Chapter 11
June
Adam's voice bleeds through the wall from his office—low, clipped, controlled in a way that makes my stomach clench. I sit curled on his couch, knees pulled tight to my chest, tea cooling and forgotten in my hands.
Every word I catch feels like a knife. Sarah's name. The lawyer's. Mine. Dragged out and dissected like evidence at a crime scene.
"Michael," Adam says, all restraint wrapped around fury, "she's claiming inappropriate cohabitation? That's ridiculous. Her heat went out."
I stare at my mug. Can't drink. Can't move.
My phone's buried somewhere in my bag with a hundred unread notifications I can't face. All I can hear is Adam's tone—tired, careful, trying so hard to hide the hurt underneath.
I want to go in there. Put my hand on his shoulder. Make it better somehow.
But I can't fix this.
I'm the reason for this call.
The conversation drags past the hour mark. I watch the sunset paint the backyard orange and gold and feel guilt settle heavy in my chest like stone.
Did I do this? Am I letting Sarah win just by needing somewhere warm to sleep?
Finally, the office door opens. Adam steps out, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. A storm contained by skin.
"Michael says Sarah's lawyer is building a case." He stops, rubs the bridge of his nose. "Using you staying here as evidence of—" a bitter exhale "—'an unstable home environment.'"
I set my mug down carefully. "Because I'm staying here while my boiler gets fixed?"
He paces like he's trying to walk off the anger. "Because you're here at all. Unmarried, new girlfriend 'shacking up'—their exact words—with a child in the house."
The blood drains from my face.
"Adam, I should go back to my house." The words tumble out fast. "Even without heat. The boiler should be fixed soon anyway—"
"No." He crosses to me, takes both my hands in his. His grip is warm, rough, anchoring. "You're not freezing because my ex-wife wants to play games. We haven't done anything wrong."
But fear prickles along my spine. "What if my being here hurts Emma's custody?"
"It won't." He's certain—but the certainty feels thin. Threadbare. "Michael says the claim is weak. But we need to be careful."
"Careful how?"
"Document everything. Keep interactions with Sarah minimal—polite, non-confrontational. Any communication should go through Michael if possible. No direct texts unless absolutely necessary."
I nod, but guilt presses harder against my ribs.
It doesn't matter that we're right. I'm already becoming exactly what Sarah wants to paint me as. The evidence. The risk. The unstable factor.
All because I needed somewhere warm. Because I wanted to be wanted.
Adam squeezes my hands. "We'll get through this, June."
I try to believe him.
But tonight, I feel like the crack in the foundation—the weakness that could bring everything down.
Emma appears in the doorway then, clutching Mr. Fluffkins, eyes wide and worried. "Why are you guys sad?"
Adam releases my hands and crouches to her level. "We're not sad, princess. Just talking about grown-up stuff."
"Is June leaving?" Her voice goes small.
My heart cracks.
"No, sweet girl." The words are out before Adam can answer. "I'm not going anywhere."
But even as I say it, I'm not sure it's true.
Emma seems satisfied. She climbs onto the couch beside me and burrows under my arm. "Good. 'Cause you make the best hot chocolate and Daddy burns it."
"Hey," Adam protests—but he's smiling. Tired, strained, but real.
I hold Emma close and meet Adam's eyes over her head.
We'll figure this out, his expression says.
I nod.
But the fear doesn't leave.
Sarah's already won something tonight—she's made me doubt whether I belong here at all.
***
Wednesday morning. I barely slept—too aware that Sarah's out there somewhere, sharpening her arguments like her claws. Looking for ammunition wherever she can.
It's a cold, bright day, one of those mornings where winter sun glances off every snow-dusted sidewalk and makes the bakery look almost theatrical.
For a moment, standing here among flour and sugar, the click of the oven preheating, the whisper of fresh dough under my palms, I can pretend all that matters is this.
But today isn't ordinary.
Today, Food and Flavor Magazine is here.
Two stylists rearrange my counter displays.
A photographer with messy curls and an infectious laugh repositions scones "just so" for overhead shots.
An editor keeps adjusting the light. This should be my moment—a spotlight I've earned through early mornings and burned batches and sheer stubborn hope.
Part of me is proud. Energized. Fiercely in my element as they ask me to glaze with dramatic flair, give them that "concentrated baker at work" expression for the camera.
It feels good to work. Better to see Riley grinning in the background, regulars pressing their faces to the windows as the cameras click.
For an hour, I almost forget the weight pressing on my chest.
Midway through straightening a crooked chalkboard sign, the bell over the door chimes.
Adam steps inside—off-duty in jeans and an ancient fire department hoodie, takeout coffee in hand. Just seeing him, solid and calm and here, makes the world tilt back on its axis.
The photographer turns, eyes lighting up. "Oh! This must be the famous firefighter boyfriend!" She beams at us both. "We'd love a shot of you two together, if that's okay?"
Every warning flashes through my mind at once. Sarah. Courts. Ammunition. Evidence.
But this is my place. My day. My victory.
I glance at Adam, then back at the photographer with my best casual smile. "If my boyfriend's okay with it?"
The word hangs in the air between us. Boyfriend.
I've never said it out loud before. We haven’t put a label to it yet.
Adam's eyes meet mine—warm, steady, certain. "I'm okay with anything that makes my girlfriend happy."
Heat crackles through me. For one strange, giddy second, Sarah and her lawyer don't exist.
The photographer claps her hands. "Perfect! June, let's have you decorating a cake. Adam, you can 'help' her—playful, natural. Just be yourselves."
We set up at the work counter. I pipe ridiculous, oversized swirls of buttercream while Adam dips his finger in the frosting bowl and—completely unprompted—paints a sugar heart on my cheek.
The crew melts.
"Oh my God, you two," the photographer sighs, camera clicking rapid-fire.
Adam wraps his arms around my waist from behind, chin tucking over my shoulder. He smells like coffee and safety.
"These are adorable," the editor gushes. "The readers are going to eat this up."
I lean back into his chest, grinning despite myself.
Maybe Sarah can use this against us. Maybe her lawyer will twist it into something ugly.
But right now? I don't care.
After the crew packs up and leaves, the bakery settles into quiet—just warm afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows and Riley restocking napkins out front.
Adam lingers, fingers tracing idle patterns on my lower back.
"That was fun," he says quietly.
"You're a natural."
He laughs. "Hardly. I just like being near you."
I lean back against the counter, eyes slipping closed as his hands settle on my hips—warm, sure, grounding.
I know we're supposed to be careful. Keep things appropriate.
But right now, I'm finding that very difficult.
"Careful," I murmur, even as I lean into him.
His voice drops lower, rougher. "We're alone. No one's watching."
He kisses me—slow at first, then deeper, consuming. His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing just beneath my ribs, then higher. I gasp against his mouth, fingers twisted in his hoodie, every nerve ending sparking to life.
"I've been thinking about this ever since you were in my lap—girlfriend," he admits against my jaw, mouth trailing heat down my neck.
"Have you now, boyfriend?" I manage breathlessly.
He grins against my skin, hands growing bolder, and I'm about to pull him into the back office when—
"June! The photographer forgot her lens case!"
Riley's voice booms from the front.
We spring apart like teenagers caught making out. Adam practically dives into the storeroom. I emerge from the kitchen, smoothing my hair, praying my face doesn't give everything away.
Judging by Riley's raised eyebrow and shit-eating grin, it absolutely does.
"Lens case is right there," I say, pointing, trying for dignity.
"Uh-huh." Riley picks it up slowly, eyes dancing. "You've still got frosting on your cheek, boss."
I swipe at it. My hand comes away with a sugar heart smeared across my fingers.
Riley cackles all the way out the door.
I drop my head into my hands, laughing despite myself, pulse still racing.
From the storeroom, Adam's quiet chuckle drifts out.
"Shut up," I call.
"Didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it loudly."
He emerges, still grinning, hoodie slightly askew. "Come here."
I go, because I can't help it.
He cups my face, thumb brushing away the last of the frosting, and kisses me again—softer this time. Sweeter.
"Worth it," he murmurs.
And despite everything—Sarah, lawyers, custody battles looming on the horizon—I have to agree.
Worth it.
***
That evening, I wander into the kitchen in socks, the scent of strawberry shampoo drifting from Emma's bathroom. Adam's out back fixing the gate hinge, and Emma and I have the house to ourselves—for now.
Math homework is spread across the kitchen table, numbers jostling for space with colored pencils and a stubborn clump of cookie dough I mixed up earlier.
Emma's face is pinched with frustration, pencil clutched so tight her knuckles are white. "I don't GET it! Why do we even need to know this stupid stuff?"
I bite back a smile. "Because math is everywhere—especially in baking." I nudge her workbook aside and pull the bowl of dough closer. "Watch. If we need six chocolate chips on each cookie, and we're making two cookies, how many chips total?"
She frowns, then pokes at the bag of chips, lips moving silently as she counts on her fingers. "...Twelve?"
"Exactly! See? You're way better at this than you think."