Chapter 2
Jonah
I can’t stop watching her.
It’s been an hour since Chloe walked through my door and immediately took control of the flour situation like she’d been wrangling four-year-olds her whole life.
Twenty minutes of her corralling the twins, making them giggle while they helped clean up their mess, never once looking at me like I’m the world’s worst father for letting things get that out of hand in the first place.
She even got them to go down for bed without a fight.
And now we’re standing in my kitchen, and I still can’t stop watching Chloe.
“This is amazing,” she says, her eyes wide as she takes in the double ovens, the marble countertop, a few loaves of bread that fill the space with the smell of yeast and butter and everything good in the world.
Her hair —this honey-brown color that caught the light in my living room— is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing jeans that curve over every arc of her body, and an oversized sweater that makes her look soft and warm and… completely off-limits.
Because she’s my employee.
My daughters’ nanny.
The woman who’s going to be living in my house for the next six months, which means I need to get my head on straight and stop noticing things like the way her nose crinkles when she smiles or how her voice goes gentle when she talks to Ava and Mia.
“So… you own Spice Spice Baby Bakery?”
“Yes,” I manage, wiping flour off my hands with a towel. “It’s not much, but it’s mine. Well, partially mine.”
“Not much?” She turns to look at me, and I feel the impact of those eyes —green, I noticed last night, the color of sea glass— a physical reaction slices through me, lighting my chest on fire. “Jonah, I drove by it. It’s incredible. How long have you been baking?”
“Ten years.” I start wiping down the counter, looking for something to do with my hands. “But we’ve been doing Spice Spice Baby for six years, bought it right after—”
I stop myself. Right after my ex-wife told me she couldn’t do this anymore.
Couldn’t be a mother, couldn’t stay in Valentine, couldn’t sacrifice her dreams for a life she never wanted.
Right after she walked out on me and our two-year-old daughters without looking back.
I don’t hate her. I miss her now in a way that you miss a favorite t-shirt, a pet from years ago, or a band that has disbanded.
It’s going to be okay that they’re gone, but the memories are still fresh and some a little painful.
But Chloe doesn’t need to know that. Doesn’t need to know that the bakery is the only thing that kept me sane during those first few months of single fatherhood, when I was drowning in diapers and the twins’ nightmares and my own fear that I was going to screw this up.
“Right after the twins were born,” I finish, which is technically true.
Chloe nods, running her fingers along the edge of the marble counter. “And you do all of the baked goods yourself?”
“I do the soft breads, like pumpkin and banana and the donuts in the morning. But each baker has their specialty, Mark does traditional baked goods like cinnamon rolls. Christian does the cupcakes and flat sheet cakes. Henry does the sourdough, although sometimes I help him on that. Dylan is the fancy cake decorator. And then there’s Jake- the delivery driver and Liam the GM.
We all have a place in the ecosystem of the bakery. ”
“Wow… that sounds like a lot.” She seems genuinely amazed.
I shrug. “I’m there four a.m. to noon, six days a week.”
“That’s why you need a live-in nanny.” It’s not a question, just an observation, but there’s something in her voice that makes me look up. Understanding, maybe. Or sympathy. I’m not sure which one makes my chest tighter.
“The twins are in preschool three mornings a week, Monday-Wednesday-Friday, but someone needs to be there for the other days. For the evenings. For when I’m elbow-deep in brioche dough or a catering order for the and can’t leave.
” I pull out a tray of cinnamon rolls from the fridge, the ones I made special this morning because I wanted—needed—to impress her.
Needed her to see that I’m not always the disaster she walked in on.
“My mom helps when she can, but she’s got her own life. Her own responsibilities.”
“And their mother?” Chloe asks quietly.
My hands still on the tray. “Not in the picture.”
I don’t elaborate. Don’t tell her that their mother sends a card twice a year —birthdays and Christmas— with a generic message and no return address.
Don’t tell her that Ava sometimes asks when Mommy’s coming home, and I have to explain, again, that some people have things to do that take them away from us.
Don’t tell Chloe that I’m terrified of making the same mistake twice— of letting someone into our lives, letting the twins get attached, only to have them leave when things get hard.
That’s the big one.
Chloe nods, and I’m grateful she doesn’t push. “Well,” she says, her voice deliberately lighter, “I’m here now. And I’m pretty good with early mornings, so if you ever need an extra set of hands...”
“You want to learn how to bake?” The question comes out before I can stop it, and I’m immediately annoyed with myself. She’s here to watch my kids, not apprentice in my kitchen.
But her face lights up. “Are you serious? I would love that. I mean, I can make boxed brownies and not much else, but I’ve always wanted to learn.
My grandma used to bake —nothing fancy, just cookies and pies— and I remember how it made the whole house smell like.
..” She trails off, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”
“You’re not rambling,” I say, and I mean it. I like listening to her talk. Like the way her hands move when she’s excited, the way she leans forward like she can’t contain all that energy. “And yeah, I’m serious. If you want to learn, I’ll teach you.”
Her smile could power the whole bakery. “You’re serious, right?”
“Yes, I’m serious.” I pull out two cinnamon rolls, plate them, and slide one across the counter to her. “But first, you have to pass the taste test. Can’t have my nanny working at the bakery if she doesn’t appreciate good pastry.”
Chloe picks up the still-warm roll, and I watch —because apparently I can’t help myself— as she takes a bite. Her eyes close. A small sound escapes her throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and every rational thought in my head evaporates.
“Oh my God,” she says, opening her eyes. “Jonah, this is… I don’t even have words. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Pride swells in my chest, warm and unexpected. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She takes another bite, and there’s a tiny bit of frosting on her bottom lip. I force myself to look away before I do something stupid like offer to wipe it off. “If this is what you’re capable of, I can’t believe you’re not famous.”
“I don’t want to be famous,” I say quietly. “I just want to make good baked goods. Provide for my daughters. Keep things simple.”
“Simple,” she repeats, like she’s testing the word. “Is that what you want? Or is that what feels safe?”
The question catches me off guard. I look at her. Really look at her. And I see someone who understands more than she should. Someone who’s maybe asking herself the same thing.
“Maybe both,” I admit.
She nods slowly, licking frosting off her thumb in a way that should not affect me the way it does. “I get that.”
The timer on the oven beeps, breaking the moment.
I move to pull out a couple quick breads, grateful for the distraction, but I’m hyperaware of her presence in my kitchen.
The way she leans against the counter, watching me work with genuine interest. The way she asks questions —good questions, about baking times and high-quality ingredients.
Like she actually cares.
“So,” she says after a while, “what time do the girls wake up?” She taps her fingernails on the marble.
“Usually around seven. They’re early risers. They’ll want breakfast. nothing fancy, usually just cereal or toast, and then if it’s a preschool day, they need to be ready by eight-thirty.”
“And on non-preschool days?”
“That’s where you come in.” I glance up at her. “They’re good kids, but they’re four. They need activities. Structure. Someone who can keep them from destroying the house while I’m working.”
Chloe grins. “Like the flour incident?”
“Exactly like the flour incident.” I can’t help but smile back. “Though for the record, that was an outlier. Usually they only cause… moderate… destruction.”
“Moderate destruction? Hmmm.” She might have a twinge of fear, but she shakes it off.
“Got it. I’ll do my very best.” She hops up to sit on the counter —something Sarah never would have done, something that should probably bother me but doesn’t— and swings her legs.
“What else should I know? Allergies? Favorite foods? Things that trigger meltdowns?”
I run through the list: Mia’s lactose intolerance, Ava’s fear of thunderstorms, their mutual obsession with a cartoon called Puppy Pirates that I don’t understand but have seen every episode of at least twelve times.
Chloe listens, asks follow-up questions, makes mental notes with the kind of focus that tells me she’s taking this seriously.
She’s good at this. At making me feel heard. At making me feel like maybe I’m not completely failing at this whole single-dad thing.
“They’re going to love you,” I say without thinking.
Chloe’s eyes snap to mine. “You think so?”
“I know so. They already asked me this morning if you were going to stay forever.” The words hang between us, heavier than I meant them to be. “I mean, of course I told them six months. That you have plans. A teaching job waiting for you.”
Something flickers across her face. Regret, maybe, or disappointment, but it’s gone before I can identify it.
“Right. Six months. Just temporary,” she says slowly.
“Just temporary,” I echo, ignoring the way my chest tightens around the words.
Because she’s leaving. She’s already told me she’s leaving. And I need to remember that, need to keep my distance, need to protect my daughters from getting too attached to someone who’s only passing through.
Even if part of me —the part that hasn’t felt anything close to attraction in three years— is already failing at that resolution.
Chloe slides off the counter, brushing flour off her jeans. “Well then, boss, you’d better teach me how to make those cinnamon rolls. If I only have six months, I want to learn everything I can.”
I hand her an apron, trying not to notice how the word boss sounds in her voice. Trying not to think about how right she looks standing in my kitchen, flour-dusted and smiling, like she belongs here.
Like she could stay.
But she won’t.
And I need to remember that.
Even as I step closer to show her how to create the dough, my hands covering hers, every warning bell in my head ringing… and I start to ignore every blaring signal.