Chapter Twenty Seven
Paige
The bell over the door rings again, and the sound is starting to blur in my head into one continuous chime.
Sweet Confessions is a thrum of voices and clinking tongs and the hiss of milk steaming; the floor drums under my feet like it’s alive. We opened an hour ago. It feels like six.
“Four-pack of lemon kisses, two cinnamon rolls, one blackberry galette,” I call over my shoulder, already reaching for boxes. “And a vanilla cream cold brew—light ice!”
“Got it!” Mom answers brightly, her hands already halfway into the case with a sheet of parchment. She’s wearing one of my aprons over a soft sweater and her hair’s scooped up, and somehow she looks like she’s floating while the rest of us sprint.
I slide a clean box onto the scale to check size by muscle memory, grab a ribbon, then pivot to pour cold brew over the clink of ice.
Syrup pumps, vanilla and brown sugar. The steamer kicks on behind me for someone else’s latte. My stomach blips in that now-familiar way—annoying little wave—but it passes. Ginger chew tucked in my cheek, compression socks doing their work.
I’m fine. I am, actually.
“Paige, where do you want the new stack of small boxes?” Jason’s voice shoots from somewhere above a bus tub. He’s already sweating through a T-shirt, grinning like a kid playing restaurant.
“Under the counter next to the parchment,” I say, snapping a lid on the cold brew. “No—other side. Left. Other left.”
He laughs, swings the bin around, and nearly collides with Dad, who is mid–handshake with a retired teacher I recognize from third grade. Dad’s voice is in tour-guide mode, talking with all of the customers.
“Donovan,” the retired teacher says, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “You must be proud.”
“I am,” Dad says, and the pride is so naked it makes my chest hitch. “Now try the lemon cookies. It’s an order.”
“Paige?” Mom’s voice, gentle, pointed. She’s holding up a box of lemon kisses. “Twine?”
“Right.” I slide around her, flicking the ribbon flat, looping, tugging.
I thumb the label onto the top—SWEET CONFESSIONS in small gold letters—and slide the whole thing toward the woman waiting at the end of the counter, her hands already outstretched.
“Those are the ones that made me cry at the tasting,” she confesses, laughing at herself.
“Best review I’ve ever gotten,” I say, and she laughs again, bright, and shoulders her way toward the door with the box like it’s a small treasure.
The line snakes to the entrance and curls.
I clock faces in flashes: a couple I don’t know, hand in hand. Mrs. Patel from the market with her tote bag, standing on tiptoe to better see the pecan sticky buns.
A cluster of teenagers doing the rapid-fire whisper math of how many cookies their pooled cash can buy. Two tourists in ball caps studying the menu. The air is warm with sugar and butter and cinnamon and the zip of coffee.
I shoot a look to the back. The oven blinks ready, and I excuse myself to walk back. The second sheet of cinnamon rolls is at that perfect, slightly jiggly proof. I slide them in, set the timer, and grab a pan of strawberry hand pies to rotate down to the front case.
Jason materializes beside me with an empty bin. “Trash?”
“Trash,” I say, and we do a quick dance around one another. He bumps my shoulder with his forearm as he goes.
“You’re a menace,” I say without heat.
“You love me,” he shoots back, then calls over his shoulder, “Mom, you want me to restock napkins or the dishes?”
“Do both,” Mom says.
I walk back to the front to see the line hasn’t gone down at all.
“Two hot chocolates and a small decaf latte,” Dad relays. “Extra marshmallows for the twins.”
“On it,” I say, already pulling cups. “Dad, can you check the water jug on the pastry table? If it’s low, swap it.”
“Consider it done,” he says, and does a quick double-point at the young twins like they’re sharing a secret. “Marshmallow mountain coming your way,” he tells them.
The milk steamer hisses in my ear. I swirl the decaf shot, inhale, and my body recoils for one wild second before the ginger does its job. I pour, latte art that isn’t quite there yet. The hot chocolates get a marshmallow avalanche that would make any other kid jealous.
“Next!” I call, and a woman slides up, breathless, cheeks pink.
“Do you have any more of the blackberry galettes?” she asks, eyes bright in that way that says she’s waited in line forever solely for this.
“Yes,” Mom says, cool as a surgeon, already lifting the tray. “We just made a second pan.”
The woman exhales like she’s been holding her breath for six months. “Bless you. Two, please.”
“Two it is,” Mom says. “And something to drink?”
“Whatever you recommend,” she says, wide open to suggestion.
“Lavender lemonade,” I say without thinking, and Mom points at me like she was going to say the same thing.
“Lavender lemonade,” the woman repeats, sounding delighted by the idea alone.
I drop ice into a cup, pour lemon and syrup, top with soda water, stir with a quick flick.
The straw catches a lavender bud and releases a soft hit of scent that makes me want one too.
She takes a sip right at the counter and sighs, then presses the cup to her cheek.
“Oh my God,” she says. “How are you real?”
“Good genetics,” I say, handing her a napkin with a smile and biting back the urge to put a hand to my stomach like I’m sneaking a high five at the six-and-a-half-week-old star in there.
Focus, Paige. “And if you’re up for it today, go to The Wandering Pint for lunch, get a Hoffman Heritage half off. ”
“I just might!” the woman says brightly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a white ribbon flash in someone’s hand as they shoulder the door open, and then they veer toward The Wandering Pint. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about Ben. There’s time for that later.
“Paige.” Mom sets a hand on my wrist, the lightest touch. “Water.”
“I’m fine,” I start to say, then realize how dry my mouth is. She presses a cold bottle into my palm anyway; the same way she used to slide a glass across the table when I was sick and couldn’t keep anything down. I take a gulp. The cold is a shock that feels like a reset.
An elderly man in a knit cap steps up, accompanied by a white-haired woman whose glasses are attached to a chain around her neck. “Are you the owner?” he asks, and his voice has that old Paducah lilt I love.
“I am,” I say, and my chest does that embarrassing swell I can’t control. “I’m Paige. Welcome to Sweet Confessions.”
“We used to go to Marlene’s,” the woman says, eyes going shiny like the glaze on my lemon cookies. “Every Wednesday. I was afraid nothing would smell like that again.”
“I loved Marlene’s,” I say, and my own voice tilts. “We’re trying to do right by that memory.”
The man nods solemnly. “Well.” He gestures to the case. “We’ll need to assess.”
They order a small army’s worth of items, and Mom walks them through a pastry tour like it’s a museum. I finish a cappuccino and pass the cups to a guy in a ball cap who says “ma’am” in a way that tells me it’s instinct.
“Two cinnamon rolls, please,” he says, then hesitates. “And… what’s your favorite?”
“The strawberry hand pies are having a really good day,” I say.
“A good day,” he repeats, amused. “All right then.” He adds one to his order.
Behind him, a teenager in a sweatshirt whispers to her friend, “She’s so cool,” and I nearly fumble a coffee scoop.
Cool. Me. Right.
I grin anyway. I might tape that to my mirror later for when I inevitably cry over something small and ridiculous later this evening.
“Paige!” Jason calls, weaving past with a bus tub full of plates. “Guy at table three asked if you do wedding cakes and also if you do weddings, which I think means he wants to marry you or maybe your cinnamon rolls; I told him you’re already in a relationship with yeast.”
“Stop talking to people,” I say, and the nearest table laughs.
The line snakes to the door again just as I pop the lid on a lavender lemonade.
I slide it across with a smile that’s starting to numb my face, then pivot to the espresso, wipe the portafilter, tamp, lock, pull.
The grinder hums; milk hisses; the bell rings.
It’s a symphony, and I’m the frantic conductor trying not to drop my baton.
“Next!” I call, reaching for a fresh pastry box without looking.
“Owner’s discount?” a familiar voice says.
I look up, and my fingers falter on the box for a second. Ben stands on the customer side of the counter in a clean dark tee and a broken-in flannel. He looks as if he hasn’t slept and somehow still manages to be incredibly handsome. It’s frankly annoying.
He taps the little placard by my register—the one that says: Bring your Sweet Confessions box next door for 50% off a Hoffman Heritage + free refill, today only—and lifts his brows. “It’s working. Your blue boxes are multiplying on my bar like sea anemones.”
I swallow a laugh. “That’s… a visual.”
“Had four groups come in waving boxes within thirty minutes,” he says, keeping his voice pitched under the room. “We’ve been pouring Heritage steadily. Charlotte says thanks; the tip jar’s filled up twice already.”
“That’s great,” I say, trying to sound like a normal person and not someone who wants to lean over the counter and breathe him in like a complete weirdo. I flick a ribbon flat with my thumb and loop it, loop it, pull. “What can I get you?”
“Whatever’s easiest,” he says, eyes taking in the line, the case, my mother in full flight with a pair of tongs. “Cold brew? Black coffee? I’m not picky.”
“Cold brew,” I decide, because it’s fastest. Ice, pour, quick stir. My stomach does a small flip at the scent of coffee; the ginger chew tucked in my cheek settles it down. I set the cup on the pass. “House-made vanilla?”
“Plain’s good,” he says. His mouth quirks. “I’ll save the vanilla for dessert.” He tips his head toward my mom, who is smiling at a customer. “Think she’ll let me near the case?”
“Better not risk it,” I say.
He leans in and lowers his voice. “How are you?” he asks, so quietly it hides under the hiss of steam. “Have you sat down? Do you need five? Ten?”
For one hot second, panic pops like oil in my chest. My eyes jump to the right, searching for my brother without meaning to. Jason’s at the water station, too busy telling a joke to the twins who came in earlier to pay attention to me. I swallow and keep moving, because my hands need to stay busy.
“I’m fine,” I say, and it comes out steadier than I thought it would. “Mom’s been on me about getting off my feet a few times.”
“Good,” he says. His gaze holds mine for a beat, as if silently assessing for himself whether I’m okay. I break contact and slide a cappuccino across to a woman in scrubs who looks like she desperately needs the caffeine jolt.
Downside to being pregnant, I suppose, that I can’t have a jolt of caffeine myself.
“Let me know if you need anything,” he says, voice still low.
“I will,” I say. The shot finishes, I swirl, pour. He watches my hands while I work. It does something weird to my nerves.
We’re holding a too-long look when a clap lands between his shoulder blades hard enough that I feel it through the counter.
“Benny!” Jason crows, appearing with a bus tub like a magician’s prop. “Look who decided to crawl out of his cave. Haven’t seen you in a while, man. Tonight—hang? We’ll do a nightcap after the Pint closes. I’ve got stories.”
The laugh Ben gives is quick, bright, and absolutely not real. “If we keep pouring at the rate we are, I’ll be horizontal the moment we close,” he says easily. “Rain check? Another time.”
“Yeah, yeah. Another time,” Jason says, already half-turned to call, “Table six! You need boxes for those?” at a group with only crumbs on their plates. He slaps Ben’s shoulder again, grins at me, and melts back into the crowded room.
Ben’s eyes flick back to mine. That was close. Or was it? I’m not sure anymore what’s totally normal behavior and what’s suspicious.
“Go steal dessert from my mother,” I tell him, because my heart is beating too hard. “On the house.”
He lifts his cup at me in a small salute, then angles down the counter toward Mom.