Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Missy
I had no clue what to do with Cade’s confession, those words I’d heard from a few other people but had yet to say back to anyone. So I took the cowards way out and pretended to be asleep.
Listening to Cade’s slow even breathing next to me, I ran through the past few months in my head, from the time I decided to follow Cade, my brother, and Cora to Silver Cove, to opening day at Sweet Expectations, to now.
Why had I decided to come here?
The answer was right there, warm and solid at my back with his arms wrapped around me, like he had always belonged there.
Cade.
Sometime in the early morning, when the rain had faded into a memory and pale light slipped in through the curtains, I finally fell asleep for real.
I woke to the smell of cinnamon and butter.
For a few seconds, I was disoriented. Wrapped in the sheets, my body felt heavy and relaxed in a way it rarely was. Then I heard the soft clink of a pan and the low hum of Cade’s voice as he moved around the kitchen downstairs.
Home. I was home.
I rolled onto my back and smiled at the ceiling before pulling on one of his T-shirts and padding down the stairs.
Cade stood at the stove in bare feet and worn jeans.
There was a worn flannel of his tossed over the back of the kitchen chair.
A plate of golden French toast sat beside the stove, dusted generously with powdered sugar.
Bacon sizzled in the pan in front of him, and a bowl of scrambled eggs waited nearby.
“You cook like this and I’ll never leave,” I joked, leaning against the doorway.
He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at me. God, he was sexy. “Good.” He chuckled.
I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades. He smelled like soap and coffee and something distinctly Cade.
“Good morning.” He leaned around and kissed the top of my head.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said.
“I wanted to,” he replied easily. “Since you agreed to move in with me, I figured I had better start to spoil you.”
He turned fully, lifted my chin, and kissed me, slow and unhurried. The kind of kiss that made my knees feel weak.
We ate breakfast as the sunlight spilled across the wood floors. I listened as he talked about paint colors and which rooms he wanted to tackle first, nodding along, even though I’d never painted a thing in my life.
“Are you ready?” he asked after we cleared the dishes.
I hesitated. “You know I’ve never done this before, right?”
His eyes softened. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
An hour later, I stood in his living room wearing one of his old shirts and a pair of leggings. I was staring down at the paint supplies like they might bite me.
“Okay,” Cade said patiently, rolling tape along the baseboards with practiced ease. “Rule number one, don’t overload the roller.”
He walked over and demonstrated, dipping it carefully, rolling off the excess slowly. “You want even coverage, not drips.”
I mimicked him, my tongue tucked between my teeth in concentration.
“Relax,” he teased. “It’s just paint.”
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. “You’re good at this.”
I probably looked like he had the first time I’d asked him to help me frost anything.
I rolled the paint onto the wall, surprised by how satisfying it felt. The soft gray color transformed the space instantly, covering years of wear and old bleached-out walls with something fresh. Something… new.
“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Long strokes. Let the roller do the work.”
By the second wall, I was starting to get the hang of it. By the third, I was laughing when I accidentally dabbed paint onto my forearm.
Cade laughed and pulled out a cloth. “Don’t move.”
He reached up and I moved to block him, but it was too late. He’d already smeared a faint streak of paint onto my cheek.
I gasped. “You did not.”
He stepped back, hands raised innocently. “It was an accident.”
I lunged for him, paint roller in hand.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he laughed, backing away.
I caught him anyway, swiping the roller across his chest. He groaned dramatically.
“This shirt was almost clean.”
I laughed because it was basically a rag covered in dried paint, oil, and what appeared to be burger grease.
“You started it,” I said, grinning.
He grabbed my waist, pulling me close, the paint forgotten completely. “It was worth it.” He kissed me.
For a moment, we just stood there, paint-splattered and breathless, the room smelling of fresh paint.
“I like this,” I admitted quietly. “Working like this. Making something together.”
His thumb brushed my cheek, careful not to smudge more paint. “Me too.”
And that scared me a little. Because it felt right. Too right.
We spent the rest of the day moving from room to room. He played some music softly from his phone, music we both enjoyed.
He showed me how to paint along the edges of the windows and corners, how to tape off doorframes, and how to clean brushes properly between colors so they’d last.
“This is the first time I’ve ever done something like this,” I said as we washed our hands at the sink.
“Painted?” he asked.
“No.” I shrugged. “Lived with someone.”
He met my eyes in the mirror, and something passed between us.
“I’ve never lived with anyone either. But it seems right. Right?”
“For now,” I said. “Until you grow tired of me.”
Cade smiled. “Almost twenty-four years so far, and I’m not tired of you yet. Are you tired of me?”
I shook my head. “Not at all.”
“Good.” He kissed me again. “Then let’s finish this up.” He motioned toward the wall. “Then we can order delivery for dinner.”
After showering off all the paint splatters, we finally collapsed onto the couch, exhausted.
When the food was delivered, we switched on a game on the television and stuffed ourselves.
I felt oddly satisfied. Not just because of the food or the hot sex we’d had in the shower, but because I could now look around the house and see that I’d made a mark here.
I had made this place feel more… like home. Our home.
A few days later, when I was elbow-deep in dough, Brit popped her head into the kitchen and said, “Uh… Missy? There’s a very elegant woman out front asking for you.”
I knew instantly who it was and held in a groan.
Elegant was one way to put it.
My mother sat at one of the tables out front by the window, her posture perfect, her tailored cream jacket draped over the chair beside her like she’d stepped out of a magazine instead of into a small-town bakery.
Elizabeth Sharpe, Liza as she wanted to be called now, looked exactly the same and entirely different all at once.
It was funny, my entire life I’d wanted to go by Missy, but neither of my parents would use the nickname. Now my mother was choosing to do the same as I had, and she demanded the respect she never gave me.
“Mother,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron as I came through the back door and around to her table.
She smiled, softer than I remembered. “Hi, sweetheart.”
That alone told me this wasn’t going to be a drive-by visit full of criticism and disappointed sighs.
“I just had a lovely visit with your brother. Did he message you that I was on my way?”
I was slightly surprised and pulled out my phone. There were four missed calls from Max and two long text messages that I would read later.
“I guess my phone was on silent,” I admitted.
Since the bakery was busy at the moment, we decided to walk down the street to the little café with the blue awning.
It was a lot quieter, and far enough away that I didn’t feel like the walls of the bakery were closing in or interrupting us.
We ordered salads and iced tea and took a small table outside to enjoy the warm air.
Summer was only a few weeks away.
For a few minutes, we talked about safe things. The bakery. The town. Max and Cora. Her working again at Sharper Image’s main studio in New York alongside Max.
The fact that she was calling Max by his preferred nickname instead of Wyatt, as she had always done, surprised me. Then, during the conversation, she called me Missy.
Something was definitely different here.
She also asked questions, real ones about my life, and I found myself answering before I could overthink the answers.
Then the silence shifted.
“Your father stopped by my place last week in the city,” she said carefully. “He was… not subtle about wanting me to ‘reconsider my portion of the divorce settlement.’”
“He visited here a while back too. He wants me to persuade you to offer him more money for his portion of Sharper Image.”
Her lips pressed together. “Of course he does. The fact that he is dragging you and your brother into this mess is a sign of the lack of his backbone.”
I stared down at my plate, then sighed. “He made sure to tell me that I am wasting my time here.” I hesitated, then added, “He also suggested I get back together with Levi. He said it would be smart of me.”
Her fork froze halfway to her mouth.
“Levi’s back in your life?” She frowned at me.
“No!” I blurted out, then added more softly, “No.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but he cheated on you, correct?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.
I nodded and continued, my voice tightening despite my best efforts. “For some reason, he showed up at the bakery a few weeks back. Now he’s angry that I won’t take him back. Dad knows he cheated and doesn’t seem to care.”
“Of course he doesn’t care.” My mother set her fork down slowly. “Like-minded men.” She rolled her eyes.
“Dad is determined to get us back together for some reason,” I added. “Do you know why?”
“I was afraid of this.”
Something in her tone made me look up. Really look at her.
“I should have protected you better,” she said quietly. “Both of you. You and Max.”
The words knocked the air from my lungs.