Chapter 7 #2
Lucy had been up since 4:45 AM as usual, but instead of her normal focused productivity, she kept catching herself staring into space, thinking about yesterday. About Jake's kiss, about his hand in hers, about butternut squash muffins and possibilities.
"You've been smiling at that croissant dough for five minutes," Mae said from the doorway. "It's creepy."
Lucy blinked, refocusing. "Sorry. I'm distracted."
"You're happy. It's weird seeing you happy. I kind of like it."
Lucy laughed and went back to rolling out croissants. But Mae was right—she was happy. Genuinely, terrifyingly happy in a way she hadn't let herself be in five years.
By 8 AM, the morning rush was in full swing. Mr. Peterson with his bran muffin, the Knitting Circle with their gossip (currently focused on why Lucy had closed early Saturday), Tom and Jerry arguing about hardware store inventory.
And then Uncle Walter walked in.
"Morning, Lulu."
"Uncle Walter. Your usual?"
"Actually, I was hoping we could talk. Do you have a minute?"
Lucy glanced at Mae, who nodded. "I've got the register. Take a break."
They settled at Lucy's corner table with coffee. Uncle Walter studied her over his mug.
"You look different."
"I look the same."
"You look lighter. Less like you're carrying the weight of the world." He smiled. "Jake Morrison was here yesterday."
"You already know everything, don't you?"
"This is Timber Falls. I knew before you closed the door behind him." Uncle Walter reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I'm happy for you. He seems like a good man."
"He is. I think." Lucy felt her cheeks heat. "We're going on an actual date tonight. He's cooking."
"He's cooking? For you?"
"I know. It's sweet, right?"
"It's more than sweet. It's a man trying very hard to impress you." Uncle Walter's expression turned serious. "Lulu, I need to ask you something. That email you got Friday—about selling the bakery. Have you thought about it?"
Lucy's stomach dropped. "How did you—"
"The woman called me. Shayna Barrett. Said she'd emailed you and wanted to know if I thought you'd be open to a conversation." Uncle Walter held up his hand. "I told her that was your decision, not mine. But I'm asking now—is this something you're considering?"
Lucy looked around the bakery. The space her grandmother had built, the recipes she'd perfected, the community she'd fed for forty years.
"I don't know," Lucy admitted. "Part of me wants to hold onto it forever. Part of me wants to run screaming. And part of me thinks maybe selling it wouldn't be betraying her—maybe it would be honoring her by using what she built to create something new."
"What would you do? If you sold?"
"Travel. Culinary school, maybe. Come back and open my own place eventually—something that's mine but still connected to her legacy." Lucy met her uncle's eyes. "Is that selfish?"
"No. It's brave. And I think your grandmother would love it."
"How do you know?"
"Because she told me. Right before she died. She said she worried about you—that you'd sacrifice your own dreams to preserve hers. She made me promise to remind you that the bakery was supposed to be a gift, not a burden."
Lucy felt tears prick her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because you weren't ready to hear it. You needed time to grieve, to find your footing, to figure out who you were as the owner of this place." Uncle Walter squeezed her hand. "But I think maybe you're ready now. To want things for yourself. To build your own life instead of just maintaining hers."
"What if I fail? What if I sell the bakery and travel and go to culinary school and it's all a huge mistake?"
"Then you'll have tried. And that's better than spending the rest of your life wondering what if." Uncle Walter stood. "Talk to Shayna. At least hear what she has to say. You don't have to decide anything today. But give yourself permission to consider it."
After he left, Lucy stood in the quiet bakery and pulled out her phone. The email from Shayna Barrett was still sitting in her inbox, unopened for three days.
She took a breath and opened it. Then she typed a response.
Ms. Barrett,
Thank you for your interest in The Bread Basket. I would be open to having a conversation about what a potential sale might look like. Would you be available for a call this week?
Best, Lucy Chen
She hit send before she could talk herself out of it.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of customers and baking and nervous energy about tonight. By 5 PM, Lucy had cleaned the bakery twice, reorganized the supply closet, and started prepping tomorrow's dough early just to keep her hands busy.
"Go home," Mae finally said. "You're making me anxious just watching you."
"It's barely 5."
"And you have a date in two hours. Go shower, do your hair, wear something cute. Stop stress-baking."
"I'm not stress-baking."
"You made forty extra pork buns. We don't need forty extra pork buns."
"Someone will buy them."
"Lucy. Go home. Be a person. Have a life."
Lucy laughed, but Mae was right. She finished cleaning up, locked the front door, and climbed the stairs to her apartment.
Her phone buzzed. Rei, of course.
Rei: Big date tonight. How are you feeling?
Lucy: Nervous. Excited. Terrified.
Rei: Perfect. That means you care.
Lucy: What if it's weird? What if we run out of things to talk about? What if yesterday was a fluke and tonight proves we have nothing in common?
Rei: Lucy. You've been circling each other for three years. You already know you have things in common. Now you just get to discover more.
Rei: Also he's COOKING for you. A man who barely knows how to feed himself is attempting to cook an actual meal because he wants to impress you. That's romance, babe.
Lucy: What should I wear?
Rei: Something you feel confident in. Not trying-too-hard, just... you, but the version of you who's showing up for something that matters.
Lucy: That's weirdly profound.
Rei: I contain multitudes. Now go get ready and text me afterward with details.
Lucy showered and agonized over her closet for twenty minutes before settling on dark jeans and a soft burgundy sweater that Rei had once said "made her look like the heroine of a fall-themed romance novel.
" She did her hair—actually styled it instead of just pulling it into a bun—and added minimal makeup.
When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Not because she looked different, but because she looked... present. Like someone who was participating in her own life instead of just maintaining it.
At 6:45, Lucy grabbed a bottle of wine from her small collection (a Pinot Noir that Uncle Walter had gifted her last Christmas), took a breath, and headed downstairs.
Jake's apartment was on the third floor. Lucy had walked past his door hundreds of times over the past three years, never knowing her Wednesday morning pork bun regular lived right there.
She knocked at exactly 7 PM.
The door opened, and Jake stood there in dark jeans and a navy button-down, hair slightly damp like he'd just showered, looking nervous and adorable.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi. I brought wine." Lucy held up the bottle like a shield.
"That's perfect. Come in."
Jake's studio apartment was small—about the same size as Lucy's—but somehow it felt different. More lived-in despite the IKEA furniture. There was a bookshelf full of DVDs, a collection of hockey sticks in the corner, and the succulent from the farmers market sitting on the windowsill.
The apartment smelled incredible.
"Are you actually cooking?" Lucy asked. "Like, successfully cooking?"
"So far. The chicken is in the oven, the potatoes are roasting, and I've only set off the smoke alarm once."
"That's impressive."
"My mom talked me through it. Twice." Jake took the wine bottle. "She also made me promise to tell you that if the food is terrible, it's her fault for raising a son who can't cook."
"I'm sure it will be great."
They stood in the kitchen—really just a galley with a two-burner stove and a tiny oven—and Lucy felt the nervous energy from earlier start to dissipate.
This was Jake. Her Wednesday morning regular.
The guy who'd been eating her pork buns for three years.
The guy who'd kissed her yesterday and made her believe that maybe wanting things for herself wasn't selfish.
"Can I help with anything?" Lucy asked.
"You can open the wine while I check on the chicken."
They fell into an easy rhythm—Jake cooking, Lucy handling the wine, both of them talking about nothing and everything.
The snow from yesterday, the first game of the season for the high school hockey team, whether the Patriots had any chance this year (Jake said no, Lucy had no opinion because she didn't follow football).
"Okay," Jake said finally, pulling the chicken from the oven. "Moment of truth."
He plated everything with more care than Lucy expected—chicken, roasted potatoes, green beans, everything arranged like he'd watched a cooking show. He even had fresh rosemary as garnish.
They sat at Jake's small table by the window, overlooking Main Street. The lights from the shops below cast a warm glow on the snowy sidewalks.
Lucy cut into the chicken. Took a bite.
"Jake. This is really good."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed. This is legitimately delicious."
Jake looked relieved. "My mom will be thrilled. She was convinced I'd burn it."
They ate and talked, and Lucy realized something: yesterday had been wonderful, but tonight was different. Yesterday was vulnerability and confessions. Tonight was just... them. Learning each other. Building something real.
"Can I tell you something?" Lucy said as they were finishing dinner.
"Always."
"I emailed Shayna Barrett today. The woman who wants to buy the bakery. I told her I'd be open to a conversation."
Jake set down his fork. "How do you feel about that?"