Chapter 36 Liam
Iwas staring at paint swatches like they held the answers to the universe when I heard her voice.
"Eggshell."
I looked up. Piper stood three feet away, basket of lightbulbs in hand, hair pulled back in that messy bun she always wore when she was running errands. What were the odds? Twice in one week. The universe really needed a new hobby.
"What?" I said.
"For walls. Eggshell finish. It's the one that doesn't show every fingerprint but isn't too flat." She nodded at the chips in my hand. "You're repainting?"
"My apartment. Finally." I held up Dover White and Swiss Coffee. "Can't tell the difference."
"Swiss Coffee is warmer. Dover's too stark unless you have good natural light."
"Swiss Coffee it is." I put the other one back. "Thanks."
We stood there in the paint aisle, neither of us moving. Me holding a paint chip and a cup of terrible coffee, her with her lightbulbs.
"You know you can just come to the bakery for coffee, right?"
The words caught me off guard. I glanced at the cup in my hand, with its cheap paper and burnt coffee.
"I didn't want to intrude," I said carefully.
"You're not intruding. You're a customer, and I'm good with customers." She shifted her basket to her other hand, eyed the half-smudged logo on my paper cup. "And that place has terrible coffee."
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "It really is."
"So come by. Get decent coffee."
I looked at her, trying to figure out if she meant it. If this was a polite offer or an actual invitation. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. We open at six-thirty."
"I know." The words were out before I could stop them. "I've driven past a few times. In the mornings."
"Well, now you can actually stop," she said.
My chest did something complicated. "Okay. I will."
"Okay."
She turned toward the register. I watched her go, paint chip forgotten in my hand, trying not to read too much into it.
But she'd invited me to her bakery. The place that was hers.
That had to mean something.
I showed up on Thursday.
Told myself it was just for coffee. That I wasn't reading into it. That this was exactly what she'd offered… a transaction between a business owner and a customer.
The bell chimed when I walked in and Piper looked up from the pastry case, flour on her apron.
"Coffee. Black," I said.
"Coming up."
She poured it, slid it across the counter. I paid, thanked her, and left within three minutes.
It was professional and easy. Exactly what she'd offered.
I came back Saturday. Then Tuesday. It became a routine—two, sometimes three mornings a week. I’d stop in before my shift, order coffee, sometimes a muffin. We'd talk while she worked. All small things at first, like the weather or station gossip.
Then bigger things. My brother moving to Seattle. Her plans to expand wholesale accounts. Real conversations that lasted five minutes, then ten, then fifteen if the morning was slow.
Her employee, that college-aged with purple streaks in her hair, started smiling when I walked in. Like she knew something I didn't.
Three weeks in, I realized I'd started planning my mornings around the bakery. Timing my commute so I'd arrive right when she opened. Checking my phone to make sure I wasn't showing up too often, coming across as desperate.
I was probably coming across as desperate.
But she kept smiling when I walked in, kept asking about my day, and kept refilling my coffee without me having to ask.
That had to mean something too.
I showed up at 5:45 PM on a Wednesday and saw her flipping the CLOSED sign.
Shit. Bad timing.
But Piper saw me through the glass. She walked over and unlocked the door.
"Bad timing?" I asked.
"Megan had an exam. I'm just cleaning up."
I should have said goodnight and let her close in peace.
"Need help?" I asked instead.
She hesitated, just for a second, and then…
"Sure. If you want."
I wanted.
I shrugged off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and tried not to notice how good it felt to be in her space after hours. Just the two of us and the quiet hum of the refrigerator cases.
"Broom?" I asked.
"Back closet. Left side."
"Cleaning spray?"
"Under the sink."
I worked around her carefully. Lifting chairs while she wiped counters. Sweeping while she counted the register. Learning the geography of her space by asking instead of assuming.
Her playlist filtered through the speakers. Norah Jones. Leon Bridges. The kind of music she used to play on Sunday mornings when we'd cook breakfast together.
"This is good," I said. "Very you."
"How so?"
"Mostly indie, some old soul mixed in. That thing you do where you pair opposites that somehow work together." I glanced at her. "Like lemon and lavender."
Her hands stilled on the counter. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. Lemon and lavender… that was one of combinations we’d been discussing for the wedding cake.
"You've been paying attention," she said quietly.
"Hard not to when I'm here three times a week."
The air shifted and got heavier. She scrubbed at the counter harder than necessary, focused on some invisible stain.
I grabbed the rag she'd asked for earlier, then stepped closer to hand it to her.
Our fingers brushed when she reached for it.
Neither of us moved.
We were standing too close. Close enough to see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her breath clouded between us. Close enough that if I leaned forward just slightly—
Don’t even think about it, I thought. Don't fuck this up.
But she wasn't moving either. Her hand was still touching mine, her eyes locked on my face.
"Piper," I said, her name coming out rougher than I meant it to.
"Yeah?"
My hand came up on its own. Hovering near her face, not quite touching, giving her every chance to step back.
"Can I...?”
I couldn't finish the question. Couldn't ask for something I had no right to want.
But she was still there. Still looking at me like she was trying to figure something out.
My heart was slamming against my ribs. Every muscle tensed with the effort of not closing the distance. Of waiting. Of letting her decide.
Then she stepped back.
The cold air rushed between us.
"No," she said, her voice small and uncertain. "We can't."
I dropped my hand immediately and put the counter between us. Gave her space.
"Okay," I said.
"I'm sorry, I just—"
"You have nothing to be sorry about." I meant it. "Nothing."
I grabbed my jacket and forced myself to move at a normal pace. Not rushing. Just leaving because that was for the best.
At the door, I paused, my hand on the frame.
"Liam."
I turned.
She looked small standing there in her empty bakery. Uncertain in a way I'd never seen her before.
"I don't know if I'm ready," she said. "For any of this. I don't know anything right now."
The words hit like a punch to the chest. Not because she was saying no, but because she was saying I don't know.
Which meant maybe. Someday. If I didn't fuck it up.
"That's okay," I said. "You don't have to know."
I walked out before I could say anything else. Before I could push and ruin whatever fragile thing we were building.
The cold November air hit me like a slap. I walked to my truck, hands shaking, heart still racing.
She'd almost let me kiss her.
Then she'd stopped.
And I had no idea if that was progress or the end of everything.
I sat in my truck for five minutes, engine running, staring at the bakery windows. Watching her shadow move through the space while she locked up and turned off the lights.
I could have been in there with her. Could have pulled her close and found out if she still tasted the same, if we still fit together the way we used to.
Instead I was sitting in my truck in a dark parking lot, trying to convince myself that respecting her boundaries was the right thing to do.
It was.
It had to be.
But Christ, it hurt anyway.
I drove home and tried very hard not to think about the way she'd looked at me. Like she wanted to say yes but couldn't quite get there.
Like maybe, if I was patient enough, she might.