11. Chapter 11
eleven
Sadie
It had been a week of running the shop by day and fixing the apartment upstairs by night. I was exhausted—but the good kind. The kind that came from hard work and paint under your fingernails.
Finally, the apartment was habitable. I’d gotten a mattress up the stairs, even if I nearly died dragging it solo. Still, it beat the dingy weekly-rate hotel with the rattling AC unit and the world’s most depressing continental breakfast.
Now I was dreaming in color.
Literally.
Turquoise walls for the living room. Something bold and bright and alive.
Pink was already a given for the bedroom. Soft, romantic, happy.
And the kitchen? Oh, the kitchen was going red—classic, cozy, cherry-pie red.
I started scribbling it all down in a notebook with frosting smudges on the corners, adding little doodles and stickers like I was sixteen again.
Saturday had been busy—good busy. Amy had stopped by early and cleaned me out of a dozen pastries for the guys, and even though she tried to pay, and I stopped her, I caught her slipping cash into the tip jar and gave her hell about it later.
She just came back for six coffees and the smuggest grin.
She was a menace, and I adored her.
After that, the day never really stopped. A steady stream of curious locals and a couple of tourists found their way in. The sprinkle wall was officially Insta-famous in Copper Ridge, with teenage girls and selfie-obsessed guys posting boomerangs under the neon “Bake it ‘til you make it” sign.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a girl passing through. I felt like a woman building something real.
Sure, there was still that little ache in my chest when I looked across the street and saw the garage doors open, wondering if he was in there—wondering if he ever thought about the cookies. Or the glitter. Or me.
But tonight?
Tonight I wouldn’t be painting my apartment walls. I would be painting the town red.
So when I was getting ready, I pulled the curlers from my hair and fluffed the soft pink strands until they bounced just right. A swipe of classic red lipstick, my favorite cat-eye liner, and a spritz of vanilla perfume completed the look.
Then came the outfit.
I dug deep into my closet and pulled out the dress.
The one that made me feel like a bombshell at a sock hop.
Deep cherry red, sweetheart neckline, and a full skirt with layers of crinoline that swished when I walked.
I paired it with my white heels, a heart-shaped purse, and confidence I didn’t quite feel, but I would fake until it showed up.
Standing in front of the mirror, I tilted my head and gave myself a wink. “You’re young. You’re hot. You own a bakery. He’s probably not even your type.”
Which was a lie. Diesel Callahan was exactly my type.
Big. Brooding. Built like a linebacker with calloused hands and those eyes that saw way too much.
I huffed and turned away from the mirror.
Tonight wasn’t about Diesel. Tonight was about me.
I grabbed my purse and headed out, locking the bakery behind me as the sun dipped below the mountains. Copper Ridge at dusk was painted in golds and blues, warm and hazy and alive.
I didn’t know where I was going yet—maybe the bar with the karaoke that Amy said had “a good whiskey selection and even better people-watching.” Maybe somewhere new. Or maybe just a little drive with the windows down and the radio up.
But one thing was for sure.
Tonight, I wasn’t going to wonder if Diesel Callahan was watching me.
Even if he was.
Diesel
This week has been rough. Every day, Amy brought in a dozen daily specials from across the street.
A daily reminder about the perfect little cupcake within walking distance.
And to top that, she had moved in. Her car was always there. And one night, leaving the garage, I caught her silhouette in the window. I had to adjust my jeans, thinking about her, fresh out of the shower after a long day at work.
“Yo, D, we are going to that bar with the Karaoke thing. You coming?” Skunk asked, and I looked to see him, Wrecker, and Ghost all standing there like they were waiting on me.
I just grunted then washed my hands. A drink with these idiots sounded kind of nice.
We pulled up to The Rusty Note just as the sun dipped low, casting that hazy golden glow over everything. The place was packed—Saturday night always drew a crowd—and the smell of cheap beer and fried food hit me the second we walked in.
Skunk was already eyeing the pool tables, Ghost made a beeline for the jukebox, and Wrecker headed for the bar, because of course he did.
I followed, slower, my boots dragging just a little more than usual.
She hadn’t been at the bakery when I left tonight. Not that I looked. (I did.) Her car had still been parked out front, but the neon sign had been dark. Maybe she finally took a night off.
Good. She needed one.
I rubbed at my jaw, the memory of her silhouette in the upstairs window still playing in my head like a damn movie I couldn’t pause. Hair piled on top of her head, steam fogging the glass, one leg propped up on what I think was a dresser—fuck.
I slid onto a stool beside Wrecker and signaled for a beer.
“You okay, man?” he asked, nudging me with his elbow.
“Peachy,” I said flatly.
He smirked. “You keep saying that like we’re supposed to believe it.”
Before I could flip him off, a voice rang out from the tiny stage in the corner.
“Oh hell yes,” Wrecker grinned. “It’s karaoke roulette night.”
“What the hell is that?”
“They spin the wheel, and whatever song it lands on, you have to sing. No choices, no backsies.”
“Sounds like torture.”
“Sounds like a damn good time.” He wiggled his brows. “You should try it. Might shake that Sadie spell you’re under.”
“I’m not under a spell.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
And just as I opened my mouth to tell him where he could shove his microphone, the lights shifted—and the next name was called.
“Sadie Winslow!”
My spine locked tight.
I turned.
And there she was.
Pink curls. Red lips. A dress that looked painted on and legs for fucking days. She stepped onto the stage, glanced at the screen behind the emcee, and laughed like nothing in the world could touch her.
And then she started to sing.