Chapter 7
CECIE
"Orry, no. That's not, those aren't for eating."
I pry the lip gloss tester from his sticky fist. He protests with a shriek that could shatter windows. Mrs. Henderson, browsing foundation three feet away, flinches.
"Sorry. Teething." I offer my best customer-service smile while fishing a teething ring from my apron pocket.
Orry examines the ring with deep suspicion. Throws it on the floor. Reaches for the lip gloss display again.
Of course.
"Want to help Mama organize?" I pull him onto my hip, position him where he can see the counter. "See these? We're going to make them pretty."
He watches me line up lipstick tubes by shade family. Rose to burgundy. Coral to crimson. His little hands hover, fingers twitching.
"Gentle," I murmur. Guide his hand to touch the cap of a rose-gold tube. "Just like this."
He pats it. Grins. That dimple flashes deep in his right cheek.
There.
I've been seeing it everywhere. On his face. In my mirror when I smile a certain way. And, stop. I redirect my brain before it wanders down paths I've barricaded for good reason.
Mrs. Kramer approaches with two foundations and a concealer. "These, please."
"Excellent choices." I settle Orry on the play mat behind the counter, hand him his favorite plush orc. Mr. Grunt gets a slobbery kiss before being flung across the mat.
Charming.
I ring up Mrs. Kramer. Wrap her purchases in tissue paper printed with tiny sparkles. She smiles at Orry on her way out.
"He's precious. Those eyes!"
"Thank you." I've heard variations on this theme forty times since opening the shop. Gorgeous eyes. What a smile. Is his father around?
That last one stings every time.
I crouch down to retrieve Mr. Grunt. Orry babbles something that might be mama or might be muffin. Hard to tell. Both are frequent requests.
The door chimes. I straighten, customer-smile ready.
Gunther Ridgeway stands in my doorway looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Hi." He adjusts his glasses. "I… sorry. Is this a bad time?"
Yes. "Not at all. Come in."
He steps inside, hands shoved in his pockets. Glances around the shop with the careful assessment of someone cataloging exits.
"It's coming together." He nods toward the display wall. "The layout. Very efficient."
"Thanks." I move behind the counter, putting a barrier between us. Professional distance. Safe. "Did you need something? Financial papers? Lease stuff?"
"No. I just—" He stops. Swallows. "Colum mentioned you might want help moving the storage shelves. For better floor space."
I blink. "Colum mentioned."
"He's enthusiastic about tenant success."
That's one word for it. Colum's been dropping by twice a day with suggestions, encouragement, and thinly veiled attempts to orchestrate interactions between me and Gunther.
Subtlety is not his strong suit.
"I can handle the shelves." I keep my tone light. Friendly. Boundaried. "But I appreciate the offer."
Gunther nods. Doesn't leave. Just stands there, shoulders tense, staring at a point somewhere past my left ear.
Orry saves us both by letting out a delighted squeal. He's discovered the drawer of sample packets and is currently trying to shove three sheet masks into his mouth at once. His new crawling skills has him all over the place.
"Orry!" I dart around the counter. Extract soggy packaging from baby fists. "These aren't snacks."
"Muh!" He protests. Lunges for the drawer again.
"How about a real snack?" I pull a packet of baby puffs from my apron. "Look. Actual food."
He considers this. Accepts a puff. Stuffs it in his mouth and grins up at me, dimple on full display.
When I glance at Gunther, he's staring at Orry with an expression I can't quite parse. Longing? Sadness? Recognition?
"He's very…" Gunther trails off. Tries again. "Energetic."
"Nine months of pure chaos." I brush crumbs off Orry's shirt. "But yeah. He keeps me on my toes."
"Do you—" Gunther stops. Adjusts his glasses. "Do you manage alone? I mean. Is there. Does he have—"
Here it comes. The question everyone wants to ask but most people dance around.
"It's just us," I say simply. Keep my voice even. "We're doing fine."
Gunther's jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to say something else but can't figure out how to form the words.
Orry solves the problem by reaching up toward Gunther with puff-sticky hands. "Up!"
"Oh. I don't—" Gunther freezes. Looks at me for permission.
"He's friendly." I shrug. "Fair warning, you'll be covered in crumbs."
Gunther crouches. Orry immediately crawls to him and pats his face, leaving orange fingerprints on his glasses.
"Sorry." I move to intervene.
"It's fine." Gunther's voice comes out rough. He stays very still while Orry explores his face with the focused intensity of a tiny scientist.
Orry finds Gunther's dimple. Pokes it. Giggles.
Then pokes his own.
My stomach drops.
Gunther goes pale. His hand comes up, hovers near Orry's cheek like he's scared to touch. "He has—"
"A dimple. Yeah." I scoop Orry up, heart pounding. "Lots of people have dimples."
"On the right side. Same placement. Same—"
"Gunther." I hitch Orry higher on my hip. "Did you need something specific? Because I have inventory to finish."
He stands. Backs up a step. "No. I just. I wanted to—" He stops. Shakes his head. "Sorry for interrupting."
He leaves. Fast. The door chimes behind him.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Orry squirms. "Down!"
"Yeah. Okay." I set him on the mat. Hand him Mr. Grunt. Lean against the counter and try to organize my thoughts into something coherent.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed. I've been noticing for days. Ever since that first meeting when Orry smiled at Gunther and I saw my son's face reflected in a stranger's.
Not a stranger. The thought whispers treacherous and unwelcome.
I shove it away. Go back to organizing lipstick. Rose to burgundy. Coral to crimson. Simple. Logical. Controllable.
Colum appears twenty minutes before closing, carrying two coffee cups and a grin.
"Busy day?" He sets a cup on my counter. Oat milk latte. He remembers.
"Steady." I accept the cup. "Thanks."
"I saw Gunther flee your shop earlier like the building was on fire." Colum leans against the counter, all casual curiosity. "Everything okay?"
"Fine. He offered to help move shelves."
"And you said?"
"That I could handle it."
Colum sighs. "Cecie. You can't do everything alone."
"Watch me." I take a sip of latte. Perfect temperature. Damn him.
"I'm serious. You've got a business to run. A baby to raise. Let people help."
"I don't need help."
"Everyone needs help." He gestures around the shop. "This? This is amazing. You built this. But you don't have to maintain it solo."
I set the cup down. "What do you want, Colum?"
"Dinner. Tomorrow night. You, me, Gunther. Casual. No pressure. Just neighbors being neighborly."
There it is. "I don't think—"
"Bring Orry. We'll order pizza. Gunther's great with kids."
"He barely spoke to Orry today."
"He's shy. You're intimidating."
I laugh. Can't help it. "I'm intimidating?"
"Terrifying." Colum grins. "Successful, independent, gorgeous woman who doesn't need anyone? Absolutely petrifying for a guy like Gunther."
"A guy like Gunther." I raise an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"
"Smart. Loyal. Bit awkward. Heart the size of a spreadsheet." Colum's expression softens. "He's good people, Sis. Give him a chance."
"A chance at what, exactly?"
"Friendship. Community. Maybe more if you're both interested." He holds up his hands. "But I'm not matchmaking. Just facilitating connection."
"That's literally what matchmaking is."
"Semantics." He pushes off the counter. "Tomorrow. Seven PM. My office. Say yes."
I should say no. Should keep my boundaries intact and my life compartmentalized. Should protect Orry from complications and protect myself from hope.
But Colum's looking at me with that expression that says he knows I'm scared and he's not going to let fear win.
Damn him.
"Fine. Seven PM. But I'm leaving if it gets weird."
"Deal." He grabs his coffee cup. Pauses at the door. "For what it's worth? I think you'll like him. The real him. Not the nervous wreck who can't string sentences together around you."
"Why can't he string sentences together?"
Colum just grins. "Seven PM, Sis."
He leaves.
I look down at Orry. He's fallen asleep on the play mat, Mr. Grunt clutched to his chest, mouth slightly open.
That dimple. Right cheek. Deep and distinct.
Just like Gunther's.
I crouch down. Brush hair off Orry's forehead. Study his face in the warm shop light.
Green-tinged skin. Crystal eyes. Features that don't quite match mine but somehow feel familiar.
I've told myself for eighteen months that my baby's father doesn't matter. That Ridge was a moment. A mistake. A memory I've carefully filed away under things that don't bear examining.
But what if Ridge isn't just a memory?
What if he's here?
The thought terrifies me. Because if Gunther is Ridge—and he can't be, the timeline doesn't even make sense, Ridge was confident and rough and nothing like nervous Gunther—then everything changes.
Custody. Co-parenting. Shared decisions. Letting someone into the life I've built so carefully. Letting someone see how hard this is. How scared I am. How much I'm faking it.
I've spent eighteen months proving I can do this alone. That I don't need anyone. That Orry and I are a complete unit.
But maybe Colum's right. Maybe everyone needs help.
Maybe I'm just too proud to ask.
I gather Orry gently. He doesn't wake. Just nuzzles into my shoulder, warm and trusting and mine.
Ours?
I lock up the shop. Head upstairs to my apartment. Put Orry in his crib. Stand there watching him sleep.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll have dinner with Colum and Gunther. I'll be professional. Friendly. Boundaried.
And maybe I'll ask the question that's been burning since Gunther walked into my shop.
Do I know you?