Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Cade
I finished securing the last bolt on the tankless water heater and flipped on the power.
Seconds later there was a quiet steady hum, exactly how it should be.
I stood back and wiped my hands on the sides of my jeans, satisfaction settling warm and familiar in my chest. I liked work that made sense.
Pipes, wiring, wood—those things behaved the way they were supposed to.
Not like people. People came with expectations.
And Missy… she came with a whole different kind of chaos. Always had. Always would. Oddly, that was why she and I got along so great. Her chaos was predictable, if that made any sense.
I packed up my tools and headed back down the hallway, where the smell hit me—warm, buttery, citrusy. Salmon with lemon and herbs, I’d wager. Real food. Not the frozen crap I usually threw into my oven at home when I remembered to eat.
I found her in the tiny kitchen plating the salmon and roasted vegetables like it was nothing, like this was normal, like people cooked actual dinners for themselves every night. I leaned against the doorframe.
“You cooked enough for two?” I asked.
She didn’t turn around, but I heard the smile in her voice. “Maybe. Depends on how annoying you are.”
I huffed out a laugh. “So… a plate for me?”
She jerked her head for me to sit at the dining table. “Sit. Before I change my mind.”
I dropped into the chair at the small table that was pushed up against the wall, still damp with sweat from the installation.
I knew that the window looked out over the side yard and the street below, but it was dark now.
I watched her move around her kitchen. Even with her hair still wet from that cold shower and her black sweats swallowing her whole, she looked…
peaceful. Settled. Like she belonged here.
I didn’t feel that way anywhere. Not yet.
She set a plate in front of me, and my stomach growled so loudly that she laughed.
“Wow, okay,” she said. “I guess you didn’t eat lunch.”
“I had lunch,” I said defensively. I thought back on the cold turkey sandwich and the bag of stale chips I had washed down with a warm soda.
“What did you have?”
I hesitated. I knew better than tell her the truth. She always judged me for what I put in my body.
She lifted a brow. So I lied.
“Leftover lasagna,” I muttered.
Her nose wrinkled, the look she always gave me when she knew I was lying. How in the hell did she always know? “Cade.”
“A cold sandwich, chips, and a soda,” I finally admitted, taking a bite of the salmon and trying not to drool all over the table.
“That’s terrible. You should have come into the bakery. You could have had soup and a hot sandwich.”
I grinned and took another bite of the salmon. Holy hell, it was good. Like shutting-my-eyes good.
“I can’t always take a break. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.” I shrugged. “I put that spicy mustard on it that I like.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a minute before she asked, “Did you finish all the water heaters?”
“Yep. The whole house has hot water again.” I glanced around her apartment. “Your floor was the last one. You can take a shower now without freezing.”
Her cheeks flushed, just a tint, but I noticed everything when it came to her.
“Thanks,” she mumbled. “So,” she said after another bite, “how is your place coming along?”
That tug in my chest eased into a familiar ache. My house. My project. My stubborn, expensive, rotted-wood, paint-peeling project that I called home.
“It’s getting there,” I said, rubbing my palm over my jaw. “When I bought it last year, I figured that I’d have it done by now.”
“What’s keeping you from finishing?” she asked.
“Work keeps me busy.” I shrugged. “Plus, some days when I get home, I’m just too tired,” I admitted.
“What made you want that place?” she asked between bites. “You could have gotten a newer one.”
The image came easily because I saw it every time I walked through the front doors.
The classic two-story home was the kind of place you see in many old Maine towns up and down the coastline.
It had a massive wraparound porch and big windows that were framed with crisp white trim.
The weathered cedar shingles were worn but in good condition still.
There were tall, narrow windows on the second floor with gingerbread brackets that had seen better decades.
Currently, it had a deep, forest-green front door, but I planned to strip, sand, and repaint it and the window shutters when the weather grew warmer so their colors matched.
I had yet to pick the color, but I was thinking about a rich warm honey or maybe a deep royal blue?
“It has history,” I said quietly. “There are original hardwood floors under the old carpet. And there’s the gorgeous hand-carved stair railings.
” I smiled. “And the old cast-iron radiators that weigh a thousand pounds and try to kill you when you move them.” I laughed at the memory of almost pulling my back out of whack last month.
“Plus, fireplaces that scream for those snowy nights. I want to bring it back from the dead, you know? To make it shine like it did when it was first built. To honor what it used to be.” I had been looking out the dark window as I talked, and now I blinked at the silence in the room as I turned back toward her.
She was listening, watching me with her chin propped on her hand. Her eyes were warm, and I could see the smile there before the corners of her lips even curved upward.
“That sounds incredible,” she said softly.
I instantly felt stupid. Then again, how often had I listened to her talk just like that, dream really, of how she would decorate the bakery? So many times over the years.
I shrugged off the embarrassment. After all, this was Missy. The person in the world who knew me the best. “Mostly it’s a money pit.”
“But it’s your money pit.” She lifted her fork and pointed at me with it. “Just like Sweet Expectations is mine.”
That landed better than she probably realized. Because it was exactly how I felt. Exactly why I’d bought it. It was something I chose. Something that had nothing to do with the life my parents had mapped out for me. Just like her bakery was for her.
My chest tightened, and she must have noticed, because she asked softly, “What?”
“Have you heard from your parents yet?” I asked. “I know you hadn’t heard from them before opening day.”
She grimaced. “Yeah. My mother called earlier today. Of course, she doesn’t approve of anything I do.” She stabbed a piece of broccoli. “Or anything I am, really.” She ate the entire piece.
I swallowed a bitter laugh. “Sounds familiar.” This conversation was nothing new between us.
“My father hasn’t called, nor will he, I’d wager.” Her eyes flicked to mine. “At least until he wants or needs something from me. Which will probably never happen. When was the last time you talked to your parents?”
I leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under me.
“Last night. They still want me to take over the family business. Investments are boring. Besides, it’s a side hustle.
” Stocks, bonds, shifting money around was like breathing to me.
I’d gotten my first bond on my first birthday.
The last thing I wanted to do was work for the family business.
“Walker Investments is no joke. Are you sure you don’t want to trade in your fixer-upper for a penthouse in a high-rise in New York? Your flannels for an expensive suit? Not to mention all the golf meetings and country clubs, wining and dining clients all around the globe and all that?” she teased.
“Hell. It sounds like hell on earth,” I said, as I always did.
“It’s not you,” she agreed with a nod. “Nor am I made for slapping on my pointe shoes and leotards and prancing on stage or taking over and working with Max like they wanted me to.”
He remembered just how appealing she’d looked in leotards. She had the body for it, always had, but she’d never had the heart for dance.
“Exactly. Although, I do miss seeing you in those tights.” I winked at her and saw her eyes avoid mine. I loved teasing her. Making her blush. Watching her cheeks turn a light shade of pink always warmed me for some reason.
My parents wanted the Fortune 500 legacy for a son. I wanted to build things with my hands. Fix things. Create something that didn’t require pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I was a disappointment as the only child they had.
“They are disappointed,” I said. “Always will be.”
She didn’t answer right away. She looked at me with this quiet understanding that I felt down to my bones.
“So we match,” she said lightly. “Two disappointments with a love for old buildings and sugary desserts.”
I laughed, and something eased inside me. “Always. Here’s to being disappointments.” I held up my wine glass, and she tapped it with her own. “Together,” we added before taking a sip.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke.
Her kitchen was warm, the soft light catching in her still-damp hair, the scent of lemon and dill making the whole apartment feel… inviting. Alive.
The kind of place I could get used to. I instantly wished I didn’t have to go home to a cold, dark, and empty house. But I had work to do if that was going to change. Tonight’s plan was to finish pulling out the carpet on the second staircase and see what sort of mess was underneath.
I pushed back from the table a little. “Thanks for dinner.”
She tried to wave me off. “You installed the new water heater so I can have a hot shower, so I owe you more than salmon.”
“Oh, you definitely owe me,” I teased. “But Crystal and Rory did pay me for the job.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
And damn it if I didn’t want to see what it looked like when she wasn’t trying to hide it.