid-step. “Outdoor seating?”
We move into the front room together, the late evening light spilling through the big windows and painting the scuffed wooden floors in streaks of gold. I can already see customers here, talking and laughing over coffee, sunlight warming their backs. The image is so clear it’s almost jarring.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to get him to see the picture. “Not a ton, just a couple of small tables on the sidewalk out front. Enough for people to sit with coffee or pastries when the weather’s nice. It would draw people in, give it that… inviting, open feel.”
He leans one hip against the counter, arms folding across his chest. The movement pulls the fabric of his shirt snug over his biceps, and for a split second, I lose my train of thought.
“You’d have to check the city ordinances for that,” he says.
“Sidewalk permits, clearance for foot traffic, maybe even design guidelines depending on the district rules.”
“I figured,” I reply, waving a hand. “But if I can get approval, would you be all right with that? Being… my neighbor and all. I don’t want to do anything that would step on any toes, but it seems like the kind of thing that would draw attention here.”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s weighing the idea in real time, then gives a slow nod.
“It would work here. This block gets good foot traffic. On nice days, you’d catch people coming from the park, especially if they catch the smell of bread baking.
I don’t have an issue with it, regarding the pub. ”
The image he paints makes my chest flutter, and for a moment, I’m almost giddy. This—this is the part I’ve been daydreaming about for months. The smell of baking bread wafting out the door, strangers becoming regulars, the shop alive with chatter and clinking cups.
Ben pushes off the counter and tips his chin toward the window, where the orange glow of sunset is spilling across the street. “You get those tables, people will sit there all afternoon. And if you do it right, you’ll have a line before you even open some mornings.”
I bite back a smile, my pulse picking up. “Guess I’ll have to make it happen, then.”
His eyes meet mine, unreadable. Is that approval in them? Or wishful thinking?
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess you will.”
I draw in a breath, shifting my weight as my fingers trace the edge of the counter. “Can you do me a favor and not say anything to Jason about this?”
His brows lift a fraction, and the pause before he answers is noticeable.
“No one in my family knows,” I explain, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I wanted to wait until it was official before saying anything. I just… need a little space to get things in place first.”
Ben studies me for a beat before nodding.
“All right,” he says finally. “Your news to share. I won’t say a word.”
Relief slips through me like a slow exhale. “Thanks,” I murmur.
He gives a short nod through the window to the growing line outside his pub. “I’ve got to head back now,” he says, pushing away from the counter. The subtle shift in his tone signals the end of our little walk-through, and for a second, I’m surprised at how reluctant I am to see him go.
He takes a step toward the door, then pauses and glances back at me. “You decided on the name yet?”
I can’t help it—my grin is instant, the kind that lights up my whole face. “Sweet Confessions,” I say, letting the words roll off my tongue like they’ve been waiting for their cue.
Amusement flickers in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth curves just slightly. “Fits,” he says. “Guess I’ll be seeing that in the window soon.”
I nod, still smiling as he heads for the door, the sound of the busy street spilling in briefly when he pushes it open. And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the quiet space, my new keys in my bag and my head spinning with the possibilities.