Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Adrianna
The week passes by just like any other—dough at dawn, customers by seven, the usual chaos of running a bakery while trying to raise a twelve-year-old who feels everything at full volume.
Bella’s been extra.
Not bad extra.
Just Bella extra.
More fidgeting, more sighing, more pacing around the kitchen with her script held dramatically to her chest like a Victorian heroine awaiting a tragic fate.
I assume it’s nerves about the play.
Honestly? Same, kid. Same.
She pretends she’s not excited, but I’ve seen the way she practices in the mirror, the little smile she tries to hide when she nails a line.
She’s been humming the background music nonstop, tapping her fingers on the table in rhythm until Mom threatens to confiscate the salt shaker she’s using as a makeshift microphone.
And then the drama department went and upped the emotional stakes.
Originally, the show was supposed to be a one-and-done performance on Friday night.
Nice and manageable for middle school attention spans.
But apparently the principal saw a rehearsal and declared it too impressive not to share.
So now it’s a three-night marathon—Friday, Saturday matinee, and Sunday afternoon.
Because nothing builds character like wrangling tweens into Shakespeare all weekend long.
I’m thrilled, though. Truly.
The concept is clever as hell.
It’s Shakespeare’s The Tempest but set in a modern middle school.
Magic swapped for malfunctioning electronics.
Monsters replaced by mean girls.
And Prospero? Now a burnt-out science teacher on the verge of early retirement.
Only Hammonton Middle would look at Shakespeare and say, “You know what this needs? Smartphones and cafeteria drama.”
But honestly, what I’ve seen so far really works.
Bella plays one of the spirits who controls the school’s lighting system—basically an excuse for them to run around in hoodies with glow-in-the-dark face paint.
She’s been practicing her choreography in the living room, tripping over the coffee table and insisting it’s part of the artistic process.
I smile just thinking about it.
She’s growing into herself bit by bit.
Finding her voice.
Her confidence.
Part of me aches wishing Bonnie could see her.
Part of me swells knowing she’d be so damn proud.
And as the week rolls on—busy but ordinary—I let myself believe that maybe life is settling into a really good rhythm again.
Steady. Predictable.
Safe.
At least until Friday night.
Because that’s when I’ll meet Justin at the play.
That’s when I’ll have to decide whether I should really try dating the man or call whatever this thing is off.
I’m leaning towards off. Because really? Drumming up enthusiasm to see a man should not be so hard.
Not if I really liked him. Or wanted him.
It’s been a pretty long dry spell for me, what with the bakery and Bella and Mom taking up a lot of my attention. And I don’t mind it.
Really, I don’t.
It’s just that sex is a big deal for me. I just can’t do the whole casual bodies in the dark thing.
Never could.
Justin and I have not had sex.
We’ve barely kissed. And honestly? I’m depressingly fine with that.
So yeah, I’m thinking Justin and I are done. Hopefully, we can part friends.
Anyway, I’m not really looking forward to that discussion, and my mind is wandering, which is probably why I don’t see the half full coffee cup someone left teetering on the counter.
“Seriously,” I mutter as I bend to pick up the garbage before running behind the counter for some paper towels.
I’m still wiping down the mess—of course it was a large hazelnut latte and now it smells like a sugar-coated crime scene—when the front door bangs open hard enough to rattle the bells.
Adele bursts inside like she’s auditioning for a Telenovela, cheeks flushed, hair wild from the wind, eyes sparkling with mischief and gossip.
“Adrianna! Oh my God—have you heard?” she practically squeals, skidding across the tile in her knockoff Uggs.
I keep cleaning the sticky streak of coffee on the floor. “Heard what, Adele? Please tell me it’s not another scandal about Mrs. Gearhart stealing Wi-Fi from the funeral home next door.”
“No, better!” She braces her hands on the counter, leaning in like she’s about to reveal the location of buried treasure. “A certain hometown hero is back in town!”
I freeze.
Just a tiny hitch in movement, but enough that the rag slips from my hand and lands with a wet splat on the floor.
Adele doesn’t notice.
She’s on a roll.
“All week long,” she gushes, “contractors have been working to reopen his parents’ old place—you know, the Thorn family house? The big one on the corner of Madison with the yellow siding?”
She waits for me to nod. And I do.
Because, yeah, I know that house. It’s on the corner two streets down from my mother’s house where I currently live with her and Bella.
Do I know that house?
Um, yeah. In fact, I once lost something in the attic bedroom of that house when I was just sixteen.
And yeah, I also noticed the construction, but I just figured Mr. Important Rockstar had finally gotten around to selling it.
“Well, apparently, it’s all because Nathan Thorn is coming back to stay!” Adele shouts, like she just won the lottery, completely oblivious to my distress.
My stomach is already clenched tight.
I don’t need her to say the name.
I already know.
Of course I know.
And the freaking nerve of him.
Coming back here after sixteen long years.
Sixteen years of silence.
Sixteen years of pretending Hammonton didn’t exist.
Now what? He just waltzes back into town, starts renovating like he owns the place—which I know he technically does, but so what?
Why is he even here?
Okay, so now I’m spiraling, because really—why is he here?
Does he think I forgot? That he didn’t leave scorch marks on my heart on his way out of town?
Oh my God, grow up, Ad.
That was over a decade ago, and I’m sure Nathan Thorn has forgotten all about you.
I shake my head, forcing a shrug I don’t feel.
“Well, that’s just great,” I say blandly, grabbing the rag again. “Good for what’s his name.”
Adele snorts.
“Oh, come on. Don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about. Nathan Thorn is basically the biggest thing to come out of this town since—”
“Blueberries?” I offer, deadpan.
Hammonton is dubbed blueberry capital of the world, so yeah, we are a pretty big deal.
Believe it or not, this charming little town accounts for about fifty million pounds of the world's blueberry harvest annually.
Adele is still laughing, delighted at the comparison, I guess.
“He’s the biggest thing EVER. And now he’s back! Can you imagine? The songs he’ll write? The interviews? The celebrity sightings? He might even stop in and buy a pastry—oh my God, Ad, what if he does?!”
I focus very hard on scrubbing the countertop. Circular motion. Don’t grind your teeth. Breathe like a normal, unaffected adult woman.
Because honestly? I shouldn’t have any feelings about Nathan Thorn.
None.
If he wants to come home? Great. Good for him.
May he enjoy his ugly yellow siding in peace.
Not my circus. Not my rockstar.
I’ve got a bakery to run.
A niece to raise.
A school play to attend.
A mother to keep company.
And a date to go to on Friday because of course, now I’m thinking dumping Justin might be too hasty.
Yep.
I have far more important things than some man I haven’t seen in sixteen years.
“If he comes into the bakery, sell him something, Adele. Just like you would anyone else.”
“Come on! No free cookies?”
“Definitely not. He can afford it, charge him double,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
Adele keeps chattering, starry-eyed and breathless, but I tune her out.
Because I’m fine.
Perfectly fine.
Totally unaffected.
And if my heart is pounding hard enough to bruise against my ribs?
Well, no one needs to know that but me.