Chapter 28 Hannah
Hannah
Hannah's pencil moved steadily across the ledger, each number precise and clean.
The bakery was dark except for her desk lamp, casting everything in pools of shadow and warm light.
She'd always loved Sugar & Spice at night—the quiet hum of the refrigerators, the lingering scent of the day's baking, the peace of being alone with her grandmother's old accounting books.
Except she wasn't really alone.
She didn't need to look up to know Michael Harrison was watching from his pharmacy window. His presence felt like ice against her skin, a constant reminder of everything her father had stolen from his family.
And across the street...
Jake.
Her body knew he was there before her mind did—some primal part of her that still recognized safety in his presence, even after everything. His truck was parked in the shadows, far enough away to be unobtrusive, close enough to make her pulse skip.
Her hand tightened on the pencil.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair that her body still trusted him. Still felt safer knowing he was watching. Still remembered how his arms felt like home, how his voice could calm her racing thoughts, how he'd made her feel protected even while he was systematically destroying her world.
The numbers blurred slightly. Hannah blinked hard, refocusing on the ledger.
Revenue was down, but expenses were steady. She'd always been good at this part—the mathematics of running a business, the clean logic of debits and credits. Her grandmother had taught her well: "The numbers don't lie, sweetheart. They tell the story of your business, plain as day."
Her fingers brushed against a stack of old order forms as she reached for her calculator. They spilled across the desk—wedding cakes, birthday parties, monthly standing orders that had vanished overnight.
The Wilson's anniversary cake. Every year for twenty years.
The hospital's weekly muffin delivery.
The Harrison family's favorite cookies.
Hannah's throat went tight.
She gathered the papers with trembling hands, carefully straightening them. Each order represented trust. Each cancellation marked its betrayal.
Movement caught her eye. Michael shifted in his window, his silhouette sharp against the pharmacy's darkness. Even from here, she could feel the weight of his stare.
Her skin prickled with awareness.
Then, almost against her will, her eyes found Jake's truck.
He was still there. Still watching. Still protecting her, even though she hadn't asked him to. Even though she didn't want him to.
Except... her body didn't seem to know that. Didn't seem to understand that his protection was just another lie, that his feelings had been part of his cover, that everything she'd felt—everything she still felt—had been real for her and pretend for him.
The pencil snapped in her grip.
Hannah set it down carefully, pressing her palms flat against the desk. The wood was smooth beneath her hands, worn from years of use. Real. Solid. Unlike everything else in her life.
Across the street, Michael's shadow moved away from the window. Hannah's shoulders relaxed fractionally.
The sound of Jake's engine turning over carried through the quiet. He was leaving too—probably heading to his next shift at the station.
She should feel relieved.
Should feel safer without their eyes on her.
Should be glad to finally be truly alone.
Instead, her chest felt tight. Because even now—even knowing what Jake had done, even hating him for it—her body still recognized his presence as safety. Still knew him as shelter. Still wanted to run to him every time Michael's shadow crossed her path.
Hannah picked up another pencil, forcing her hand steady as she returned to the books.
The numbers didn't lie.
They told the story plain as day.
But they couldn't tell her why her heart still raced every time Jake was near.
Couldn't explain why her body still trusted him.
Couldn't make sense of how something so false had felt so real.
She worked, letting the familiar rhythm of accounting drown out the memory of Jake's engine fading into the night.
Some trust lingered in your blood.
Some lies felt real, even when you should know better.
Hannah stared at the too-full display case, her stomach twisting. She'd baked everything fresh this morning—habit, routine, the rhythm of a lifetime spent in this kitchen. But as the morning stretched on with barely a customer, each perfect pastry felt like an accusation.
The bell above the door chimed.
Jake stood in the doorway, still in his fire department uniform, his expression carefully neutral. "The guys at the station wanted—"
"Don't." Hannah's voice came out sharper than intended. "Don't lie to me. Not again."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he moved to the counter, pulling out his wallet. "I'll take all of it."
Hannah's fingers curled against the glass case. "I don't want your charity."
"It's not charity." His voice was rough. "It's breakfast."
"For an entire fire station?" She laughed, the sound bitter. "They don't want my pastries, Jake. No one does."
"Hannah—"
"You can't fix this." The words felt torn from her chest. "You can't just buy everything and make it better. The town has made their choice. Maybe..." Her voice caught. "Maybe they're right. Maybe this town is better off without Sugar & Spice."
Jake went very still. "You don't mean that."
Hannah turned away, unable to look at him. Unable to see the concern in his eyes—concern that felt too real, too genuine for someone who had spent months pretending to care about her.
"It's just a building." She moved to straighten already-perfect displays, needing to do something with her hands. "Just walls and windows and memories I can't seem to let go of."
"This place is more than that." Jake took a step toward her, then stopped himself. "This is your grandmother's legacy. Your home."
"My home?" Hannah spun to face him, something breaking in her chest. "This hasn't felt like home since the moment those FBI agents walked through that door. Since the moment I realized everyone I trusted had been lying to me."
The accusation hung between them, heavy as storm clouds.
Jake flinched. "Hannah—"
"You want to buy out my case?" She grabbed a box, movements sharp with anger and hurt. "Fine. Take it all." She started filling it with pastries, not caring if they got crushed. "Take everything. Just like you did before."
Jake's hand caught her wrist. Gentle. Warm. Unshakable.
"Stop."
The word wasn't a command. It was a plea.
Hannah froze, pulse hammering against her ribs. His thumb barely brushed the inside of her wrist, but it burned—a cruel reminder of how well her body still knew him. Still trusted him. Still reacted to him, even as her mind screamed at her to pull away.
"Let go." Her voice wasn't strong.
He did—immediately. But he didn't step back.
The air between them thickened, charged and suffocating.
"I know you're hurting," he said, voice low and intimate. "I know you don't trust me. But Hannah—this place? It's not just a building. It's you. Your heart. Your grandmother knew that. The town knows it too, even if they're too stubborn or too ashamed to admit it right now."
Hannah's vision blurred. No. She wouldn't cry. Not in front of him.
"You don't get to tell me what this place means," she whispered. "You don't get to stand there and pretend you care about my grandmother's legacy when you—" Her voice broke. Damn it. She sucked in a sharp breath, shoving the emotions down. "When you spent months lying to me in her kitchen."
Jake's breath hitched—like she'd just sliced through him with a knife.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled out his wallet. Took out enough cash to clear the entire display case and set it on the counter.
"I'm taking these." His voice was steady, but his jaw was tight.
Hannah's fingers curled into fists. "I don't want your pity."
"This isn't pity." His eyes met hers—intense, unflinching. "It's me trying to remind you of who you are. Of what this place is. Because no matter what you tell yourself, Sugar & Spice is more than brick and mortar. It's your home. And I will not stand by and watch you throw it away."
His voice was fierce now, frustration laced with something deeper. Something dangerous.
She should tell him to go to hell. Tell him to leave, to take his money and his lies and get out. But her throat locked up, and instead, she just stood there, shaking.
Jake exhaled roughly. "Damn it, Hannah."
And then he kissed her.
Not soft. Not hesitant. Not careful like the last time.
This was desperate. Raw. A collision of pain and need and every unspoken thing between them.
Hannah gasped against his mouth, her fingers fisting in his jacket before she could think better of it. She should push him away.
But instead, she leaned in.
Because God help her, it felt too good. Too familiar. Too right.
His kiss was a confession, an apology, a promise he didn't have the right to make. He kissed her like she was still his, like she was still the woman who used to wake up tangled in his arms, the woman who used to believe in him.
And Hannah—weak, stupid Hannah—kissed him back.
She let him consume her, let herself drown in the feel of him, let herself forget—just for a second—that this was the man who'd shattered her world.
When Jake finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged. He rested his forehead against hers, his hands still holding her like he was afraid to let go.
His hands cradled her face, his thumbs brushing away tears before they could fall.
Hannah's chest heaved, her heart pounding so hard she swore he could feel it.
"That wasn't fair," she whispered, her voice wrecked.
Jake exhaled a broken laugh. "Nothing about this is fair."
A long, heavy silence stretched between them.
Then, before she could stop him, he picked up the pastry box himself.
Hannah stared. "What are you—"