Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Galeana
By Thursday morning, the once-empty mansion has turned into Grand Central Station. Delivery trucks are lined up along the driveway like we’re hosting a royal gala, and the inside of the house is an explosion of chaos—florists, decorators, and people in crisp polos who keep asking me where to put things.
I haven’t even had coffee yet, and I’m one misplaced rose centerpiece away from snapping like a brittle breadstick. This is worse than my other wedding—at least then I had some illusion of control. This time? Teddy, who I’m convinced should be CEO of Maple Haven and my life, is running the show remotely, coordinating every move with that unnerving calm of hers. Meanwhile, I’m here, barefoot in a house I barely recognize, flinching every time the doorbell rings.
And then the doorbell rings. Again.
“Please let this be something good,” I mutter, shoving aside a stack of fabric swatches and darting toward the door.
When I swing it open, I’m hit with the sweet, familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon—and there stands Aiden, my best friend, like a glorious, oversized relief package. Her hair’s in a messy ponytail, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and she’s rocking an enormous sweatshirt that proudly reads: I’m the Fucking Maid of Honor, Y’all.
“Aiden,” I squeal, relief flooding me as I throw my arms around her.
“I missed you, you crazy lunatic. Now step aside and help me unload. I brought an entire bakery with me.”
Behind her, a teenage boy trudges up the steps, arms straining under two duffle bags so big they look like body bags. His shaggy dark hair flops into his eyes, his expression one of utter teenage misery.
“This is Tommy,” Aiden says, jerking her thumb toward him. “My apprentice-slash-problem child. Say hi, Tommy.”
Tommy grunts what might be a hi as he stomps past me into the house, the bags thudding against the floor like dead weight.
“You brought him?” I arch an eyebrow, wrestling a rolling suitcase through the door.
“It was the only way I could get time off,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. “My boss figured if I’m going to ‘abandon my duties,’ I might as well make it educational for the next generation of bakers.” She says this last part in a tone so mocking I have to bite back a laugh. “So congratulations—I now have a teenage sidekick who doesn’t know the difference between confectioners’ sugar and table salt.”
Tommy shoots her a glare from where he’s slumped against the wall, earbuds already shoved in.
“Great,” I say with a grin. “Welcome to Birchwood Springs, Tommy. I hope you survive the weekend.”
“Same,” he mutters, barely looking up.
Aiden shakes her head with exasperation. “Ignore him. He’s like a stray puppy—grumpy now, but he’ll warm up eventually. And if he doesn’t, I’ll threaten to throw him in the mixer.”
Tommy pulls out one earbud long enough to glare at her. “You’re not funny.”
“She’s hilarious,” I say, looping my arm through Aiden’s and steering her toward the kitchen.
I watch the exchange with a mixture of amusement and affection. This is Aiden in her element—barking orders, teasing people mercilessly, and making the whole world feel just a little bit brighter.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, looping an arm around her shoulders as we head toward the kitchen. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Damn right I am,” she replies, bumping her hip against mine. “Now let me see this dream kitchen in person so I can start making magic happen.”
Aiden’s reaction to the kitchen is exactly what I expected. She steps inside, her mouth falling open as she spins in a slow circle, taking it all in—the sprawling marble island, the double ovens, the gleaming countertops, and the walk-in pantry that’s bigger than most apartments.
“Gale,” she breathes, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s swooning. “If you don’t treat this as a sanctuary, I will murder you and claim it for myself.”
I snort, tension easing. “Duly noted.”
“I’m not kidding. This kitchen is a masterpiece,” she continues, already unzipping one of her bags to reveal what looks like half a bakery’s worth of supplies—flour, sugar, piping bags, food coloring, and a rainbow of edible glitter. “It’s like it was designed just for me. I’m going to bake everything.”
“Good,” I say, leaning against the counter and watching her unpack with practiced efficiency. “Because this wedding cake has to be perfect. If I’m doing this whole ridiculous fake-marriage thing, the cake’s going to be the highlight.”
“Don’t worry,” Aiden says, snapping on a pair of gloves like she’s preparing for surgery. “I’ll make something so beautiful, people will cry when they see it.”
“Good tears, right?” I ask warily.
She shrugs, all mischief. “Depends on how I’m feeling.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m serious. People have to love me, Aiden.”
Her smirk softens into something genuine. “They’ll adore you. And not just because they’ll have the best cake of their lives, but because you’re amazing.”
By late afternoon, the kitchen smells like heaven—vanilla, butter, and sugar swirling into a cloud of sweetness that should be bottled as perfume. Aiden is in full cake-boss mode, sleeves rolled up and brow furrowed with a kind of laser-sharp focus that would intimidate most mortals.
Tommy, meanwhile, has been demoted—sorry, promoted—to “egg-cracker” duty, a job Aiden insisted he couldn’t screw up. He’s at the far end of the island, cracking eggs like it’s the most soul-crushing task on earth, each crack punctuated by a theatrical sigh.
As for me? I’m perched on a barstool, sipping tea and trying not to feel completely useless. Every time I so much as glance toward the flour, Aiden shoots me a look that says sit down and stay out of my way.
“So,” Aiden says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp as she smooths a layer of fondant over one of the cake tiers. “Tell me about this Ledger guy.”
“Can we not?”
“Oh, we absolutely can,” she replies, smirking as she rolls the fondant cutter along the edges. “You’re marrying him in, what, two days? I need details.”
“It’s a business arrangement,” I say for what feels like the millionth time. “He’s irritating and smug and?—”
“Hot,” Aiden interrupts. “I googled him. He’s a former hockey player. A very hot hockey player.”
“He’s a what?” I blink.
“You didn’t know?”
I barely know my future husband. Maybe we should sit down and talk about that, get to know each other before the big day. At least there won’t be a test after the ceremony to prove that we love each other or we would fail miserably.
Phone already in hand, I pull up a quick search. Ledger Timberbridge. There he is—six-foot-two of smug perfection, broad shoulders filling out a Seattle Summits jersey, helmet casually tucked under one arm, and that infuriating smirk plastered across his annoyingly perfect face.
Something unsettles in me, like a hiccup in my pulse.
“That’s him,” I mumble, scrolling through the article.
Ledger Timberbridge, former star power forward of the Seattle Summits. His career is over due to a devastating shoulder injury.
I stare at the screen longer than I mean to, at that photo of him mid-game—fluid motion, unrelenting confidence, like nothing could ever knock him down. It’s strange how someone can look so alive in one moment and feel like a shadow of themselves in the next.
I flip the phone face down, a flicker of guilt worming its way in. I remember the way his voice changed when he mentioned losing his career—so brief, I almost missed it—and the hint of something deeper when he spoke about his mother. The kind of loss you don’t just get over, no matter how many years pass.
And maybe that’s what gets to me.
Ledger carries himself like the world hasn’t touched him, but people like that—they’re usually the ones it’s bruised the most. It’s in the slight edge to his words, the way his gaze holds you at arm’s length, as if getting too close might expose something he doesn’t want seen.
Why do I even care? He’s smug, infuriating, and probably impossible to please. But it’s hard not to see the cracks once you’ve noticed them.
And now I’m thinking about him—about that jersey and the life that used to fit him so perfectly—and I can’t shake the thought that he’s spent years trying to grow into something else.
Stop it, I tell myself, pushing the image away. Ledger Timberbridge isn’t someone I need to know or . . . well, he’s definitely not mine to fix. And not someone I should be losing my focus over.
But even as I sip my tea, the taste a little off, I can’t help it. For just a moment, I wonder what Ledger might look like if he let the world in again—if he stopped wearing that careful mask and let himself just be.