Chapter 27 Hannah
Hannah
The business letter sat on Hannah's desk like a bomb waiting to detonate. Crisp corporate letterhead, precise typing, polite words that could end everything.
We would like to make an offer on your property...
Hannah's fingers trembled as she read it again. Sunshine Coffee Company. A chain that had been slowly buying up small-town locations across the state. They wanted Sugar & Spice—not the business, just the building. Just the bones of her grandmother's legacy.
The number at the bottom of the page made her chest tight.
It was more than enough. More than she'd ever dreamed of having. Enough to start over somewhere else, somewhere people didn't whisper when she walked by, somewhere her name wasn't tainted by her father's crimes.
The morning sun slanted through the bakery windows, painting everything in shades of gold. Usually, this was her favorite time of day—the scent of fresh bread wrapping around her like a warm blanket.
But today, the warmth felt hollow.
She'd spent the night going over the books again. And again. The numbers didn't lie. Business was down. Way down. Between canceled orders and lost regulars, she was barely keeping the lights on.
The copper wind chimes her mother had hung years ago tinkled softly in the breeze. Hannah closed her eyes, remembering her grandmother's voice: "Sugar & Spice isn't just a business, sweetheart. It's the heart of this town."
But maybe the town didn't want their heart anymore.
She stood, moving to the display case on autopilot. Her reflection ghosted across the glass—dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back severely, none of the joy that used to radiate from her when she worked.
The case was half-empty. No point making full batches anymore when most of it would go to waste.
"Maybe this town is better off without Sugar & Spice," she whispered to her reflection.
The words felt like betrayal in her mouth. But weren't they true? The town had made their feelings clear. They didn't trust her. Didn't want her father's daughter serving their coffee, baking their wedding cakes, being part of their lives.
The bell above the door chimed.
Hannah turned, automatic smile fixed in place—then froze.
"Good morning, dear." Mrs. Matthews' voice was soft, hesitant. "I was hoping..."
Hannah's heart squeezed. "Your usual?"
Mrs. Matthews nodded, and for a moment—one perfect moment—everything felt normal. Hannah reached for the display case, muscle memory taking over.
Then she saw it.
Empty shelf. No Danish.
Because she hadn't made them. Hadn't seen the point when no one was buying them.
"I'm so sorry." The words felt like ash in her mouth. "I didn't—I haven't been—"
Mrs. Matthews' face fell slightly. "Oh. Well. Perhaps another time then."
She turned to leave, and something in Hannah cracked.
This was what giving up looked like. Empty shelves. Disappointed faces. A legacy crumbling one missing pastry at a time.
Her eyes fell on the corporate letter, still sitting on her desk. The answer to all her problems. An escape route. A fresh start.
But her grandmother's voice echoed in her head: "Sugar & Spice isn't just a business."
It was home.
It was family.
It was everything she'd ever wanted to be.
Hannah's hands curled into fists at her sides.
She wouldn't decide today. Couldn't decide today. Not when the memory of Mrs. Matthews' disappointment was still fresh. Not when her heart felt like it was being torn in two.
But maybe...
Maybe it was time to admit that some things couldn't be saved.
Maybe it was time to let go.
Hannah's arms ached as she worked the dough, her movements precise despite her exhaustion. Without Sarah helping, everything took twice as long. But the repetitive motion was almost meditative—fold, press, turn. Again and again, letting muscle memory take over while her mind drifted.
The back door opened.
She knew it was Jake before she turned around. Could feel him like an electric current in the air, that familiar presence that still made her skin prickle even after everything.
"You shouldn't be here." Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
Jake didn't respond. Instead, she heard the sink running, the quiet clink of dishes being gathered. He'd shed his fire department jacket, his t-shirt pulling tight across his shoulders as he worked.
Hannah forced her eyes back to the dough. Fold, press, turn.
But her body remembered.
Remembered the way he'd taken her upstairs, his touch desperate and reverent all at once. Remembered his hands on her waist just days ago, pressing her against these same counters. Remembered the taste of flour on his tongue when he'd kissed her.
The dough stuck to her fingers. She'd lost her rhythm.
Jake moved behind her, reaching past to grab another dirty bowl. His arm brushed her back, sending a shiver down her spine. He was close enough that she could smell engine grease and coffee and him.
"You don't have to do this," she said, hating how breathless she sounded.
"I know." His voice was low, rough. He didn't move away.
Hannah's hands stilled in the dough. She could feel the heat of him at her back, could practically taste the tension crackling between them.
"Jake."
His breath caught at the way she said his name.
"Let me help," he murmured, still too close, still not touching her. "Just... let me do this much."
Hannah closed her eyes. Because this—this was the problem. The way he could slip back into her life so easily. The way her body still knew his. The way everything felt right when he was here, even though nothing was right at all.
She remembered the corporate letter sitting on her desk. Remembered why she couldn't let herself fall back into this pattern with him.
"I didn't ask for your help." She stepped away, putting distance between them. Her hands were shaking as she reached for more flour.
Jake was quiet for a long moment. Then the water started running again, the soft scrub of sponge against metal the only sound in the kitchen.
They worked in silence. Hannah shaped loaf after loaf, trying to ignore the way Jake moved around her with practiced ease. He knew this kitchen—knew where everything went, knew her rhythms, knew exactly how to stay out of her way while still being close enough to make her pulse race.
When the last dish was clean, he lingered by the sink. Hannah could feel his eyes on her as she slid the bread into the proof box.
"Hannah—"
"Thank you." She cut him off, turning to face him. "For helping. But you should go."
Something flickered across his face—pain or resignation or both. But he nodded once, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door.
Then he paused, his hand on the doorknob.
"For what it's worth?" His voice was barely more than a whisper. "I miss you."
Hannah's throat went tight. "Jake—"
But he was already gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Hannah pressed her hands flat against the counter, trying to steady herself. Her skin still tingled where he'd almost touched her. Her body still hummed with awareness of him.
And her heart—God, her heart still knew exactly how well they fit together.
Even if her head knew better.
Even if nothing could ever be the same.
Hannah's apartment felt too quiet as she moved through her evening routine. The kitchen was small but efficient—just like the rest of the space above Sugar & Spice. She'd always loved how cozy it felt.
Now it just felt empty.
She reached for spices without thinking. Her hand closed around the jar of smoked paprika Jake had insisted on buying—"Trust me, sweetheart, it'll change your life." She'd rolled her eyes then, but he'd been right. It had become her secret ingredient in almost everything.
Her throat tightened as she looked at the two chicken breasts in the pan.
Two. She'd done it again.
The sound of them cooking in the hot oil seemed too loud in the quiet kitchen. She'd gotten used to other sounds—Jake's running commentary as he "helped" cook, the oldies station playing low in the background, his laugh when she'd dance while stirring sauce.
Hannah reached for another pan, muscle memory taking over. She'd make extra vegetables too, because Jake always—
Her hands stilled on the handle.
No.
She didn't need extra vegetables.
She wasn't cooking for two anymore.
She looked around her kitchen with new eyes, seeing all the ways he'd left his mark.
The fancy coffee maker he'd bought when he'd practically moved in.
The magnetic knife strip he'd installed because he'd insisted her knife block took up too much counter space.
The spice rack he'd built, perfectly sized for her collection.
Her gaze landed on the dining table—the small one tucked against the window where they'd eaten countless meals together. Where he'd pulled her into his lap more times than she could count, pressing kisses to her neck until dinner got cold.
She couldn't sit there.
Instead, she carried her plate to the kitchen counter, perching on one of the high stools. The chicken was perfectly seasoned—paprika and all—but it tasted like ash in her mouth.
The corporate letter sat on the counter beside her, the edges creased from how many times she'd read it. A way out. A fresh start. A chance to leave all these memories behind.
But even as she thought it, her eyes landed on the honey jar sitting on the counter.
Jake's honey jar. He'd always insisted on keeping it within reach, dipping a spoon in absentmindedly while she baked, grinning when she caught him.
She hadn't been able to move it. Just like she hadn't been able to throw out the extra toothbrush in her bathroom or wash the sweatshirt he'd left draped over her reading chair.
It sat there, untouched, the crystallized honey clinging to the edges—a quiet, stubborn reminder of everything she'd lost.
The sound of a siren wailed in the distance—probably his engine, heading to another call. Her fingers tightened around her fork.
This was ridiculous.
She was ridiculous.
Holding onto pieces of a man who had never really existed. A man who had looked at her like she was everything while systematically destroying her world.
And yet...
Her hand drifted to the jar of paprika again.
Some things weren't so easy to let go of.
Some memories lived in the smallest details—in spice jars and coffee mugs and the way her apartment still felt like it was waiting for him to come home.
Hannah set her half-eaten dinner aside, suddenly not hungry.
The silence pressed in again, broken only by the distant sound of sirens fading into the night.
She should clear his things out.
Should reclaim her space.
Should stop cooking for two.
But she didn't.
Instead, she wrapped the extra portion of chicken in foil, tucking it into the fridge out of habit.
Just in case.
Even though she knew he wasn't coming back.
Even though she didn't want him to.
Even though her heart didn't quite believe either of those things.