Winnifred’s Epilogue
Winnifred’s Epilogue
The ribbon is red satin. Ridiculous, over-the-top, and definitely not what I originally ordered. But somehow—it’s perfect.
It’s loud. A little extra—totally me.
Just like the bouquet someone delivered at dawn—huge, fragrant, and tied with a note that said nothing and everything. From Soren with Love.
Just like the espresso machine that showed up “accidentally upgraded” last week.
Just like the man standing next to me now, in a coat far too lovely for this early in the morning, flashing a grin that screams, ‘I absolutely help my live-in girlfriend, and I’ll never admit it out loud.’
I take a slow breath and hold the scissors in both hands.
The cold spring air carries the scent of peonies, powdered sugar, and fresh frosting. There’s a crowd gathering on the sidewalk—friends, neighbors, former clients who pre-ordered cookies just for an excuse to say, ‘I knew you could do it.’
There’s a local morning show crew setting up their tripod. Gretchen and Soren’s PR department had a hand in this, I know it.
Even my mother showed up—pearls on, spine straight, and an expression that almost passes for approval. Or at least not immediate disapproval. Which, honestly, is a win. Not that I’m competing with anyone. I’m done with her nonsense.
Oh, and the Thorns are here, too.
I’m still not sure what passive-aggressive game they’re playing with the Wolfcrafts, but Soren and I have officially decided not to care.
I glance up at the sign over the door.
Wolf, Thorn & Crumb Bakery and Catering.
It still doesn’t feel real, except it is.
Every sunlit inch in front of me—the warm walls, the cozy tables, the oversized chalkboard menu with crooked handwriting and a pun or two—is mine.
The pastry case, Soren and I totally didn’t steal from that auction but may have bid on aggressively and refinished in a single weekend. Mine.
The gold-trimmed counter I nearly cried over when the installer scratched it?
Yep. Mine.
And the people?
Even more mine.
I look at Soren.
He’s holding my hand. There’s flour on my sleeve and lipstick smudged on his cheek—leftover from the twenty-minute-ago moment when I full-on ugly cried because the first online order came in before we even opened.
He didn’t panic, nor did he try to fix it.
Just kissed me back, handed me tea, and said, “You’ve got this.”
And weirdly? I believed him.
“I’m proud of you,” he says now, voice low and rough like sandpaper dipped in sugar. Just for me.
“You helped,” I whisper, blinking hard.
He shrugs. “I just made sure you had caffeine and didn’t get arrested for excess glitter.”
Which is bullshit.
He did everything—quietly, consistently, and with this ridiculous love that snuck up on me while I was too busy trying to control everything else.
“Ready?” Aiden calls from the front step, half-grinning. “Let’s open the doors, Win.”
The crowd cheers.
My hands shake.
Soren leans in again, voice warm against my cheek. “Hey . . . remember when you thought your fake boyfriend was the biggest risk you’d ever take?”
“Yeah.” I smile, kiss him fast. “Turns out you were the safest bet.”
I raise the scissors.
Cut the ribbon.
And just like that, my bakery opens its doors.
And this beautiful, unpredictable, slightly over-frosted life?
It opens with it.