Chapter 16 Avah
AVAH
Three days after the encounter in Jeremy’s kitchen, I’m leaning against the prep counter in the kitchen behind The Sugar Shack’s cozy storefront. My lower back is screaming while my arms feel like I’m spending my mornings in hand-to-hand combat with pastry dough. Not too far off from the truth.
Closing my eyes for just a second, I savor the ache in muscles I forgot existed.
The space still holds the warmth from six hours of ovens running, the air scented with cinnamon and the toasted sweetness of caramelized sugar.
My hair has escaped its stubby ponytail in at least four places, and I dab at a streak of cream cheese frosting on my wrist that I missed during my last wipe-down.
Stress baking in Sloane’s kitchen was therapeutic.
Baking for a daily morning rush—a job I’m totally unqualified for—borders on masochistic.
The summer sun rose hours ago, but I’ve been submerged in the deep underground tunnel of flour and butter like a bakery mole rat.
But here’s the weird part: I feel lighter than I have in years.
Maybe lighter isn’t the right word. I’m sore in places I didn’t know could hurt.
But there’s an absence of the heaviness I carried for so long with Jon, the continual low-grade dread of waiting for his mood to shift or his eyes to narrow at something I said wrong.
That weight had become so familiar I’d stopped noticing it, the same way you stop noticing a too-tight bra strap until you finally take it off.
In my old life, Fridays meant morning strategy meetings and acting charming at client lunches where I pretended to enjoy salads with a spritz of lemon as dressing.
Networking events where I had to be Jon’s perfect accessory in heels with a smile that never quite reached my eyes.
Chipped nails and the simple joy of watching a tray of chocolate chip cookies emerge golden and gooey from the oven are a huge improvement.
Joy. What a novel concept.
The thought of resuscitating my marketing career holds zero appeal. I spent years proving myself in rooms full of executives who assumed I was blonde window dressing until I opened my mouth. And my douche nozzle ex burned it all down in a matter of weeks.
Maybe I won’t be able to do this forever. But coming down from my simple apartment into the quiet of the bakery at 4:30 in the morning and losing myself in the work of feeding what seems like most of the town feels like I’m hiding in plain sight in the best way possible.
After wiping down the stainless-steel prep table one last time, I hang my apron on its hook. Tomorrow and Sunday are my days off, though I’m not sure what I’ll do with two full days that don’t involve dough. Sleep is at the top of the list.
As I push through the swinging door that leads to the front of the shop, my heart does a little skip at the sight of the nearly empty bakery case.
Three lonely muffins huddle in the corner, while the cinnamon roll tray is bare except for scattered crumbs and a smear of icing along one edge. The scones I baked at 5:47 a.m. are gone, even the lemon ones I worried were too tart.
“You did that.” Winnie doesn’t look up from where she’s crouched by the refrigerated cooler, sliding bottles of juice onto the lower shelf.
“My cinnamon rolls bring all the boys to the yard.” I immediately cringe at the silly song lyrics.
Winnie straightens, one eyebrow raised. “And they’re like, it’s better than yours.” She points at herself, her lined face crinkling with amusement.
“You get the reference?” I can’t quite hide the surprise in my tone.
“I’m not that old, girlie. Also, I have daughters.
” She closes the glass door with a soft click.
“You’re good for business, bringing in all the people.
But there’s one boy—man, I should say, since he’s over six feet and looks like he could fling a gal over his broad shoulder—who’s become a new regular at the Shack this week. ”
My heart hammers so hard that I cross my arms over my chest like I can physically hold it in place. Jeremy has come into the bakery each morning since our dinner, arriving just after opening with that purposeful stride that used to annoy me and now makes my pulse do inconvenient things.
“You don’t need to keep inviting him into the back. I’m not exactly at my finest.”
I’m so very different from the polished image I spent years curating, but every time he enters the kitchen, his eyes follow me like I’m already the most interesting part of his day. As if the mess of me is somehow more appealing than the put-together version.
It’s unsettling and flattering. Neither of those feelings is comfortable.
“I’m not sure he’d take no for an answer. Sloane’s brother looks at you like he wants way more than your milkshake.”
A laugh escapes despite my best efforts to stay detached. “I’m helping him close a business deal.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
The door chimes before I can respond, and a young mother holds it open for her preschool-age daughter—who’s clutching a paper bag against her pink shirt like it contains treasure—to exit. “We’ll see you next week,” the woman calls over her shoulder.
Winnie waves. “Those two do a mother-daughter date every Friday. Been coming in since that little one was in a stroller.”
I watch them through the window as they cross the street.
The mother bends down to say something that makes the girl laugh, and my chest constricts, a different kind of ache from my baking soreness.
My own mother is of the almond-mom variety.
She always worried over her weight and mine and whether we’d meet my father’s exacting standards.
One time, I asked for a second cupcake at a birthday party, and she reminded me that swimsuit season was coming.
I was ten.
I shove the memory back down where it belongs. Mom had been trying to protect me in her own way, and that wound scarred over years ago. No point picking at it now.
“Big plans this weekend?” Winnie’s voice pulls me back, and I dial my expression to casual before turning to face her.
“Jeremy and I—”
She snickers, and I make a show of rolling my eyes.
“We’re going to dinner with a potential new business partner.” I emphasize the word even though I’m clearly not fooling either of us. “That’s all it is.”
“Is that all you want it to be?”
I take a breath and think about why I agreed to dinner with Joel and Mariel. Not just agreed, but offered after already telling him no. Is it really residual guilt over ghosting him and the Johnsons thinking he’s an asshole based on me crying into my tiny bag of pretzels on the flight home?
I can tell myself I’m keeping the scales balanced in a way that’s transactional. No messy emotions involved.
But it’s more. I don’t know what an overbearing stick-up-his-ass billionaire has to do with my joy…and yet. He looked like he wanted to devour me whole in his kitchen three days ago as he pressed me against the counter, caging me in without trapping me.
More importantly, he accepted it when I told him no to the dinner invitation.
No other man in my life has shown me that sort of respect.
My father steamrolled anything that got in his way, including me.
Jon would subtly nod and smile, and then slowly chip away until I forgot I’d drawn a line in the first place.
“I just broke up with my fiancé.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “I’m not in a place to start something new.”
But the fact that I want to surfaces in a guarded part of my heart. I want to know what it feels like to be with someone who doesn’t make me feel smaller. Jeremy looks at me like I’m enough exactly as I am—defensive and sharp-tongued and carrying more baggage than a 747.
Winnie’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Speaking of that. Feels like it’s the right time to mention a customer I didn’t let in the back this week.”
My body goes still, and I’m suddenly very aware of how exposed this shop is with its big windows facing Main Street. Anyone could look in and see me. Get to me.
“Jon came into the bakery?”
“Yesterday morning. Jerkface bought a bottle of water and glared at the bakery case.” She shakes her head, disgust evident in the deep lines between her eyes. “Don’t worry. I told him the back was employees only and gave him a look that sent him packing.”
The image of five-foot-nothing Winnie staring down my ex in her “I like big buns” apron almost makes me smile.
Only not quite, because I’m too busy trying to stem the rising tide of acid in my stomach. “It’s fine. I’ve already scraped him off my shoe.”
Lighthearted snark is the opposite of what’s churning inside me. Jon always had to have the last word, so I know walking into a bakery to buy water he didn’t need was some kind of power play.
“How did he find out I’m here?” I mutter, more to myself than Winnie, but she still answers.
“Like I told you before: small town.”
Right. I swallow past the knot lodged in my throat. “I told him to fuck off once and would have no problem doing it again.”
“Good for you.”
I glance at the clock above the register. “I should go. Nap, then get ready for my—”
I catch myself before the word date leaves my mouth.
“—my dinner.”
I hold up my hands for Winnie’s inspection. I used to keep the nails perfect, but trying to be perfect got me absolutely nowhere. Still…
“Do you think I can squeeze in a manicure?”
Winnie spreads her own fingers for inspection, nails trimmed short. Her hands have spent decades kneading dough and hauling sheet pans. It’s a good look.
“Not sure it’s worth it. And I don’t think your business dinner companion is going to care.” She pulled out the air quotes. Must be serious.
“I’m not trying to impress Jeremy.” The lie is so lame it almost apologizes for itself.
Winnie just laughs. “You keep telling yourself that, girlie.”