Chapter 16
Tess
I wipe down the last steel table until it squeaks, dragging the rag over the familiar scratches and burn marks like I can scrub the day into permanence.
“You were good today, Ashford,” I say, keeping my voice casual. Neutral. Like my pulse isn’t still doing something stupid and fluttery. “Really good.”
He’s at the sink, sleeves soaked, forearms flexing as he scours a sheet pan like it personally wronged him. He doesn’t look up.
“I had a good teacher,” he says. Then, quieter, more honest, “And… I like the work. I really, really like it.”
Something in my chest tightens. I dry my hands on my apron and lean back against the counter, watching him. The words Gwen said in the walk-in, he’s a billionaire, are still echoing in my skull, sharp and relentless. But the man in front of me doesn’t look like a billionaire. He looks like… me.
Tired. Sore. Smudged with something that might be chocolate or charcoal or both. Grounded in the good way. The earned way.
I make a decision, then, staring at the sink, the steam, and his bent head.
If I’m going to do this, if I’m going to let this happen, I can’t do it halfway. I can’t flirt around the edges and pretend this is just a fun distraction. He showed me his emptiness. His loneliness. The quiet, hollow ache under all that money and polish.
If I want this to be real, I have to show him the thing I never show anyone.
“Wait,” I say, when he reaches for his jacket. My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. “Before you go. I… I want to show you something.”
He turns, curious, open. “Ok?”
I don’t grab the battered bakery laptop from the office. That thing is for invoices, margin panic, and pretending I’m fine. Instead, I pull my personal laptop from my bag.
It’s sleek. New. Untouched by flour. It holds my entire future.
I carry it to the front counter, the only clean surface left, and open it, my fingers suddenly clumsy on the keys.
“You… you told me about your life,” I say, not looking at him. “About feeling empty. And… and I told you about my parents. About not wanting to… scale.”
“I remember,” he says softly, stepping closer. He doesn’t crowd me. He never does.
“Well,” I say, swallowing. “This is… this is the why.”
I open the file.
S&S_Apprenticeship_Model_v4.xlsx
I’ve typed that name a thousand times and deleted it. Rebuilt it. Changed the version number like that somehow made it safer.
I turn the screen toward him.
It isn’t just a spreadsheet. It’s a universe. Tabs and projections and cost analyses. Curriculum outlines. Risk models. Community partnerships.
“What… what is this?” he breathes, leaning in.
“It’s the dream,” I say, my voice trembling despite myself. “It’s… It’s not just about not scaling. It’s about growing differently.”
I click through the tabs, the words tumbling out faster as the dam breaks.
“When I was younger, my parents lost their business. It was a tough time for the family, but my parents didn’t just lose a business,” I say. “The neighborhood lost an anchor. A place where kids could get a job even if they were… a little rough. A place that cared. I want to build that again.”
I show him the program outline.
“This is a paid apprenticeship. Real wages. Real training. Not ‘go wash dishes, kid.’ For marginalized youth. Kids aging out of foster care. Kids who need a skill and a support system.”
I flip to the budget tab. The stipends. The curriculum that includes Kitchen Finance, Customer Service, and Inventory Management. The list of youth centers. Social workers already waiting.
“It’s fully costed,” I say, my voice steady now, fueled by the thing that keeps me awake at night. “The bakery isn’t just a bakery, Leo. It’s supposed to be an engine. Every croissant, every dollar I save… it goes here.”
I finally look up at him.
He looks like someone punched all the air out of his lungs.
He’s staring at the screen, eyes wide, mouth parted. I’ve seen men look impressed before. Investors. Judges. Grant committees. But this is different. This isn’t an evaluation. This is awe.
“Tess,” he says, his voice thick. “This is… incredible. It’s… It’s perfect.”
My chest swells, warm and terrifying.
And then…
“Let me fund it.”
The words hit me like ice water.
“Right now,” he continues, earnest and intense and already halfway into problem-solving mode. “I’ll write a check. How much is the first-year budget? Half a million? A million? It’s done.”
The warmth drains out of me instantly.
“No,” I say.
He blinks. “What?”
“No,” I repeat, turning the laptop back toward myself like I need to protect it from him.
“Tess, yes. This is what I do. I can make this happen. For you. Tomorrow.”
“That’s not the point,” I snap, the defensive edge sliding back into place like armor. “I don’t want a handout.”
“It’s not a handout!” His frustration spikes. “It’s an investment. In people!”
“It’s a pet project,” I fire back, the words sharp and ugly and born of fear. “A rich guy’s donation. And when you get bored? When you find a new passion? What happens then?”
I don’t stop. I can’t.
“The funding dries up. And I am left begging. No. This has to be real. The bakery has to earn it. It has to be sustainable. On its own.” I meet his eyes. “Without you.”
The words hang between us, heavy and cruel.
He recoils like I slapped him. “Tess, that’s not what I meant. I just see this mountain you’re trying to climb, and I have a helicopter. Why would you walk? It would take you years.”
“Because how you climb is the entire point,” I shout, my voice cracking. “I thought after last night, after everything, I thought you understood that. It’s not about the destination. It’s about the work. The soul.”
I snap the laptop shut. The click echoes through the empty bakery like a gunshot.
“I have to go,” I say, already grabbing my bag. Retreating. “Lock up when you’re done.”
“Tess, wait…”
I don’t.
I push through the door, the bell jangling behind me, bright and mocking.
And the worst part, the part that hurts more than the fight, is knowing that for a moment, for just a moment, he really did understand.
And I was the one who shut it down.
I burst onto the sidewalk like I am fleeing a crime scene.
The bell slams behind me. Late afternoon air hits my overheated skin. I suck in a breath that tastes like exhaust and sugar and regret. My hands are shaking. I jam them into the pockets of my hoodie and start walking fast, head down, just get space, get quiet, get…
“Are you Tess?”
I stop.
I do not know her voice. I look up and see a woman leaning against the brick facade, as if she owns it. Perfect hair. Perfect coat. Perfect smile that does not quite reach her eyes. She looks like she stepped out of a brand campaign for Effortless Woman Who Never Works Before Noon.
She looks me up and down. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Oh,” she says, lips pursed. “This is it? This is the bakery?”
I do not answer. I take a step to go around her. She sidesteps, too.
“Oh, come on,” she says lightly. “I just wanted to see where Leo’s been disappearing to every morning. I mean…” Her eyes flick to my chest. My stomach. My hips. “I guess it makes sense. He’s always had a thing for projects.”
Something hot and ugly flares behind my ribs.
“Please move,” I say.
She laughs. A small, tinkly sound. “Sensitive. Is that why he hasn’t been answering my calls? Because you’re what, baking him into submission?”
I clench my jaw so hard it aches.
“I don’t know who you are or what your problem is,” I say, “but you need to leave.”
“Oh, relax,” she says, holding up her hands. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just thought I would check in. He and I have history.”
She steps closer.
Too close.
“I mean,” she adds, tilting her head, faux sympathetic, “I heard he’s really into self-improvement lately.
Slumming it. Getting his hands dirty. Maybe this is his Eat Pray Love phase.
” Her eyes dip again. “And hey,” she says sweetly, “good for you. Truly. Running a business like this? That’s impressive.
Even if…” She gestures vaguely at my body.
“It looks like it’s been a rough few years. ”
There it is.
The punch, clean and precise.
I feel it land. Feel my chest tighten, my face burn. I am suddenly hyper aware of my jeans digging into my waist, of the softness I have been pretending not to notice, of the way my body has changed while my life stayed hard and hungry and relentless.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
The woman smiles wider, clearly pleased. “I’m just saying, Leo usually goes for a different aesthetic. But hey. People change.”
Behind her, through the big front window, I see movement.
Leo.
He is at the counter, but his head snaps up. His eyes lock on us. On her. On me.
He is out the door in seconds.
“Hey,” he says sharply. Not to me. To her.
The woman turns, surprise flashing across her face before she smooths it into delight. “Leo. There you are. I was just…”
“Marissa, what are you doing here?” His voice is calm, but there is steel under it. I have never heard him sound like this.
She laughs. “Wow. No hello? I was just checking out the place you have been obsessing over. Meeting the…” She gestures at me again. “Staff.”
“Don’t,” he says.
She blinks. “Don’t what?”
“Talk to her,” he says, stepping fully between us. He does not touch me, but his presence is solid, immovable. “Don’t look at her. Don’t say her name.”
Marissa scoffs. “Oh my God, Leo, relax. I was making conversation.”
“No, you weren’t,” he says flatly. “And you know it.”
Her smile falters. Just a crack. “You’re really going to talk to me like this? After everything?”
“Yes,” he says. “Because I already told you it was over. More than once. You don’t get to keep showing up and trying to hurt people because you don’t like that answer.”
She laughs again, but it is sharp now. Defensive. “Hurt people? I didn’t realize you were this invested.” She looks past him at me. “Guess congratulations are in order.”
Leo does not turn.
“I am invested in not letting you treat someone like that,” he says. “Especially someone who did not invite you into her space.”
Marissa’s eyes flash. “Wow. You really have changed.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I have.”
She looks at him for a long moment, jaw tight. Then she shrugs, adjusting her coat as if this has all been mildly inconvenient.
“Fine,” she says. “Enjoy your little bakery fantasy. Call me when you’re done playing house.”
She brushes past him, heels sharp against the sidewalk, and disappears down the block.
The silence she leaves behind is loud.
I am staring at the pavement, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“I didn’t need you to do that,” I say automatically. Defensive. Reflexive.
“I know,” Leo says quietly. “I wanted to.”
I look up at him then.
He looks angry. Not explosive. Controlled. Protective in a way that does not feel like ownership. Like a boundary he chose to draw.
“Whatever she told you, I’m sorry,” he adds.
I swallow. “I can handle myself.”
“I know you can,” he says. “That doesn’t make it ok.”
Something in my chest loosens. Just a fraction.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “That she showed up here. I’ll make sure she doesn’t again.”
I study his face. The sincerity. The way he is not asking for credit. Not looking at me like I owe him anything for stepping in.
“Thank you,” I say finally. It costs me something to say it. It gives me something too.
He nods. “I should close the bakery,” he says, before he turns and walks away.
I watch him until he is gone.
Then I lean back against the brick wall, close my eyes, and breathe through the ache in my chest.
Marissa’s words still sting.
But so does the fact that Leo did not let them stand.
And that matters more than I want it to.